The Flat
When Julia and her husband moved into their building, there was already an elderly couple living on the ground floor—Margaret and Albert Whittaker. They did everything together: shopping, doctor’s appointments, walks. Always arm in arm, supporting each other. You’d rarely see one without the other.
One evening, Julia and Tom came home from visiting friends. An ambulance was parked outside their building, and paramedics were carrying someone out on a stretcher. Behind them shuffled old Albert, struggling to keep up, his face pale and lost.
Everyone called him “Old Albert,” but for some reason, they always referred to his wife by her full name—Margaret Anne—never anything else. His hair was pure white, even the stubble on his deeply lined face. His thin, wrinkled eyelids drooped over faded grey eyes, and he looked utterly shaken.
“What happened?” Tom asked, stepping closer.
Albert just waved a hand—either to say it was bad or to brush Tom off. Tom turned to one of the paramedics, who was loading the stretcher into the ambulance.
“You a relative?” the medic asked bluntly.
“Neighbour. Just concerned.”
“Step back then. Worry from a distance.” The stretcher disappeared inside the van, the medic jumped in, and slammed the doors shut.
Albert tried to climb in after them.
“Where d’you think you’re going? You’ll just be in the way. She’s going to intensive care—they won’t let you in. Someone take him home and keep an eye on him,” the medic ordered before shutting the doors firmly.
The ambulance sped off, sirens wailing, until the sound faded into the distance. Albert, Tom, and Julia stood there, listening until silence settled.
“Let’s get you inside, Albert. It’s not summer—you’ll catch cold in just that shirt,” Tom said gently. “She’s in good hands.”
Albert let them lead him back inside.
“Want to come up to ours for a bit? It’s easier with people around,” Tom offered at the open door of Albert’s ground-floor flat.
“Thank you, but I’ll wait here for my Maggie,” Albert murmured, shoulders slumped as he shuffled in.
“Suit yourself. We’re in number 17 if you need anything.”
Albert gave a small nod and closed the door.
“Poor man—they spent their whole lives together,” Julia sighed as they climbed the stairs. “Someone should call his family, get them to come stay with him.”
“There isn’t any family,” Tom said over his shoulder.
“How d’you know that?”
“Talked to him once. His brother died young. Some nephew out there, but who’d want an old man underfoot? They never had kids. If anything happens to Margaret, he’ll be alone. And old folks don’t last long on their own—like swans, you know. One dies, the other follows from grief.”
“Didn’t know you were such a romantic. ‘Like swans,’” Julia snorted.
The next evening, Tom decided to check on Albert.
“Go on—he might need help. Wouldn’t want him fading away from loneliness,” Julia agreed.
Tom went downstairs. Albert’s door was unlocked, so he pushed it open.
“Albert? You alright?” he called into the flat.
Albert shuffled out of the kitchen, hunched and weary.
“Sorry, just came to see how you were. Door wasn’t locked.”
“Forgot,” Albert mumbled. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“Just had dinner. You eaten?”
“Can’t stomach a thing. Just keep thinking about my Maggie.” He sank onto a battered old stool.
Tom stepped into the tidy kitchen. On the table sat a half-finished cup of tea with a saucer, the china painted with bright red poppies and gold leaves.
“My Maggie always liked pretty china,” Albert sighed. “She’s not here, but I still can’t bring myself to drink from a mug. Old habit. Sure you won’t join me?”
“Don’t give up yet. Medicine’s come a long way—”
“Spent our whole lives together. Can’t imagine being without her… Never been seriously ill, always on her feet. Must’ve used up all her strength.” Albert’s voice broke—whether a sigh or a sob, it was hard to tell. “Thought I’d go first. Now I see it’s better this way. She’d have struggled more without me. I’m stronger. You go on—I’ll be alright.”
“How is he?” Julia asked when Tom returned.
“Holding up. Says she was never ill.”
“Then she’ll pull through,” Julia said brightly.
