A Bench for Two
The snow has melted away, but the ground in the park is still dark with dampness, and thin lines of grit snake across the paths. Margaret Whitfield moves slowly, gripping her shopping bag, eyes trained on the ground. Shes spent years noting every pothole and loose stonenot out of natural caution, but because after breaking her arm three years ago, the fear of falling lives in her chest and refuses to leave.
She lives alone in a two-bedroom flat on the ground floora place once filled to the brim with voices, cooking smells, and doors slamming. Now its quiet. The television mutters in the background, but she often finds herself staring absently at the scrolling news ticker. Her son video calls every Sundayhurriedly, in between work and family, but he always calls. Her grandson pops onto the screen, waving and holding up toys. She delights in it, but as soon as the call ends, the stillness comes creeping back into the room.
She keeps to a routine: exercises in the morning, tablets and porridge. Then a short walk to the park and backto keep the blood moving, as the GP says. Afternoon is for cooking, the news, sometimes a crossword. Eveningssoap operas and her knitting. Theres nothing special in this schedule, but she tells her neighbour on the stairs that it keeps her going.
Today, the breeze is sharp but dry. Margaret reaches her usual bench by the playground and sits on the edge, carefully placing her bag beside her and making sure the zip is closed. Two toddlers in bright wellies play nearby as their mothers chat, not noticing passersby. Margaret decides shell rest a little, then head home.
At the other side of the park, Stanley Bishop is making his way slowly towards the bus stop. He, too, counts his steps. Seventy-three to the newsagent. One hundred and twenty to the GPs surgery. Ninety-five to the bus stop. Counting is easier than thinking about the emptiness of his flat.
Stanley was once a maintenance man at the local factorywith business trips, arguments with foremen, banter and laughter in the smoking shelter. But the factorys long been closed, and old friends are rarely seen. Some have moved in with children, others rest in the cemetery. His son visits once a year, for a rushed three-day stay; his daughter lives in the next district, busy with her own family. He tries not to mindat least, thats what he tells himself. But sometimes, at night when the radiators are hissing and darkness settles outside, he listens for the click of someone coming home.
This morning, hes popped out for bread and a stop at the chemistmight as well grab another box of blood pressure tablets, just in case. The doctor said not to let it get out of hand. He holds his shopping list, written large in shaky letters, fingers trembling as he double-checks it.
Reaching the bus stop, he sees the bus pulling away. The waiting crowd disperses. On a bench sits a woman in a light grey overcoat and a blue knitted hat, her bag beside her, staring out towards the park rather than the road.
Stanley hesitates. Its uncomfortable for him to stand; his back aches. The bench is half-empty, though hes never been keen on sitting next to a woman he doesnt know. You never know what peoplell think. But the wind cuts right through him, and in the end, he decides to sit.
Mind if I join you? he asks, leaning forward a little.
The woman turns. She has pale eyes, finely lined at the corners.
Of course, take a seat, she says, shuffling her bag closer to her.
He sits, bracing himself on the bench. Silence falls as a car rumbles past, leaving exhaust in its wake.
Buses do as they please nowadays, Stanley says, breaking the quiet. Look away for a second and theyre gone.
She nods. Tell me about it. Yesterday I stood here half an hour. At least it wasnt raining.
He studies her, but her face isnt familiar. In these new estate blocks, he hardly knows anyone.
Do you live nearby? he asks.
Just over therethe first block by the shop, she gestures towards the row of council flats. You?
Im the other side of the park, in the tower block, he replies. Not far at all.
They sit in silence. Margaret reflects that making small talk at a bus stop is nothing unusual, but her bench companion looks worn out, a bit lost, though hes trying to sit up straight.
Been to the surgery? she nods towards the chemists logo on his plastic bag.
Yes, picked up some tablets, he lifts the bag. Pressures a bit all over the place. You?
Just got a few bits at the shop. Plus, it gets me out. Otherwise youll turn into a hermit.
Margaret realises the word home sounds alarmingly empty now.
A bus turns the corner. People rise, readying themselves. Stanley stands too, hesitating.
Im Stanley, by the wayBishop, he says, as if coming to a decision.
Margaret Whitfield, she replies, also getting up. Nice to meet you.
Once boarded, the crowd splits them apart. Margaret clings to the pole as the bus bumps along, catching Stanleys eye through a gap. He nods, and she returns the gesture.
