The Flat
When Yvonne and her husband moved into the building, an elderly couple already lived on the first floor. Helen and Arthur were inseparable—always seen together at the shops, the doctor’s, or out for a stroll, arm in arm, supporting one another. Rarely did anyone spot them apart.
One evening, Yvonne and Victor were returning from a friend’s house when an ambulance stood parked outside their building. Paramedics carried someone out on a stretcher while Arthur shuffled unsteadily behind, barely keeping up.
Everyone called him Old Arthur, but curiously, they always referred to his wife by her full name, Mrs. Helen. His hair was pure white, even the stubble on his deeply lined face. Wrinkled eyelids drooped over pale grey eyes that seemed lost and frightened.
“What happened?” Victor asked, stepping closer.
Arthur only waved his hand—whether to say things were bad or to brush Victor off wasn’t clear. Victor turned to one of the medics swiftly loading the stretcher into the ambulance, carrying the frail elderly woman.
“You a relative?” the medic asked tersely.
“I’m his neighbour, just concerned,” Victor replied.
“Stay out of the way then. Your concern won’t help here.” The stretcher vanished inside the ambulance, and the medic slammed the doors shut.
Arthur tried to climb in after them.
“Where do you think you’re going? Best you stay here. You can’t help your wife in intensive care—they won’t let you in. You’ll just be in the way. Neighbour, take him inside and keep an eye on him. Old folks don’t do well alone,” the medic said before closing the ambulance doors.
The engine roared to life, the siren wailing as it sped off. Arthur, Victor, and Yvonne stood listening until the sound faded in the distance.
“Come on, let’s get you inside. It’s not summer—you’ll catch cold out here in just a shirt,” Victor said. “He’s right. She’ll be looked after at the hospital.”
The old man let himself be led back inside.
“Want to come up to ours? Better with company,” Victor offered at Arthur’s open front door.
“Thanks. I’ll go home. I’ll wait for my Helen,” Arthur said, head bowed as he stepped inside.
“Suit yourself. If you need anything, we’re in flat seventeen,” Victor reminded him.
Arthur nodded and closed the door.
“Poor man. They spent their whole lives together,” Yvonne sighed as they climbed the stairs. “His family should be told. They ought to come check on him.”
“There isn’t any family,” Victor said.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Talked to him once. His brother died young. Some nephew out there, but who wants a burden like that? He and Helen never had kids. So if anything happens, he’s on his own. Old folks don’t last long alone, like swans. If they lose their mate, they waste away from grief.”
“Never knew you were such a romantic. Like swans,” Yvonne snorted.
The next evening, Victor decided to check on Arthur.
“Go on, see if he needs anything. Wouldn’t want him sinking into despair,” Yvonne agreed.
Victor went downstairs. Arthur’s door was unlocked. He stepped inside.
“Arthur, you alive in here?” he called out.
The old man shuffled out from the kitchen, shoulders hunched.
“Sorry, just popped in to see you. Why’s your door open?”
“Forgot to lock it,” Arthur muttered. “Come in. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Just had dinner. You eaten?”
“Can’t stomach a bite. Just thinking about my Helen.” He sank onto a worn-out stool.
Victor stepped into the tidy little kitchen. A half-drunk cup of tea sat on the table, a delicate floral pattern painted on the china.
“Helen loved nice crockery,” Arthur sighed. “She’s gone, but I still can’t bring myself to drink from a mug. Old habits. You want one?”
“Don’t worry too soon. Medicine’s come a long way these days.”
“Sixty years together. Can’t imagine life without her. Never been seriously ill before. Always on her feet. Must’ve worn herself out.” His voice cracked. “Thought I’d go first. Maybe it’s better this way. She’d have struggled alone. I’m tougher. You go on. I’ll manage.”
“How is he?” Yvonne asked when Victor returned.
“Holding up. Says she was never ill a day in her life.”
“Then she’ll pull through,” Yvonne said brightly.
