### The Flat
When Julia and her husband moved into the building, an elderly couple already lived on the first floor. Margaret and Arthur Wilson were inseparable—always seen together at the shops, the clinic, or simply strolling arm in arm, supporting one another. Rarely did anyone spot them apart.
One evening, Julia and Victor returned from a dinner with friends. An ambulance stood outside their building, and paramedics carried someone out on a stretcher. Behind them shuffled old Arthur, struggling to keep up.
Everyone called him “Old Arthur,” but for some reason, his wife was always addressed formally—Mrs. Margaret Wilson, never just Margaret. His hair was snow-white, even the stubble on his deeply wrinkled face. Thin, creased eyelids drooped over pale, watery eyes. He looked lost and frightened.
“What happened?” Victor asked, stepping toward him.
Arthur just shook his hand dismissively—whether to say it was bad or to brush him off, Victor couldn’t tell. He turned to one of the paramedics loading the stretcher with a frail elderly woman into the ambulance.
“And you are?” the man asked curtly.
“I’m a neighbour, just concerned,” Victor replied.
“Then stay out of the way, mate. Worry from a distance.” The paramedic hopped inside and slammed the doors shut.
Arthur tried to climb in after them.
“Where do you think you’re going? You’re no help here. She’s going to intensive care—they won’t let you in. You’ll just be in the way. Take him home, mate, keep an eye on him. These things hit hard at his age,” the medic said before closing the door.
The ambulance sped off, sirens wailing. Arthur, Victor, and Julia stood listening until the sound faded.
“Let’s get you inside, Arthur. Not exactly summer out here—you’ll catch a chill. And you’re only in a shirt.” Victor guided him back. “He’s right. She’s in good hands now.”
The old man let himself be led inside.
“Fancy coming up to ours? Easier with company,” Victor suggested at the open door of the ground-floor flat.
“Cheers, but I’ll stay here. Got to wait for my Maggie,” Arthur murmured as he shuffled inside.
“Suit yourself. You know where we are if you need anything.”
Arthur nodded and closed the door.
“Poor bloke. Spent their whole lives together,” Julia sighed as they climbed the stairs. “Someone ought to call his family.”
“He hasn’t got any,” Victor said.
“How do you know?”
“Had a chat once. His brother died young. Some nephew somewhere, but what use is an old man to him? Him and Margaret never had kids. If she goes, he’s alone. And old folk don’t last long alone—like swans. Lose their mate, and they waste away.”
“Didn’t know you were such a romantic. ‘Like swans,'” Julia snorted.
The next night after dinner, Victor decided to check on Arthur.
“Go on. Make sure he’s not just moping.”
Victor went downstairs. Arthur’s door was unlocked. He stepped inside.
“You alive in there?” he called out.
Arthur shuffled into the hall, shoulders slumped.
“Sorry to barge in. Door wasn’t locked.”
“Forgot.” Arthur waved it off. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Just ate. You had anything?”
“Can’t stomach it. Keep thinking about my Maggie.” He sank onto a worn-out stool.
Victor entered the tidy kitchen. A half-drunk teacup sat on the table, delicate porcelain with red poppies and gold trim catching his eye.
“Margaret always liked nice china,” Arthur sighed. “Even gone, I can’t bring myself to drink from a mug. Force of habit. Sure you won’t join?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. Medicine’s come a long way.”
“Sixty years together. Can’t picture life without her. Never ill a day—always on her feet. Must’ve used up all her strength.” He sniffed, not hearing Victor. “Thought I’d go first. Now I reckon it’s better this way. She’d have struggled more. I’m tougher. You go on, I’ll manage.”
“How is he?” Julia asked when Victor returned.
“Holding up. Says she was never ill.”
“Then she’ll pull through,” Julia said brightly.
But the next day, Arthur came upstairs. Mrs. Margaret Wilson had passed, he said—still using her full name. Asked for help with arrangements.
“Course, come in, we’ll sort it,” Victor said.
Two weeks later, Julia perched beside Victor on the sofa.
