**The Flat**
When Julia and her husband moved into the building, an elderly couple already lived on the first floor. Eleanor and Arthur were inseparable—always side by side, whether at the shops, the doctor’s, or just out for a stroll. Arm in arm, they leaned on each other, their devotion plain to see. Rarely did anyone spot them apart.
One evening, Julia and Victor were returning from a dinner party when an ambulance stood parked outside their building. Paramedics carried a stretcher through the doors, and shuffling behind them, barely keeping pace, was Arthur—frail, his face etched with deep wrinkles, his white stubble catching the dim light. His dull grey eyes, half-hidden beneath thin, papery lids, darted in helpless terror.
“What happened?” Victor called out as he approached him.
Arthur only waved a trembling hand—was it a sign things were bad, or a plea to be left alone? Victor turned to one of the medics hoisting the stretcher, bearing the slight frame of an elderly woman.
“Who are you?” the medic grunted without looking up.
“His neighbour. We’re worried.”
“Then worry somewhere else. You’re in the way.” The stretcher vanished into the ambulance, the medic slamming the doors shut behind him.
Arthur lurched forward, trying to climb in after her.
“Oi, no—you stay put. You can’t help her now. She’s going to intensive care; they won’t let you in. You’ll only make it harder. Neighbour, get him inside, yeah? Keep an eye on him,” the medic snapped before sealing the ambulance.
Sirens wailed as the vehicle sped away. Arthur, Victor, and Julia stood in the cold, listening until the sound dissolved into the night.
“Come on, Arthur. Go inside—it’s freezing. You’re in no state to be out here,” Victor urged, guiding him back.
The old man let himself be led, wordless.
“Fancy a cuppa at ours? Easier when you’re not alone,” Victor offered outside Arthur’s open flat door.
“Ta, but no… I’ll wait for her. For my Eleanor.” Shoulders hunched, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“Suit yourself. You know where we are if you need us.”
Julia sighed as they climbed the stairs. “Poor man. A lifetime together, and now… We should contact their family. Someone ought to look after him.”
“No one left,” Victor murmured.
“How do you know?”
“Had a chat once. His brother died young. There’s a nephew somewhere, but does he care? No kids of their own. If anything happens… he’ll be all alone. And old folks don’t last long after losing their other half. Like swans.”
Julia huffed. “Didn’t know you were such a romantic. ‘Like swans’…”
The next evening, Victor went downstairs to check on Arthur.
“See if he needs anything. God knows he must be lost without her,” Julia agreed.
Arthur’s door was unlocked. Victor stepped inside.
“You in here, Arthur?” he called down the dim hallway.
The old man emerged from the kitchen, his shoulders even more stooped than before.
“Sorry—just checking in. Door wasn’t locked.”
“Forgot,” Arthur muttered. “Come in. Fancy a brew?”
“No, just ate. Have you?”
“Can’t stomach a thing. Kept thinking about her… about Eleanor.” He sank onto a chipped stool, worn smooth by years.
Victor glanced around the tidy kitchen. A half-finished cup of tea sat on the table, the delicate china patterned with roses, gold-trimmed.
“Eleanor loved nice things,” Arthur said softly. “Even now… can’t bring myself to drink from a mug.” His voice cracked. “You sure you won’t join me?”
“Don’t give up yet. Medicine’s come a long way—”
“Sixty years together. Can’t imagine… She was never ill. Not properly. Always on her feet. Must’ve run out of strength.” He exhaled—or was it a sob? “Thought I’d go first. Maybe it’s better this way. She’d have been lost without me.”
Victor hesitated. “You’ll be all right?”
“Aye. You go on.”
“How is he?” Julia asked when Victor returned.
“Holding up. Swears she was never sick a day.”
“Then she’ll pull through,” Julia said brightly.
But the next day, Arthur knocked on their door.
“Eleanor’s gone,” he said, her full name stiff on his lips. “Could use some help with the arrangements.”