A few days later, they meet again in the park. Margaret is at her favourite bench when she notices him approaching, now with a walking sticksomething he clearly didnt have before.
Hello, fellow bus-stop dweller, he smiles as he gets closer. Room for one more?
Of course, Margaret answers, genuinely pleased.
Stanley sits, placing his stick carefully beside him.
Its nice here, he says, surveying the trees and playing children. Not like being stuck at homethose walls press in.
Are you by yourself? she asks, feeling its safe to mention.
He nods. My wife passed away seven years back. Kids are off living their lives. What about you?
Im on my own too, she says. My husbands been gone a long time. My sons with his lot up north. They call, but She shrugs. He nods, understanding.
Calls are nice, he says, but come evening, the phones silent and it gets very quiet.
His simple words warm her unexpectedly. They chat about the weather, the price of milk, the fact the GP surgerys got yet another new doctor. They head home, but the next day, both somehow time their walks for when they might cross paths again.
Soon, meeting becomes a routine: first at the bus stop or in the park, then outside the shop, and thenoccasionallyin the GPs waiting room. Margaret realises shes started arranging her morning porridge and outings to fit Stanleys likely schedule. Not that shed ever admit it to herself.
They walk to the surgery together, debating check-ups, moaning about the online appointment system Margaret cant get the hang of.
You have to do it through the portal, the young receptionist explains. Book online.
Hows that supposed to work? Margaret grumbles on her way out. My phone isnt smartits barely alive!
Stanley always chuckles.
Ill help you, he offers one day. My kids gave me an old tablet. It does online booking. We can figure it out together.
She brushes him off at first, but soon gives in. They sit on the bench outside the surgery as he squints at the screen, searching for the right page, swearing softly when he hits the wrong button. Margaret laughsa rare, genuine laugh.
See? he beams finally. Just pick the doctor and time. Only thing is, youll have to remember the password.
Ill write it down, she assures. Got a notebook for that.
Another time, she helps him organise his council tax bills. Stanley brings all the envelopes from his letterbox, spreads them on the kitchen table with a sigh.
Used to be simple, he mutters. Go to the counter, pay up, and job done. Now, its all codes and machines. Utter nonsense.
Lets take them one by one, Margaret says. This is electricity, thats water. Just dont muddle them.
They sit in her kitchen, sipping tea. She brings out her homemade jam; hes brought along some scones. Children race their bikes outside the window. Margaret feels oddly content watching as Stanley sorts the bills into neat piles, asking advice, sometimes disagreeing.
No need for you to pay these for me, he protests when she offers to handle the online payment. Ill manage.
Im not paying them, you are, she teases. Im just pressing the buttons. Dont be daft.
Hes embarrassed but grateful. He doesnt like owing anyone, even small favours.
They bicker sometimes, never loudly but with a note of irritation. Once, on the way back from the shop, they talk about their children.
My lad says, Dad, sell the flat, move in with us. Why sit alone? But where would I sleep, the sofa? Theyre cramped as it is. I like my own space, Stanley sighs.
My sons always asking, Margaret adds, Come live with us, weve got a spare room. Lovely big house. But I keep putting it off. My husbands resting place is here, my friends too. Though sometimes, I wonder if I should.
Dont, Stanley replies. There, youd just be in the way. They come home, shattered, kids have clubs. And you, in a corner. Ive seen it.
Am I needed here, though? she asks quietly.
He says nothing, wounded by her wordsthey touch a nerve, though she didnt mean him.
Sorry, he mutters. I thought we were
He cant finish the word friends; it sounds too big at their age.
I didnt mean you, she says gently. Just in general. If I moved away, everything here would end. Thats frightening.
He nods, but they walk the rest of the way in silence. At her building, he says goodbye stiffly and lies awake that night, certain hes ruined everything.
Several days pass without a meeting. Wet snow falls. Margaret goes out for her daily walk, though Stanley is nowhere to be seen. She tells herself hes probably busy, maybe under the weather, but anxiety gnaws at her.
On the fourth day, after a trip to the shop, she finds a note in her post. It reads in large print: For Margaret Whitfield. Im in hospital. Stanley B. No ward, no address. Just this.
