The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. His temples were throbbing—he’d finished off the last of the salads yesterday, and spent the morning packing away Christmas decorations. The house felt too quiet. He pulled on his hat, shoved his phone in his pocket, and headed downstairs, habitually gripping the rail as he went. On a January afternoon, the courtyard seemed like a set from a play: cleared walkways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor Stevens brushed off the bench by the second entrance. The snow fell away softly from the wooden slats. This was a good spot for thinking, especially when it was deserted—you could sit for five minutes and head home again. “Mind some company?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. Tall, navy jacket, about fifty-five. The face was vaguely familiar. “There’s plenty of room,” he replied, sliding over. “Which flat are you in?” “Forty-three, second floor. Just moved in three weeks ago. Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he said, shaking the offered hand automatically. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Is it alright if I smoke?” “Go right ahead.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the whiff of tobacco oddly reminded him of the newspaper office where he’d spent most of his life. He caught himself wanting to inhale the scent, then pushed the urge aside. “How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. “Since ‘87. The whole estate had just gone up back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Metalworkers’ Community Centre. As a sound engineer.” Victor started. “For Valery Zakharov?” “That’s the one! How do you…” “I wrote a feature on him. Back in ‘89, when we put on that anniversary concert. Remember, when ‘August’ played?” “I could go through that concert start to finish!” Michael grinned. “We dragged in this giant speaker, the power supply was sparking…” The conversation flowed on its own. Names and stories resurfaced—some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he really ought to head back, but there was always another twist: musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He’d long since fallen out of the habit of long talks. In recent years at the paper he’d only written urgent stories, and after retirement he’d withdrawn completely. He’d convinced himself it was easier not to depend on or get close to anyone. But now, something inside him felt as if it was thawing. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I’ve got all the archives at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes I recorded myself. If you fancy having a look…” Why would I do that, Victor wondered. Then he’d have to socialise, his usual routine would get upended. And what would he really see that’s new? “I think I would,” he replied. “When would suit?” “Tomorrow’s fine. Around five? I’ll be back from work by then.” “Let’s do it,” Victor took out his phone and opened his contacts. “I’ll give you my number. If anything changes, we’ll sort it out.” That night he couldn’t sleep, replaying the conversation and recalling details from old times. More than once, he reached for his phone—to cancel, to make an excuse. But he didn’t. The next morning, he woke to the phone ringing. On the screen: ‘Michael, neighbour.’ “Not having second thoughts, are you?” Michael’s voice sounded slightly unsure. “No,” Victor replied. “I’ll be there at five.”

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 4 minViews 1

The Bench in the Courtyard

Edward Thompson stepped outside just after one oclock. His temples throbbedhed finished off the last of the Christmas leftovers yesterday, and spent the morning packing away the tree and decorations. The house was far too quiet. He pulled his woolly hat down, slipped his phone in his coat pocket, and headed down the stairs, gripping the banister as usual.

The January afternoon made the courtyard feel like a stage set: walkways had been swept clear, the snow lay pristine and undisturbed, not a soul about. Edward knocked the snow off the bench by the second entrance. The powder fell softly onto the path. This was always the best spot for thinking, especially when the world was stillfive minutes of peace before heading back inside.

Mind if I join you? came a mans voice.

Edward turned his head. The chap was tall, probably in his mid-fifties, dressed in a navy parka. His face seemed vaguely familiar.

Plenty of space, Edward said, moving along the bench. Which flat are you from?

Number 43, second floor. Only moved in three weeks ago. Im Martin, by the way.

Edward Thompson, he replied automatically, shaking Martins offered hand. Welcome to our little quiet corner.

Martin pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Do you mind?

Help yourself, Edward shrugged.

He hadnt smoked for over a decade, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly brought back memories of the local papers office, where hed spent most of his working life. He almost caught himself taking a deep breath in, before snapping out of it.

How long have you been here? Martin asked.

Since 87. The whole block was just finished then.

I used to work nearby, at St. Georges Community Centre. Sound engineer.

Edward blinked.

You worked with Patrick Harris?

Thats right! You know him?

I wrote a piece about him. Back in 89, there was that big anniversary concert. Remember when The Augusts played?

