An Empty Bench
Richard Campbell placed his flask on his lap and checked the lid, making sure it wasnt leaking. The lid was secure, but old habits are harder to set aside than trust. He sat at the far end of the bench outside the primary school, where parents didnt crowd and bags didnt knock into him. In one pocket of his jacket, he kept a packet of dry breadcrumbs for the pigeons; in another, a folded sheet with his granddaughters timetablewhen she had after-school club, or her piano lesson. He knew it all by heart, but having the paper calmed his nerves.
Beside him, as always, sat Alfred Thompson, clicking sunflower seeds in his hand as if counting them, not eating. When Richard arrived, Alfred nodded and shifted to make room. They never exchanged boisterous greetings, perhaps out of respect for the quiet order of the school.
They’ve a maths test today, said Alfred, gazing up at the second-floor windows.
Weve got a reading one, replied Richard, surprised by his use of we.
He liked that Alfred never teased him for this.
Their acquaintance began without ceremony. At first, their times merely coincided; later, they recognized each other by coat, by the way each walked or rested hands. Alfred always arrived ten minutes before the bell, sat at the same bench, and glanced first at the gates, as if checking they were secure. Richard used to linger at the edge, but one day weariness won, and he sat beside him. From then on, the spot was theirs.
The schoolyard held no surprises, and the repetition was oddly comforting. The caretaker smoked furtively by his little shed, returning inside without ever meeting a gaze. The junior teacher bustled by, clutching folders and murmuring into her mobile: Yes, yes, after class. Parents debated dance classes, football, and homework; children pressed their faces to windows at break, waving madly to those below. Richard found himself waiting not only for his granddaughter, but for this daily pattern too.
One day, Alfred brought a second cup and set it alongside Richards flask.
I dont drink it myself, he explained, doctor says my blood pressure.
Im allowed, Richard replied, and after a pause, poured a fingers worth. Want a sniff?
Alfred smiled, barely.
Ill sniff.
So, a ritual was born: Richard poured the tea, Alfred held the cup steady, and returned it empty. Sometimes they shared biscuits, other times silence. Richard noticed that silence with Alfred was never uncomfortable; it was a pause before the conversation inevitably resumed.
Talk of grandchildren was gentle, like remarking on the weather. Alfred said his grandson, Oliver, hated P.E. and always found excuses to linger in the classroom. Richard laughed and replied that his Emily, on the contrary, ran so much the teacher begged her to slow down. Gradually, the conversations went deeper. Alfred admitted that after his wife passed, he struggled to leave the house until school gave him purpose. Richard didn’t reply in kind at first, but that night, washing dishes, realized he wanted to.
He lived with his daughter and granddaughter in a two-bedroom flat on the edge of town. His daughter worked in accounts, came home weary and spoke in clipped phrases. Emily was noisy, but childish noise is different, never grating. Richard did his best never to be in the way and stay useful. Sometimes he felt like an extra chair in the kitchendoesnt bother anyone, but always reminds you things are a bit cramped.
On the bench, he felt, for the first time, that he was wanted as more than a fixture. Alfred inquired, Hows the blood pressure? or Seen your GP lately? It sounded genuine. Richard answered honestly without thinking twice.
One morning, Alfred brought a small bag of bird feed.
The pigeons know us now, he pointed out. Look at them, waiting.
Richard scattered a handful on the pavement; instantly, pigeons swarmed, their feet crunching pebbles. He felt a strange reliefa simple act that made someones day better.
Gradually, these meetings became his own. Not while Emilys in class, nor while Ive got time, but a part of the day he couldn’t simply erase. He started coming earlier still, keen to be in place to watch Alfred arrive, slip off his gloves, and scan the windows.
That Monday, Richard came as always, but found the bench empty. He paused, almost convinced hed entered the wrong schoolyard. Rain from the night before had left the seat damp, with a single yellow leaf stuck to the wood. Richard wiped it down with his handkerchief and sat. His flask beside him, breadcrumbs on his knees, he glanced at the caretakers shed. The caretaker was glued to his phone, utterly uninterested.
Late, thought Richard. Sometimes Alfred was held up if the chemist had a queue. Richard poured himself tea, waited. The bell rang; Alfred didnt come.
The next day, again, the bench was bare. This time, Richard found a dry spot, using an old newspaper as padding. He watched the gate, scrutinizing every senior figure in a dark coat. None approached.
By the third day, frustration overcame himnot at Alfred, but at this unexplained absence. A part of him thought, Well, perhaps it wasnt that meaningful after all. But shame quickly followed. He had no right to demand. Yet still, inwardly, he did.
Alfred had a dated mobile. Sometimes Richard saw him squint, searching through contacts. Hed written Alfreds number in his notepad the day they discussed booking a taxi for Olivers sports day. At home, he dialed; the phone rang, then cut to dead air. He tried again; nothing.
On the fourth day, Richard approached the caretaker.
Excuse me, do you know Alfred Thompson Olivers grandfather? He always sat here.
The caretaker looked up, as if Richard had asked for a secret code.
Theres plenty of grandads here, he replied. I dont keep track.
Hes tall, got a moustache, Richard heard how small it sounded.
Sorry, said the caretaker, attention back of his phone.
He tried the lady who regularly complained about homework by the gate.
Do you happen to know Alfred Thompson
I dont know anyone, she snapped. Just here for my own.
Next, Richard went to a young mother with a pram, who sometimes smiled at him.
Pardon me, do you know Oliver? Boy in Year 3.
Oliver? she pondered. I think so. Quiet lad. Why?
His grandad hes stopped coming.
She shrugged. Might be ill. Everyones catching something lately.