But the next day, Albert came to their door. Margaret Anne had passed, he said—still using her full name. He asked for help with the funeral.
“Of course, come in—let’s sort it out,” Tom agreed.
Two weeks after the funeral, Julia sat beside Tom on the sofa.
“Poor old man. All alone now,” she started.
Tom nodded, eyes glued to the football match on telly.
“I’ve been thinking—”
Another nod.
“You’re not even listening! Turn that off!”
“Can’t this wait?”
“No. Harry’s fifteen in two months. Few more years and he’ll be grown. What if he marries? Brings a wife *here*, into this very flat?”
“What? Whose wife? Who?” Tom finally tore his eyes from the screen.
“Exactly. Time flies. Where will we all fit? Four of us—what if it’s five?”
“Where’s this going?”
“Albert’s eighty-one. I checked. Respectable age. Anything could happen. He’s lonely, miserable. And he’s got a two-bed. If he… well, the council’ll take it.”
“So? We’re not family. It won’t go to us.”
“That’s the point. It *should*. Harry’ll need somewhere to bring a wife.”
“Still not following. How?”
“Just can’t let someone else get there first.”
“You’re serious? You want to…” Tom drew a finger across his throat.
“*What?* Have you lost the plot? Nothing illegal! We’ll help him, care for him, get guardianship. Maybe even a contract.”
“Ohhh.” Tom grinned. “You’re clever.”
“Told you men aren’t the smart ones.”
“So how do you propose this? His wife just died, and you’re talking contracts. He’s still independent.”
“For now. What if someone beats us to it?” Julia huffed.
“Already calling it *our* flat?”
“We’ll take it slow—help with shopping, cook meals, fix the place up. He’ll get used to it, *offer* it himself.”
“And if he lives to a hundred?”
“Possible. But doubtful. Remember your swans?”
Tom scratched his chest, mulling it over.
“Take him dinner tomorrow. I’ll do the shopping—tea, bread, ham…”
“Why *me*?”
“You think I’ll do *everything*? Men understand each other. And Harry can help. Right, love?” she called to their son’s room.
“Leave me out of your scheming,” came the reply.
The next day, Julia handed Tom a container.
“Here. Ask if he needs anything. Stay, chat—keep him company.”
Grumbling, Tom went downstairs.
And so it began. Albert was wary at first, but soon warmed up—offering tea, showing photos, sharing stories. He’d been an engineer; Margaret Anne had taught English and literature.
“Shame we didn’t know earlier,” Julia sighed. “Harry’s rubbish at English, and GCSEs are coming up. She could’ve helped. He’s a good boy—time flies, soon he’ll marry. Where will we all fit?” She sighed dramatically.
Albert nodded sympathetically, glancing around his flat. Julia followed his gaze.
“Fancy new wallpaper? This has faded. Hard to afford things on a pension, eh?”
“Oh, Julia, you spoil me,” Albert said shyly. “But… why not? Margaret Anne always wanted a refresh.”
“Perfect! Tom and I’ll get wallpaper tomorrow. Fancy coming? No? We’ll hang it this weekend—no point waiting!”
“*We’re* doing his wallpaper now?” Tom asked later.
“Yes! And laminate flooring if needed. It’s practically *our* flat.”
“Fine. What if he wants new furniture? We’re not made of money.”
“Think of Harry’s future. He’ll have his own space.”
“Jules, you’re talking like it’s a done deal. There’s *no contract*.”
Tom wasn’t sure about the plan. Yes, Albert was lonely—without Julia, he might’ve wasted away. But yesterday, walking home, Tom saw Albert briskly trotting to the next street—smartly dressed in a brown pinstripe suit and hat. Julia’s cooking had clearly perked him up. Tom was glad for the old man.
After dinner, JuliaA few months later, Albert and his new wife, Rose—a retired cook who’d moved in with him—invited the whole building over for a proper English roast, and as Julia watched them laughing together, she realized some things were worth more than a spare bedroom.