I could tell you that night start to finish! Martin grinned. We hauled in these massive speakers, power source was sparking everywhere

The conversation flowed on its own from there. Names cropped up, old storiessome funny, some bittersweet. Edward realised he should probably head home, but every time, something new came upmusicians, tech, backstage gossip.

He wasnt used to long chats anymore. The last years at the paper had been just urgent deadlines, and hed become even more withdrawn in retirement. Hed convinced himself it was easier this wayno one to rely on, nothing to get attached to. But now he felt something loosening inside his chest.

You know, Martin stubbed out his third cigarette, Ive got a load of stuff at my place. Posters, pictures. Even tapes of those showsI recorded them myself. If you fancy a look

Why would I want that, Edward thought for a moment. That would mean popping round, chatting. What if Martin took a shine to being neighbourlya new routine would be turned upside down. And really, what could I possibly discover?

Wouldnt mind taking a look, he said. When suits you?

Anytime really. How about tomorrow? Around five? Ill be in from work by then.

All right then, Edward said, taking out his phone, opening up contacts. Best take my number. If anything changes, give me a ring.

He struggled to sleep that night. He kept running the conversation over in his mind, remembering long-forgotten details of old stories. A couple of times he reached for his phonewanting to call Martin and cancel, claim he was busy. But he didnt.

In the morning he was woken by the phone. Martinneighbour flashed on the screen.

Still up for it? The voice sounded ever so slightly hesitant.

Yes, Edward replied. Ill see you at five.

Looking back, I realised that sometimes the smallest changea chat on a cold benchcan start to thaw the frost thats settled around you. Id built walls out of habit, but a simple conversation reminded me how much warmer it is to let someone in.

The Secret In a small English village, more a rural hamlet than a true town, lived a girl named Lily. One day her mother, a firm believer in the mystical, took her to visit the local fortune teller. The old mystic laid out the cards and declared: “Lily will have a happy life. Everything will turn out well for her. But I don’t see a man by her side.” Lily was only about ten at the time. The words of the mysterious old woman were seared into her memory, though she barely understood them. Years passed. Lily grew into a tall, beautiful woman who drove all the village lads wild. But she never settled on any of them, dating one and then another but never making a decision. Despite doing well at school, she didn’t leave for university. Instead, she stayed and took a job at the local dairy. Rumour had it she was seeing one of the managers, but no one ever saw them together. The older women at the factory would warn the newcomer: “Careful, Lily, don’t get stuck here or you’ll find life’s passed you by. Head to the city—you’ve got everything going for you there.” Lily just smiled, never replying. Suddenly, news swept through the village: Lily was pregnant! Speculation exploded about who could have “blessed” the village beauty, but no one could figure out who the father was. Her mother didn’t hesitate: “So you’ve done it? Shamed the family! You’re on your own now. Don’t expect my help. You made your bed, now lie in it. And find somewhere else to live, you’re not staying here—I’ll give you a month.” “All right, Mum,” Lily replied calmly, “I’ll go. But don’t expect me to come back.” Two weeks later, Lily bought a small cottage, complete with all the household bits. She was lucky, said the neighbors—the previous owner’s children had taken her to the city and sold the house for next to nothing. Where Lilly, pregnant as she was, got even those few pounds was a mystery. Then the miracles began. The cottage was swiftly done up, fitted with a modern touch and a new fence, and a fresh water well appeared in the yard. People would turn up, do the work quickly, and then vanish. Soon after, Lily received deliveries of boxes filled with appliances and new furniture. She walked around the village smiling, looking every bit as content and carefree as anyone could imagine—nothing like an abandoned, single mother. That autumn, Lily’s son, Anthony, was born, and a brand new sky-blue pram appeared before her tidy little house. She bounced back from childbirth quickly, looking even more striking than before. Always poised and well-dressed, she walked through the village with her head held high, looking endlessly content. At home, she worked tirelessly: the newborn, the garden, the wood stove, shopping, laundry—but she never once complained. Raised to value hard work, she simply got on with things. Neighbors, recognizing her spirit and kindness, became friends, even helping with Anthony when she needed to nip out. They’d lend a hand in the garden—sending a husband round to dig beds, or helping with weeding—but Lily managed most things on her own. When Anthony was about two, one neighbor rushed to another wide-eyed: “Did you see?” “What?” “Lily’s pregnant again!” “Nonsense, you’re imagining it!” “No, really—come and see!” Once again, gossip about Lily spread through the village: who could be the father this time? But no one had seen her with any man. Lily ignored the whispers, quietly carrying on with her life. Soon a little bathhouse appeared on her land, gas fitters rerouted their route to install gas for her, and a modern greenhouse sprang up in her garden. “So where does a single woman get that kind of money?” villagers wondered, “She must have a secret admirer—someone important. But Lily’s secret remained unsolved.” The same sky-blue pram reappeared in her yard and Anthony had a new little brother, Sam. Two years later, another brother—Michael. Lily had three sons, and no one in the village knew who their father was. Some openly mocked her, some admired her courage when they saw her healthy, well-cared-for children and tireless work ethic. Others wagged their fingers and used her as a cautionary tale for their own daughters. Lily’s mother couldn’t understand her, was ashamed, never tried to help or get to know her grandchildren. Lily simply held her head high and ignored it all. Time passed—until the day a fancy car pulled up outside Lily’s house. Out stepped the owner of the dairy factory—a widely respected figure—bearing a huge bouquet. He went in, and as townsfolk gathered outside, Lily eventually stepped out with him, only for the man to embrace and kiss her in front of everyone before announcing loudly: “Lily has agreed to be my wife. We, and our sons, invite you all to our wedding!” A stunned silence. Only then did the villagers realise who Lily’s boys reminded them of… At last, congratulations rained down from every direction. After a grand wedding, the dairy owner moved Lily and her sons into his home, with the whole village helping to pack up her things. A year later, the family welcomed a long-awaited baby girl… So much for fortune tellers!