Her hands tremble as she sits, staring at the note. What happened? Heart? Stroke? Who helped him? Why didnt anyone ring?
She recalls Stanley once mentioning the local cardiac unit. Margaret finds the number for the hospital in a notebook, calls, waits through endless transfers, until finally someone gives her a ward and visiting times.
Margaret has always hated hospital smellsantiseptic and sadness. Still, next day, as soon as visiting hours roll around, shes already at the ward door with a bag of apples and biscuits. She doubts herselfmaybe biscuits are forbidden now?
The ward is shared. At the window, an older gent; by the door, a young man with a bandaged arm. Stanley lies in the centre, propped up on pillows, reading the Times. Hes flustered to see her, then relief washes over his face.
Margaret! How did you track me down? he asks.
I followed a trail, she replies, setting the bag by his bed. What happened?
Bit of heart trouble in the night, he says. Ambulance took me in. Ill be here a little while.
She studies his facepaler than usual, deep shadows under the eyesbut theres the familiar gleam.
Do your children know? she asks.
My daughters beenbrought some soup. Havent told my son yet. Dont want him worrying.
He sounds calm but theres tension in his voice. Then, after a pause, My daughter asked about youwho was the lady with the note? I told her youre a neighbour who gives a hand.
That stings a little. Neighbour who helpsit sounds so distant. Margaret sits heavily by his bed.
Well, thats true, she says, voice level. I do help.
Stanley realises how flat that must have sounded. Hes mortified.
Thats not what I meant, he blurts. She looked suspicious, and I didnt know what to say. Call you a friend, and shell start inDad, youre not a teenager anymore. They seem to think were all losing our marbles.
Were certainly not eighteen, she grins. Doesnt mean we stop being people.
He nods. Silence falls. The man at the window turns away, pretending to sleep.
At night here, I realised, Stanley says quietly, it isnt death Im scared of. Its the thought that I could just disappear, and no one would notice. Alone, just waiting. Children busy, lives elsewhere. I remembered youand felt a bit better knowing someone would at least know where I was.
Margaret chokes up. She stares out the window at a tired plant on the sill.
Im scared too, she admits. But I pretend Im notfor my son, for the neighbours. When Im alone, I count my pills for the week ahead. Silly, isnt it?
Not silly at all, he reassures. I do the same.
They share a smilefull of relief and understanding.
Just then, a woman in her forties enters, a bag in hand. She looks a bit like Stanleythe eyes, the jaw.
Dad, she says, unloading soup onto his table. Whos this?
She glances at Margaret, curious but not unfriendly.
This is Margaret, Stanley says, calm. She helps me with appointments, the bills.
Thank you for looking in on him, says the woman. Hes stubborn, wants to manage everything.
We just walk together sometimes, Margaret replies.
His daughter nods, but her eyes are still searching. She tidies his bed, asks questions. Margaret feels in the way and soon says goodbye.
Ill drop in again, she says at the door.
Please doif you have time, he answers.
Its not a bother.
Back at home that evening, Margaret ponders. Neighbour and good acquaintance sound modest, but perhaps thats right. At their age, fanfare feels unnecessary. What matters is that shes the one he thought of.
Stanley remains in hospital a fortnight. Margaret visits every other day, bringing fruit, socks, newspapers. Sometimes they sit in silence, listening to the clatter of trolleys. Sometimes they reminisce about the old dayswork, school, lost gardens.
His daughter gets used to Margarets presence. Once, she walks her to the lift.
Thank you, she says. Im at work a lot, and I cant always be here. Im glad Dad has company. But dont feel you have to do everything. Ring if theres ever a problem.
I wont take too much on, Margaret replies. You have your life and I have mine. If I can help, I will.
When Stanley is discharged in late April, the doctor insists on gentle strolls, less stress, and regular medicine. His daughter drives him home and helps get him settled. The next day, walking stick in hand, he heads for the park.
Margaret is already at the bench. She stands as he approaches.
How are you? she asks, searching his face.
Still breathing, he jokes. Thatll do.
They sit quietly, listening to the sounds of the estate. Then he says,
I did a lot of thinking in hospital. I dont want to be a burden. Its lovely you visited, but I worry you put everything aside for me.
Margaret sighs. What, the shops and doctors and endless soaps? Youre flattering me.
Still he protests, Id hate for you to feel obliged. Im not a child.
