The Bench in the Courtyard
Victor Stephens steps out into the courtyard just after one in the afternoon. Theres a dull ache in his templesyesterday he finished off the last of the sandwiches, and this morning hes been taking down the Christmas tree and packing away the baubles. The flat feels too quiet. He pulls on his woolly hat, slips his phone into his coat pocket, and makes his way down the stairs, gripping the banister out of habit.
On this crisp January afternoon, the courtyard looks like something from a stage set: swept walkways, untouched banks of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor brushes off a bench by the second block entrance. The snow falls away softly from the worn wooden slats. Its a good spot for thinking, especially when its emptyyou can sit for five minutes and then head home.
No objection if I join you? comes a mans voice.
Victor glances over. A tall chap, late fifties, in a navy jacket. His face seems vaguely familiar.
Go ahead, theres plenty of room, Victor says, shifting over a bit. Which flat are you from?
Number forty-three, second floor. Moved in just three weeks ago. Names Michael.
Victor Stephens, he replies automatically, shaking the outstretched hand. Welcome to our little patch of calm.
Michael pulls out a packet of cigarettes.
Mind if I smoke?
Go ahead, be my guest.
Victor hasnt smoked in over ten years, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly reminds him of the printing office where he spent most of his life. He catches himself wanting to breathe it in, but quickly shrugs off the thought.
How long have you lived here? Michael asks.
Since eighty-seven. The whole estate had just gone up back then.
I used to work nearbyin the Metalworkers Social Club. Sound engineer.
Victor starts in surprise.
With Mr. Zachary Vale?
Thats him! How do you?
I wrote a profile on him. There was an anniversary gig in eighty-nine. Do you remember when August played?
I could tell you the whole thing from start to finish! Michael grins. We dragged in this great big speaker, the power unit kept sparking
The conversation tumbles on by itself. Names and stories surfacesome funny, some bittersweet. Victor realises he ought to be heading in, but each new thread steers the talk onward: musicians, equipment, backstage secrets.
Hes long fallen out of the habit of long conversations. In his final years at the office, he wrote only urgent bits, and since retiring has grown more closed off. He always told himself it was simpler this wayno ties, no dependence. But now, something inside feels as if its thawing.
You know, says Michael, stubbing out his third cigarette, Ive got the whole archive at home. Posters, photos. And cassettes from gigsI recorded them myself. If youd like
Why bother? flickers through Victors mind. Then it would mean visiting, chatting, maybe opening up a little. What if he fancies being neighbourly? My routine will be upended. What could there really be thats new?
I wouldnt mind having a look, he says. When suits you?
Tomorrow, if you like. About five? Ill be back from work then.
All right, Victor takes out his phone, opening his contacts. Heres my numberjot it down. Well ring if anything changes.
That evening Victor struggles to sleep. He goes over their chat in his mind, recalling details of old stories. Several times, he almost reaches for his phoneto cancel, make an excuse. But he doesnt.
In the morning, he wakes to his phone ringing. On screen: Michael, neighbour.
Still up for it? Michaels voice is a touch uncertain.
Yes, Victor replies. Ill be round at five.Victor spends the afternoon in quiet anticipation, brewing tea, rearranging books, even lining up the slippers by his front door as if the act itself is a promise kept. The hours move slowly, but each one is slightly lighter than the last.
At a quarter to five, he bundles up and heads down the landing, the familiar hush of the stairwell now tinged with possibility. He hesitates a moment before Michaels door, then knocks.
It swings open, warm air rushing out, tinged with the scent of coffee and old paper. Michael grins, waving him inside.
On the table: battered photo albums, dog-eared posters, the gleam of cassette tapes stacked in neat rows. A battered cassette player hums softly in the corner, leaking musictinny, vibrant, unmistakably alive.
They talk. They laugh. Victor holds a sepia-toned photograph and recognizes himself in the crowd at a concert decades old, his younger face lifted in mid-cheer. Michael cues up a tape. Listen to this one, he insists, eyes shining. In the crackle and hiss, Victor hears, not just the past, but something of the present threading througha spark, a chord unbroken.
Outside, snow drifts in silent heaps, but inside, time folds in on itself. For hours they trade stories, tracing the delicate lines that led here: not just gigs or musicians, but the quieter thingsregret, hope, the absurdity of lifes routines. They are not so different, after all.
When Victor finally stands to go, it is late. Michael walks him to the door.
Same time next week? Michael asks quietly.
Victor smiles. The ache in his temples is gone. Outside, laughter and echoes follow his steps through the snow-laced courtyard. The bench is empty now, waiting.
He does not look back, knowingfor the first time in a long timethat someone is behind him, and ahead, too. As he heads home, Victor thinks how easyhow quietly extraordinaryit is for a life to change, just by sitting down and saying yes.
