The Flat
When Julie and her husband moved into the building, an elderly couple already lived on the ground floor. Helen and Arthur always went everywhere together—to the shops, the doctor’s, or just for a stroll, arm in arm, supporting each other. Rarely were they seen apart.
One evening, Julie and Victor were returning from a friend’s when an ambulance stood outside their block. Paramedics carried someone out on a stretcher, followed by old Arthur, shuffling behind them in slippers, barely keeping up.
Everybody called him Arthur, but his wife was always “Mrs. Thompson”—never just Helen. His hair was pure white, even the stubble on his deeply lined face. Thin, wrinkled eyelids drooped over pale grey eyes. He looked lost and frightened.
“What happened?” Victor asked, stepping closer.
Arthur just waved a hand—whether to indicate it was bad or to brush him off wasn’t clear. Victor turned to one of the paramedics loading the stretcher with a frail old woman into the ambulance.
“Who are you?” the man asked gruffly.
“I’m a neighbor, just worried,” Victor said.
“Then worry from a distance. Don’t get in the way.” The stretcher vanished inside, and the medic slammed the doors shut.
Arthur tried to climb in after them.
“Where d’you think you’re going? Best stay here. You won’t be allowed in A&E—just get in the way,” the paramedic said. “Neighbor, take him home and keep an eye on him. These things hit hard at his age.”
The ambulance sped off, sirens wailing. Arthur, Victor, and Julie stood listening until the sound faded.
“Let’s get you inside, Arthur. It’s freezing—you’ll catch your death,” Victor said, noticing the old man’s thin shirt.
Arthur let himself be led back.
“Why not come upstairs? Easier with company,” Victor offered at the open door of the ground-floor flat.
“Thank you, but I’ll wait here. Helen will want me home,” Arthur murmured and stepped inside.
“Suit yourself. We’re in flat 17 if you need anything,” Victor reminded him.
Arthur nodded and closed the door.
“Poor man,” Julie sighed on the stairs. “They were together all their lives. We should contact family—someone ought to look after him.”
“He hasn’t got any,” Victor said.
“How d’you know?”
“Talked to him once. His brother died young. Got a nephew somewhere, but who wants an old man? No kids of their own. If he loses Helen, he’ll be completely alone. And old folk don’t last long alone—like swans, really.”
“Well, aren’t you the romantic? ‘Like swans,'” Julie smirked.
The next evening, Victor went to check on Arthur.
“See if he needs anything. Don’t want him fading away,” Julie agreed.
The door was unlocked. Victor hurried in.
“Arthur, you alive?” he called.
The old man appeared from the kitchen, hunched and weary.
“Sorry, just checking on you. Why’s the door open?”
“Forgot,” Arthur mumbled. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Just ate. You had dinner?”
“Can’t stomach it. Just thinking about my Helen.” He sank onto a worn-out stool.
Victor stepped into the tidy kitchen. A half-drunk cup of tea sat on the table, the fine china painted with red poppies and gold filigree.
“Helen loved nice crockery,” Arthur sighed. “She’s gone, but I can’t bring myself to drink from a mug. Force of habit. Sure you won’t join?”
“Don’t lose hope yet. Medicine’s come a long way.”
“We were always together. Can’t imagine life without her. Never been poorly a day in her life—always on her feet. Suppose she used up all her strength.” His voice cracked. “Thought I’d go first. Maybe it’s for the best. She’d have taken it harder. I’m tougher. You go—I’ll manage.”
“Well?” Julie asked when Victor returned.
“Holding up. Said Helen was never ill.”
“Then she’ll pull through,” Julie said brightly.
But the next day, Arthur came to their door and told her Helen had passed. He called her “Mrs. Thompson” even then. He asked for help with the funeral.
“Of course, come in, we’ll sort it,” Victor agreed.
Two weeks later, Julie sat beside Victor on the sofa.
“Poor old man. All alone now,” she said.
Victor nodded without looking up from the football match.
“I’ve been thinking…”
He nodded again, not really listening.
