When Julie and her husband moved into the building, an elderly couple already lived on the ground floor. Helen and Arthur were always together—grocery shopping, doctor’s visits, even their daily walks. Arm in arm, supporting each other, rarely seen apart.
One evening, Julie and Victor were coming home from a friend’s place when they saw an ambulance parked outside their building. Paramedics were carrying someone out on a stretcher, and shuffling behind them, barely keeping up, was old Arthur.
Everyone called him “old Arthur,” but for some reason, his wife was always addressed by her full name—never just “Helen.” Arthur was completely grey, even the stubble on his deeply wrinkled face. His thin, drooping eyelids nearly covered his pale, glassy eyes. He looked lost and scared.
“What happened?” Victor asked, stepping closer.
Arthur just waved a hand—maybe to say things were bad, or maybe to shoo him away. Victor turned to one of the paramedics, who was smoothly lifting the stretcher with a frail old woman into the ambulance.
“And you are?” the medic asked gruffly.
“Just a neighbour. Worried, that’s all,” Victor said.
“Then worry from over there, mate. You’re in the way.” The stretcher vanished inside, and the medic jumped in after, slamming the doors shut.
Arthur tried to follow.
“Where d’you think you’re going? Best stay put. You can’t help her now—she’s off to intensive care, and they won’t let you in. Neighbour, take him home, keep an eye on him. You never know with these things,” the medic said before locking the doors.
The ambulance sped off, sirens wailing, until the sound faded into the distance. Arthur, Victor, and Julie stood there listening.
“Let’s get you inside, Arthur. It’s chilly—don’t catch cold. And look at you, only a shirt on. He’s right—she’ll be looked after in hospital,” Victor said.
The old man let himself be led home.
“D’you want to come up to ours? Easier with company,” Victor offered at Arthur’s open door.
“Ta, but I’ll stay here. Wait for my Helen,” Arthur murmured, stepping inside.
“Suit yourself. Remember, we’re in flat seventeen if you need us,” Victor called after him.
Arthur nodded and closed the door.
“Poor thing,” Julie sighed as they climbed the stairs. “They spent their whole lives together. Someone should call his family—they ought to come, look after him.”
“He hasn’t got any,” Victor said.
“How d’you know?”
“Had a chat with him once. His brother died young. Some nephew out there, but who wants an old man around? No kids of their own. If anything happens, he’s on his own. And old folk don’t last long alone—like swans. Lose their mate, they pine away.”
“Didn’t know you were such a romantic. *Like swans*,” Julie chuckled.
The next evening, Victor went to check on Arthur.
“See if he needs anything. Don’t want him sinking into grief,” Julie agreed.
Downstairs, Arthur hadn’t locked his door. Victor stepped inside.
“Arthur, you alright?” he called.
The old man shuffled out, hunched and weary.
“Sorry, just popped in. Why’s the door open?”
“Forgot,” Arthur mumbled. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Just ate, thanks. Had anything yourself?”
“Can’t stomach a bite. Kept thinking about my Helen.” He sank onto a worn-out stool.
Victor glanced around the tidy kitchen—a half-drunk teacup sat on the table, the kind with bright red poppies and gold trim.
“Helen loved pretty china,” Arthur sighed. “Even gone, I can’t bring myself to drink from a mug. Old habits.”
“Don’t upset yourself yet. Medicine’s come a long way—”
“Sixty years together. Can’t imagine life without her. Never been poorly, always on her feet. Guess she just ran out of steam.” His voice cracked. “Thought I’d go first. Better this way—she’d have suffered more. I’m tougher. You go on, I’ll be alright.”
“How is he?” Julie asked when Victor returned.
“Holding up. Says she was never ill.”
“Then she’ll pull through,” Julie said cheerfully.
But the next day, Arthur knocked on their door. Helen had passed, he said—called her by her full name, like always. Asked for help with the funeral.
Two weeks later, Julie sat beside Victor on the sofa.
“Poor old chap. All alone now,” she began.
Victor nodded, eyes glued to the football match.
“I’ve been thinking—”
Another absent nod.
“Oi! I haven’t even said anything yet. Turn that off!”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No. Charlie turns fifteen soon. A few more years and he’ll be grown. What if he marries? His wife’ll move in *here*,” Julie said pointedly.
“Who? What wife?” Victor finally looked at her.
“Exactly. Time flies. Where do we fit four—or five—in this place?”
“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 state gets it.”
“And? We’re not family. It’s not like we’ll inherit.”
“*Exactly*. But we should. Charlie’ll need somewhere for *his* family.”
“Hold on—how?”
“Just got to move fast before someone else does.”
“You’re not suggesting—” Victor drew a finger across his throat.
“*What?* Bloody hell, Vic—no! No crime! We help him, care for him, get guardianship. Maybe even a contract.”
“Ah.” Victor whistled. “Clever girl.”
“Men always think they’re the smart ones,” Julie smirked.
“How d’you propose we *ask*? His wife just died, and you’re shoving paperwork at him. He’s still independent.”
“For now. What if someone beats us to it?”
“Already calling it *our* flat? Bit eager, love.”
“We’ll take it slow. Start small—groceries, maybe a hot meal. Let him get used to the good life. *He’ll* suggest it.”
“And if he lives to a hundred?”
“Could happen,” Julie conceded. “But doubtful. You said it yourself—swans.”
The next day, she handed Victor a container.
“Take this down. Ask if he needs anything. Keep him company.”
Grumbling, Victor went.
And so it began. At first, Arthur was wary. Then he warmed up—shared tea, old photos, stories. Turned out he’d been an engineer, Helen a schoolteacher.
“Shame we didn’t know sooner,” Julie sighed. “Charlie’s rubbish at English Lit. Helen could’ve tutored him. He’s a good lad, but time flies—school, marriage… Where do we all fit?” She glanced around Arthur’s flat.
“Fancy new wallpaper? Yours is peeling. Could do it this weekend?”
“Oh, you’ve done enough,” Arthur said bashfully.
“Nonsense. Helen would’ve wanted it.”
At home, Victor frowned. “*We’re* doing his decorating now?”
“Yep. Maybe even new flooring. Practically *our* flat.”
“And if he wants new furniture? We’re not made of money.”
“Think of Charlie’s future. His own space—close by.”
“Julie, you’re talking like it’s a done deal. There’s no contract.”
Something didn’t sit right. Arthur *had* been grieving—but yesterday, Victor saw him *speed-walking* to the next street, dressed to the nines in a brown pinstripe suit and hat. Julie’s cooking had perked him up.
Later, Charlie refused to take Arthur’s dinner down.
“No one’s going,” Victor cut in.
“Why not?”
“Saw him earlier—all spruced up, off somewhere. Probably a date. Spring’s here, even an old tree dreams of leaves.”
“After *Helen*? Six months? Blimey. Barely walked before, now he’s courting?” Julie’s face fell. “All that wallpaper… He’ll bring some woman back to *our* flat.”
“Told you. They’ll outlive us.”
Julie’s eyes welled up.
“Hey, don’t fret. Charlie’s years off marrying. We’ll save up, get a mortgage. Just don’t cry—I’d be lost without you.” He pulled her close.
Not long after, they saw Arthur escorting a plump, lively woman home.
“Evening, neighbours!” He tipped his hat.
Victor smiled. “Evening, Arthur.”
“This is Linda. Showing her my place. You’ve been so kindJulie forced a smile, knowing their plans had slipped away, but she couldn’t help feeling a small warmth at seeing Arthur’s lonely eyes light up again—some things, after all, were worth more than a flat.