“Course. Come in, let’s sort it.”
Two weeks later, Julia sat beside Victor on the sofa.
“It’s not right. He’s completely alone now,” she murmured.
Victor grunted, eyes fixed on the football match.
“I’ve been thinking—”
Another distracted nod.
“Are you even listening?” Julia snapped. “Turn that off.”
“Can’t this wait?”
“No. Tom’s fifteen in two months. A few more years and he’ll be grown. What if he marries? Brings a wife back to this very flat?”
Victor blinked. “What? Whose wife?”
“Think about it. We’re crammed in here as it is. What happens when there’s five of us?”
“Where’s this coming from?” Victor finally looked at her.
“Arthur’s eighty-one. I checked. At that age… anything could happen. And he’s got a two-bedder. If he goes, the council’ll take it.”
“So?”
“So?” Julia scoffed. “It should be ours. Tom’ll need a place for his family.”
Victor frowned. “We’re not next of kin.”
“Exactly. Which is why we need to act.”
“Act how?”
“Help him. Look after him. Get guardianship. Maybe even a contract.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious. No funny business—just care. Earn his trust.”
He studied her. “You’ve really thought this through.”
“Men always think they’re the clever ones,” she smirked.
“Fine. But how do you propose this? His wife just died.”
“Not straight away. Ease into it. Groceries, meals… Let him rely on us. Then, when he’s comfortable…”
“And if he lives to a hundred?”
Unlikely,” Julia said. “You said it yourself—swans.”
Victor scratched his chest, thinking.
“Take him dinner tomorrow. I’ll drop off tea, bread, whatever.”
“Why me?”
“You’re better with him. Man-to-man. And Tom can help.”
“Keep me out of it,” came Tom’s voice from his room.
The next evening, Julia handed Victor a container.
“Take this down. Ask if he needs anything. Keep him company.”
Grumbling, Victor trudged off.
They kept it up—meals, errands. At first, Arthur was wary. Then, slowly, he warmed. Offered tea, shared old photos. He’d been an engineer; Eleanor, a schoolteacher.
“Shame we didn’t know sooner,” Julia sighed. “Tom’s rubbish at English. She could’ve tutored him. He’s a good lad. School’ll be over before we know it, then marriage… Where’ll we all fit?” She cast a pointed glance around Arthur’s flat.
Arthur followed her gaze.
“Those wallpapers are faded,” Julia mused. “When’s the last time you redecorated?”
“Oh, you’ve done enough—”
“Nonsense. We’ll get new paper. This weekend—no point waiting.”
Back home, Victor frowned. “We’re redecorating now?”
“Yes. Laminate flooring next. It’s practically our flat.”
“Suppose. But what if he wants new furniture? We’re not made of money.”
“Think about Tom’s future. A place of his own, nearby—”
“Jules, slow down. There’s no contract. This isn’t ours.”
Something nagged at Victor. The other day, he’d spotted Arthur—sprightly, dapper in a brown pinstripe suit and trilby—hurrying off like a man half his age. Julia’s cooking had put the spring back in his step.
That night, she packed another meal.
“Tom, run this down.”
“Do it yourself. I’ve got homework.”
“No one’s going,” Victor cut in.
“Why not?”
“Saw Arthur earlier. Dressed to the nines, off like a shot. Bet he’s got a lady friend.”
Julia froze. “After Eleanor? Six months? That’s rich.”
“Told you. Now he’ll move some sweetheart into your freshly decorated flat.”
Her lips pursed. “After all we did—”
Victor pulled her close. “We’ll save up. Get a mortgage. Tom’s years off marriage. Relax.”
Then, one evening, they saw himAnd there they stood—Arthur, beaming with a new twinkle in his eye, arm-in-arm with a rosy-cheeked widow from down the street, while Julia swallowed her plans and learned that some loves, like the best china, simply can’t be replaced.