But the next day, Arthur came to their door. Mrs. Helen had passed, he said—he used her full name. He asked for help arranging the funeral.
“Of course, come in. Let’s sort it,” Victor agreed.
Two weeks later, Yvonne sat beside Victor on the sofa.
“Poor old man. All alone now,” she said.
Victor nodded, eyes on the football match.
“I’ve been thinking—”
He nodded again without listening.
“What’re you nodding at? I haven’t even said it yet! Look away from that telly!”
“Can’t it wait?” Victor didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
“No. Jamie’s turning fifteen soon. Few more years, and he’ll be grown. What if he marries? He’ll bring his wife here, to this very flat.”
“What? Whose wife? What’re you on about?” Victor finally looked at her.
“I’m saying—time flies. How do we fit four in here? Or five?”
“Where’re you going with this?” Victor frowned. His team was losing.
“Arthur’s eighty-one. I checked. Respectable age. Anything could happen. Lonely, miserable, bored. And he’s got a two-bedder. If he goes, the council takes it.”
“So? We’re not family. No chance it goes to us.”
“Exactly. But it should. Jamie’ll need a place for his wife.”
Victor scratched his chest. “How’s that work?”
“Main thing is not to let anyone else get there first.”
“You’re serious? You want to—” Victor made a vague gesture.
“What? Have you lost the plot? No crime here. We help him, look after him. Become his carers. Get a contract signed.”
Victor exhaled. “You’re clever.”
“Men think they’re smarter,” Yvonne smirked.
“How’re you planning to bring this up? His wife just died, and you’re talking contracts. He’s still perfectly capable.”
“For now. But if someone else beats us to it? Our flat’s gone.”
“Already calling it ours?”
“We won’t rush. Bit by bit. First, shopping—heavy bags are hard for him. Cook him meals. Wait till he’s used to the good life. He’ll offer himself.”
“What if he’s a centenarian?”
“Could be. Unlikely though. You said it yourself—swans.”
The next evening, Yvonne handed Victor a container.
“Take this to Arthur. Ask if he needs anything. Sit with him, keep him company.”
Grumbling, Victor went.
They kept helping. At first, Arthur was wary. Then he warmed up—offered tea, showed photos, talked about his life. He’d been an engineer; Mrs. Helen taught English literature.
“Shame we didn’t know sooner,” Yvonne lamented. “Jamie’s rubbish at English, and his GCSEs are coming up. She could’ve tutored him. He’s a good lad. Soon he’ll finish school, marry. Tight squeeze here, isn’t it?”
Arthur nodded sympathetically, glancing around his flat. Yvonne followed his gaze.
“How about new wallpaper? Yours is faded. Can’t afford much on a pension, eh?”
“Yvonne, you spoil me,” Arthur said meekly.
“Nonsense. We’ll get wallpaper tomorrow. Fancy joining us? No? Weekend, then—no time to waste!”
“Are we really doing his decorating?” Victor asked later.
“We are. Laminate flooring too. His floors are dreadful. Practically our flat already.”
“Suppose. What if he wants new furniture? We’re not millionaires.”
“Think of Jamie’s future. He’ll have his own space.”
“You talk like it’s a done deal. No contract yet.”
Victor wasn’t keen. True, Arthur struggled alone. Without Yvonne, he’d have wasted away. But yesterday, Victor spotted Arthur briskly heading out—dressed smartly in a brown pinstripe suit and hat. Yvonne’s cooking had done him good. Victor was glad for him.
After dinner, Yvonne packed another container.
“Jamie, take this to Arthur.”
“I’ve got homework!”
“Two minutes won’t hurt. I’m doing the washing-up.”
“No one’s going,” Victor said.
“Why not?”
“Arthur’sThe next summer, Arthur and Oksana invited the whole building to their garden party, where Jamie met the granddaughter who’d just moved in next door, and Yvonne finally stopped counting the years until the flat would be theirs.