She looks at him.
Dont you think I worry about being a burden too? she says. Thats why I do everything myself. But Ive learned something. You can sit alone at home, frightened of being a nuisance, or you can come to an understanding. No grand promises. Just be there for each other, when possible.
Stanley digests this.
And whats that mean? he asks.
She counts on her fingers. No phoning me at midnight for a chatIm not the NHS. But need a hand at the surgerycall. Need bills sortedcome over. Too lazy for the shopgo yourself, Im not a courier.
He laughs. Strict terms.
Honest terms, she corrects. If Im unwell, Ill call youbut wont expect you to drop everything. Family comes first, for both of us.
He nods. Theres a release in these words. No pretending to be more or less than they are.
Deal, he says. We look out for each other, but no nurse and patient act.
Exactly, she smiles.
Their friendship settles into an easy rhythm. They meet as usual in the park, go together to the GP, sometimes have tea at home. But now, boundaries are clear.
When Margarets kitchen tap breaks, she calls Stanley.
Could you have a look? she asks. Im afraid itll flood the place.
I can check, but if its serious, we call a plumber, he says. I dont climb under sinks these days.
He comes over, confirms it needs fixing, and helps arrange a tradesman. While waiting, they sit with tea as Stanley reminisces about how he could fix anything in his youth. Margaret listens, reflecting that growing old isnt just frailty, but also knowing when to ask for help.
Sometimes they go to the market together. Its bustling and noisy; Stanley haggles over potatoes, Margaret selects chicken. On the way back, they complain about prices, but both know the walk brightens an otherwise empty day.
Their children have mixed feelings.
Margarets son rings one evening:
Mum, you keep mentioning a Stanley. Who is he?
A neighbourwe walk, he helps me with the tablet, I help him with the bills.
Just dont hand over cash or documents, okay? You never know.
Margaret chuckles. Ill manage. Dont fuss.
Stanleys daughter also checks in.
Dad, dont wear out your neighbour. Shes not your carer, you know. Maybe she has her own plans.
Weve got an agreement, he says. We dont take advantage.
What sort of agreement? she asks.
Our own, pensioners pact, he replies with a smile.
Summer arrives quietly. The park fills with leaves and peoplemums, teenagers, others like them. But Margaret and Stanley seem to have their own corner on a particular bench. Always their bench, as if it holds the world steady.
One evening, warm and golden, they sit watching the boys kicking a football, scent of grass and dust on the air. Stanley rests his stick against the bench.
You know, he says, eyes on the children. I used to think old age meant things finished. Work, friendships, love. Only pills and the telly left. Now I think, sometimes things start, in a way. Not like youth, but still.
Are you talking about us? Margaret smiles.
Yes, us too. He grins. Im not sure what to call it. Friendship, companionship, queuing partner But with you, its less frightening. Calmer.
Margaret looks at their handswrinkled, veined, alike in all but detail.
Same for me, she says. I used to lie awake, wondering: if I didnt wake up, whod notice? Now I know at least one person would wonder where Id got to.
He laughs quietly. Not just wonderId wake up the whole block.
Good, she replies.
They sit a while longer, then rise and stroll at their own measured pace. At the crossroads, they pause.
GP tomorrow? he asks.
Yesroutine blood tests. Will you come?
Ill come, he says. At least to the door. Any more and Ill talk your blood away.
She chuckles. Its a deal.
They part, each to their own entrance. Margaret climbs the steps, unlocks her quiet flat, puts down her bag and makes for the kitchen to boil the kettle. While the water heats, she peers into the garden.
Down below, Stanley is struggling with his lock. He looks up suddenly, as if sensing her. He waves; she lifts a hand in reply.
The kettle whistles. She makes herself tea, cuts a slice of crusty loaf. Sits at the table. Her knitted shawl lies on the opposite chair. She rests her hand upon it, and for the first time, notices the quiet isnt so overwhelming anymore. Not silent, not really. Somewhere nearby, across the courtyard, another soul is thereone shell see tomorrow at the surgery. Someone to sit beside, to share complaints and laughs.
Old age is still therethe aches, medicines, rising prices. But in the middle of it is a small, sturdy support. No magic. No saving grace. Just one more bench in lifewhere you can sit together, catch your breath, then get up and carry onat your own pace, but side by side.