“What’re you nodding for? I haven’t said anything yet! Turn that off!”
“Can’t this wait?” Victor kept his eyes glued to the screen.
“No. Tom turns fifteen in two months. Few more years and he’ll be grown. What if he marries? Brings a wife into *this* flat,” Julie said pointedly.
“What? Who? What wife?” Victor finally looked at her.
“Exactly. Time flies. Four of us here’s tight enough—what about five?”
“Spit it out. What’re you getting at?” Victor turned away as his team conceded.
“Arthur’s eighty-one. Prime age for things to happen. Lonely, sad, bored. Has a two-bed. Goes to the state if he dies. We’re not family—won’t get a penny.”
“So?”
“So we make sure we *do* get it. Tom’ll need a place for his future wife,” Julie said.
Victor frowned. “How?”
“Act now. Before someone else does.”
“You serious? You’re suggesting we—” He drew a finger across his throat.
Julie gaped. “Have you lost it? No crime! Just help him, care for him. Get guardianship. Maybe a contract.” She mused, “Mustn’t scare him, but can’t wait.”
“Ah,” Victor said, impressed. “Clever.”
“Men always think they’re the smart ones,” Julie smirked.
“Alright, genius, how d’you propose this? His wife just died, and you’re talking contracts? He’s still sharp.”
“For now. What if someone beats us to it? Then our flat’s gone.”
“*Our* flat now?”
“We’ll go slow. Start with grocery runs, home-cooked meals. Wait till he gets used to it—he’ll offer himself.”
“What if he lives to a hundred?”
“He might,” Julie conceded. “But unlikely. Like your swans.”
Victor scratched his chest, mulling it over.
“Take him dinner tomorrow. I’ll do a shop for tea, bread, sausages—”
“Why me?”
“You think I’ll do everything? Men understand each other. Tom can help.”
“Keep me out of your schemes,” Tom called from his room.
The next day, Julie handed Victor a container.
“Take this to Arthur. Ask if he needs anything. Keep him company.”
Grumbling, Victor trudged off.
So they helped. At first, Arthur was wary, but soon he welcomed them, showing photos, telling stories. Turned out he’d been an engineer; Helen had taught English and Literature.
“Shame we didn’t know sooner,” Julie sighed. “Tom struggles with English—his GCSEs are coming up. Mrs. Thompson could’ve helped. He’s a good lad. Time flies—soon he’ll marry. This flat’s too small.” She sighed theatrically.
Arthur nodded sympathetically, glancing around. Julie followed his gaze.
“Need new wallpaper? It’s faded. When was the last time you decorated? Pension doesn’t stretch far, does it?”
“Julie, you spoil me,” Arthur said meekly. “But… why not? Helen always wanted a refresh.”
“Exactly! Victor and I’ll buy some tomorrow. Weekend, we’ll paper it. No point waiting.”
“Wait—we’re *actually* doing his flat up?” Victor asked later.
“Yes,” Julie said firmly. “Maybe laminate flooring too. It’s practically ours.”
“Suppose. But if he wants new furniture next? We’re not made of money.”
“Think about Tom. He and his wife can live separately—but nearby.”
“Julie, you talk like it’s already ours. There’s no contract.”
Victor wasn’t convinced. The old man *was* lonely—without Julie, he might’ve withered. But yesterday, walking home, Victor had seen Arthur briskly crossing the yard—dapper in a brown pinstripe suit and hat. Julie’s cooking had perked him up.
After dinner, Julie packed leftovers for Tom to deliver.
“Why me? I’ve got homework!”
“Two minutes won’t hurt. I’ve dishes to do.”
“Nobody’s going,” Victor said, standing.
“Why not?”
“Saw Arthur dressed to the nines, off somewhere. Probably a date. Spring’s in the air—even old trees dream of blooming,” he sang off-key.
“But he adoredJulie hesitated at Nina’s door the next day, a casserole in hand, wondering if kindness always had to come with strings attached.