“Poor old sod. All alone now,” she began.
Victor nodded, eyes on the football.
“I’ve been thinking…”
Another nod.
“You’re not even listening!” Julia snapped.
“Can’t this wait?”
“No. Liam turns fifteen soon. Couple years and he’ll be grown. What if he brings a wife home? To *this* flat?”
“What wife? Who?” Victor finally looked at her.
“Think ahead. Four of us cramped here. What if it’s five?”
“Where’s this going?”
“Arthur’s eighty-one. That’s proper old. Anything could happen. Lonely, bored—and he’s got a two-bedder. If he goes, the council takes it.”
“So? We’re not family.”
“Exactly. But we *should* be. For Liam’s future.”
Victor frowned. “How?”
“We help him. Care for him. Become his carers. Maybe draw up papers. Slow and steady, so we don’t scare him off.”
“Ohhh.” Victor grinned. “You’re brilliant.”
“Mhmm. And they say men are smarter.”
“How d’you propose this? His wife just died!”
“He’s fit *now*. But what if someone beats us to it? Then our flat’s gone.”
“*Our* flat? Bit soon, Jules.”
“We’ll ease into it. Start with shopping—heavy bags, you know. Cook meals. Wait till he relies on us.”
“And if he lives to a hundred?”
“Possible,” Julia conceded. “But unlikely. *Like swans*, remember?”
The next day, she handed Victor a foil-wrapped plate.
“Take this down. Ask if he needs anything. Keep him company.”
Reluctantly, Victor went.
Their help became routine. At first, Arthur was wary, but soon he welcomed them—offering tea, showing photos. Turned out he’d been an engineer, Margaret a schoolteacher.
“Shame we didn’t know sooner,” Julia sighed. “Liam’s struggling with English. Mrs. Wilson could’ve tutored him. And soon he’ll be grown, married. This flat’s too small…”
Arthur nodded sympathetically, glancing around. Julia followed his gaze.
“Those wallpaper’s seen better days. Pension doesn’t stretch to redecorating, eh?”
“Oh, Julia, you’ve done enough.”
“Nonsense. We’ll pick some tomorrow. Weekend, we’ll hang it. No point waiting.”
At home, Victor balked. “We’re decorating *his* flat now?”
“Yes. Maybe new flooring too. Practically ours already.”
“Suppose. But what if he wants new furniture? We’re not loaded.”
“Think of Liam’s future. He’ll need space.”
“Jules, we don’t *own* it.”
He’d never liked the plan. Yes, Arthur was lonely—without Julia, he’d have wasted away. But yesterday, Victor had spotted him briskly crossing the yard, dapper in a tweed suit and hat. Julia’s cooking had perked him up.
That evening, she handed Liam a container. “Take this down.”
“Why me? I’ve got revision.”
“Two minutes won’t hurt.”
“Nobody’s going,” Victor cut in.
“Why not?”
“Saw Arthur heading out, dressed to the nines. Reckon he’s got a lady friend. Spring fever.”
“After sixty years with Margaret? Six months since the funeral! First he could barely walk, now he’s courting?”
“Told you. Now he’ll move some sweetheart into our refurbished flat. Outlive us all.”
Julia’s eyes welled up.
“Don’t take on, love. Liam’s years off marrying. We’ll save up. Get a mortgage.” He pulled her close. “I’d be lost without you.”
Soon after, they saw Arthur escorting a plump, cheerful woman home.
“Evening, neighbours!” He tipped his hat.
“Arthur,” Victor nodded.
“This is Susan. Showing her the place. Lovely folk, these—helped when Margaret passed. Even redid my wallpaper. Flat’s like new.”
Julia forced a smile. Susan, a retired cook in her mid-sixties, beamed.
She started visiting often, then moved in. Soon she was cooking, baking, bringing pies upstairs.
“Good for him. Fed, shaved, looked after,” Victor said.
She finally understood that kindness, even when selfishly planted, could still grow into something unexpectedly good.