Back on the bench, the worry pressed up from his chest. He tried to reason that it wasnt his businessbut every time he glanced at that empty spot, it felt like betraying something important by merely sitting and pretending nothing had changed.
He told his daughter as she chopped vegetables for tea.
Dad, theres all sorts of reasons, she said, not looking up. Could be visiting family.
Hed have said, Richard replied.
You cant know, she sighed. Dont overthink it. Blood pressure, remember.
Emily, hunched over her homework, was listening.
Grandad Alf? she asked. Hes funny. He once said I read faster than he thinks!
Richard smiled, briefly and painfully.
See? said Emily. Maybe hes just got things to do.
Richard nodded, but that night, he lay awake, hearing his daughters quiet phone call through the wall. He wanted to get up and call Alfred againbut feared hearing a strangers voice, or worse, nothing at all.
The next day, while waiting for Emily, he spotted Oliver leaving last, backpack hanging off his shoulders, a stern, short-haired woman by his side. Richard realised she must be Olivers mum.
He waited, let them walk ahead, then caught up.
Excuse me, are you Olivers mother?
She eyed him warily.
Yes. And you are?
I your father, Alfred and I we waited for the children together. Im Richard Campbell. Hes stopped coming and well, Im worried.
She studied his face, weighing whether to trust him.
Hes in hospital, she finally said. Stroke. Nothing too awful but well, as these things go. Hes in the ward. They took his phone off him, so he wouldnt lose it.
Richard felt his knees wobble, gripped the strap of his bag.
Which hospital? he asked.
The central one, on Elm Street, she replied. They dont allow visitors except family, you understand?
I do, said Richard, though he couldnt fathom denying entry to a man whod otherwise be alone.
Thank you for asking, she added, gentler now. Hell be glad to know hes remembered.
She took Olivers hand and headed for the bus stop. Richard lingered by the gate, a sense of relief now mixed with fresh worrythe mystery was solved, but in a heavy way.
He told his daughter again. She frowned.
Dad, youre not going barging in, she scolded. Theyll have you on security watch. Besides, who is he to you?
Richard heard no anger, only her fearfear that her father might latch onto concern and lose himself.
Nobody, he said. And yet.
The next day, he visited the clinic where he sometimes had his blood tested. Hed seen a sign for the social worker there. The corridor smelt of bleach and wet overshoes; people with folders muttered at reception. Richard took a ticket, waited for his turn.
The woman at the desk listened without interruption, her face weary.
Are you a relative? she asked.
No, Richard admitted.
Then I cant divulge anything about the patient, she replied. Its private data.
Im not asking for a diagnosis, his voice rose. I just want to leave perhaps a note. Hes alone, you see? We we met every day
I understand, she softened slightly. Notes can go through family, or through the ward if theyll allow it. But without permission, I cant help.
Richard sat on the hard bench in the corridor, feeling embarrassed, as if begging for charity. He thought: Well, thats it. Im just a silly old man minding whats not his affair. He wanted to go home, lock up, and stop coming to the school altogether.
But then, he remembered how Alfred steadied the teacup for him, how he quietly passed along the bird feed, if Richard forgot his own. Those small gestures had lightened each day. Now it was his turn to do something, however modest.
He approached Olivers mother again at school, explained himself, and asked for her number. She hesitated at first, but his persistence won over.
No funny business, she warned. Strict rules in there.
Richard phoned that evening.
Its Richard Campbell. I Id like to leave Alfred a message. Would you, perhaps, pass it on?
A pause followed.
He struggles to speak, but he can hear. Im visiting tomorrow. What should I say?
Richard glanced at his notepadphrases hed prepared now seemed unlike him.
Tell him the bench is still there, he said quietly. That Im waiting. That Ill bring tea, when he can come.
Alright, she replied. Ill tell him.
Afterwards, Richard lingered in the kitchen. His daughter washed up, pretending not to listen. When finished, she set the plate in the rack.
Dad, Ill come with you if you want. When they let visitors in.
Richard nodded. What mattered most was not her accompanying him, but that shed said with you, not why bother?
A week later, Olivers mum met Richard at school.
He smiled when I mentioned the bench, she told him. And gestured, like hes inviting. Doctor says theres a long road of recovery. Well likely take him home soon. Cant leave him alone.
Richard felt something tighten inside. He knew their daily meetings were unlikely to return, and suddenly, everything felt as empty as a coat taken off its hook.
May I write him a letter? he asked.
Yes, she replied. Just keep it brief. He cant listen long.
That evening, Richard wrote in a large hand for easy reading: Alfred Thompson, Im here. Thank you for the tea and the birdseed. Im waiting for you to come out. Richard Campbell. He added: Olivers doing brilliantly. He read it again, made no changes, and sealed it in an envelope addressed with the surname Alfred had once shown him on an old electricity bill, grumbling at the numbers.
Next day at school, Richard handed the envelope to Olivers mum. It was dry, clean and felt fragile in his hands, as if precious.
When the bell rang and Emily emerged, she hugged his waist and started her tale of the day. Richard listened, though his gaze kept flicking to the empty bench. Its emptiness no longer evoked anger; it was now a place where something meaningful had happened, whether present or not.
Before leaving, Richard pulled out his packet of crumbs and sprinkled them on the paving. The pigeons swarmed in, as if keeping their own timetable. He watched them and felt he could come here not only for waiting, but for the simple act of belonging.
Granddad, whatre you thinking? Emily asked.
Nothing, he replied, squeezing her hand. Lets go. Well come back tomorrow.
He spoke not as a promise to another, but as a choice for himself. And because of that, his steps felt more assured as they walked home together.