013

As a child, I was curious to discover who my father was. Growing up in care, his absence became ‘normal’ for me. At 14, I met the father of my children and had no desire to search for my own father—life simply went on. Later, after separating, fate unexpectedly led me to him. I run my own business, and one day a client arrived. We struck up a conversation, and I mentioned I’d never met my father. He helped me find him in the village where he’d lived all his life. Meeting him at last brought indescribable joy. I made plans with him—trips, chats, little gestures. I’d buy him clothes, indulge him, always paid for everything, feeling a need to make up for lost years. He told me he was alone, his local children wouldn’t let him have a partner, insisting any woman near him wanted only his money. I asked to meet the woman he claimed loved him, and he introduced us—a humble, hardworking lady who genuinely cared. But his children rejected her, insulted her, called the police, and treated her badly at every turn. She confided the reason: my father had houses, land, and money in the bank—and his children blocked anyone getting close, frantic to protect their inheritance. That’s when the whispers began. People said I only appeared to take everything from him. I didn’t even bear his surname, but he insisted I accept it. I didn’t want the trouble, but eventually I agreed, and tensions flared. My bond with my father’s partner only grew stronger. I suggested they marry in secret, and they did. His children’s anger intensified. But I told them he deserved happiness. Their marriage had ups and downs, but one day I invited them both on a trip. Usually it was just me and my father. During the trip, his wife asked how much I’d contribute to expenses; I said nothing, as I’d always covered our trips. That’s when she shook my world: she revealed things weren’t as I thought. My father was always financially comfortable. His children controlled him, wouldn’t let him spend on himself or enjoy life. I’d thought he had little, living in an unfinished house and looking deprived, but others managed his money. From then on, I encouraged him to enjoy what he’d worked for. But he said his children wouldn’t allow it. After the wedding, his wife pressed him to help with household expenses. Every request sparked an argument. Eventually he’d contribute, but only after a row. She confided everything, and I saw her requests as fair. One day, when his wife asked him to buy lunch for her father, he exploded—told her to pay instead, bemoaning the daily requests, and started a fight. I defended her, reminding him how unfair it was to deny someone who cared so much. He replied he was tired of always being asked for money. Then it hit me, painfully: my father was generous with the children who never cared for him and came only for his money, but stingy with the woman who looked after him. Eventually, his marriage ended. Now he lives alone. Supposedly a daughter ‘looks after’ him, but everyone knows he’s supporting her, her husband, and their children. His other kids order him around and he sends them money instantly. But to the woman who stood by him—he always refused. I’m not the same with him anymore. I love him, but it’s different. I no longer invite him on holidays; we rarely talk. If I don’t call, he doesn’t ring. I can’t be who I was. It hurts to admit—finding him once filled me with hope, but now, it’s as if he no longer exists.