A Bench for Two
The last patches of snow had long since vanished, leaving the little park damp, the earth still dark and soft underfoot. The footpaths bore thin streaks of sand and gravel, a familiar sight at the end of an English winter. Margaret Spencer walked slowly, clutching her shopping bag, carefully watching her step. Years ago, a tumble on a frosty pavement had left her with a badly broken arm, and since then, a persistent, stubborn fear of falling had taken root inside hernever far from the surface, never fully letting go.
She lived alone in a small ground floor flata place once crowded with voices and laughter, the smell of roast chicken, and the constant banging of doors. These days it was so quiet it sometimes felt hollow. The television muttered background noise, but more and more, she realised she wasnt watching. Instead, her eyes wandered to the ticker-tape news, ignoring the moving pictures altogether. On Sundays, her son called her via video, always in a rush, his toddler popping in and out of the frame waving a plastic dinosaur, as if to prove everything was well. Margaret smiled, waved back, tried to join in his delight, but every time she ended the call, the silence returned, somehow heavier than before.
She had her routine. Mornings started with stretches, pills, and porridge. Then a brisk walk round the block and through the parkto get the blood moving, as her GP advised. The rest of the day meant a bit of cooking, watching the news, or picking at a crossword. Evenings were for detective dramas and knitting. Nothing remarkable, but it kept her going, as she cheerfully reminded her neighbour Jean whenever they met at the letterboxes.
Today the wind was sharp and dry, tugging at her scarf as she made her way to her usual bench near the playground. Sitting down at the very edge, she set her bag next to her, double-checked that it was zipped, and drew her coat tighter. Nearby, two children in red anoraks played in the sandpit, their mothers chatting, barely glancing over. Margaret decided she would rest a while, watch the world, and then head home.
From the opposite end of the park, Bert Anderson was heading toward the bus stop at his own measured pace. He counted each step: seventy-four to the newsagents, one hundred and seventeen to the surgery, ninety-six to the bus stop. Easier to focus on the numbers than think about how empty his flat was now. Bert used to work as an engineer in the car planttravelling up and down the country, fixing things, laughing over tea with the lads in the canteen. But the works had shut down, then one friend moved away, another slowed down, and many rested now in the village churchyard. His son popped down from London once a year, always with jobs to squeeze in, then gone too soon. His daughter, living two streets away, had her hands fulltwo kids, mortgage worries, a life always in motion. Bert told himself he didnt mind. Hed always been self-sufficient. Still, sometimes in the small hours, listening to the radiators clink in the dark, hed find himself straining for the sound of a key in the lock.
Hed been out to fetch a small loaf and make a trip to Boots for blood pressure pillsbest to keep on top, his nurse kept reminding him. He held a shopping list in his pocket, words written in large, neat capitals. His hands shook slightly, but he pretended not to notice as he checked his list again.
The bus rumbled away just as he reached the shelter, leaving only a handful of people and Margaret sitting alone on the second half of the bench, wrapped in a pale blue coat and woollen hat. She gazed out towards the playground, lost in thought.
Bert hesitated. He didn’t like standinghis back ached by the minuteyet he always felt uncertain about sitting beside a stranger, especially a lady. But it was cold, and propriety came second to comfort today.
Would you mind if I sat? he asked, inclining his head, his accent gentle and old-fashioned.
She turned toward himkind eyes, a soft smile, the faintest traces of past laughter.
Please do, Margaret replied, nudging her bag aside.
He settled carefully on the bench. For a moment neither spoke. A car passed, the smell of petrol trailing behind.
Buses run as they please these days, Bert ventured, hoping to break the hush. Look away for a second, pufftheyve gone.
Margaret chuckled. I waited half an hour yesterday, she said. At least it wasnt raining.
He looked at her more closely. Not familiar, but in these new estates, people swapped houses all the time. Do you live near here? he asked gently.
Just there, she nodded to a cluster of brick terraces. Number three, opposite the corner shop. Yourself?
Flat above the parade, other end of the park. Not far at all.
They fell into comfortable silence. Margaret always believed conversations at bus stops were fleeting: a few sentences, a wry laugh, then done. But Bert, she thought, looked tiredsomehow defeated, despite his upright pose.
To the surgery then? she nodded at his pharmacy bag.
Ah, just popped in for my prescription, he admitted. Blood pressure acting up, you know how it is. And you?
Bits and bobs from Sainsburys, she replied. And the walks good for me, otherwise Id sit in all day.
Something in the way she said home struck hersuch an empty-sounding word. The bus rolled into sight, people gathered near the edge of the pavement. Bert picked up his bag, hesitated.
Im Bert, by the way, he offered at last, a faint note of relief in his voice. Anderson.
Margaret, she replied, standing too. Margaret Spencer. Pleased to meet you.
They climbed aboard, the crowd separating them. Through the crush, their eyes met once, each nodding in brief recognition.
A few days later, they met again, this time in the park. Margaret was already on her usual bench when she spotted Bert, now using a walking stick. New, by the look of ithe must have decided not to risk another fall.
Oh, fellow bench-warmer! he called as he approached. Room for a local?
Of course, she said, unable to hide her pleasure.
Bert sat, leaning his stick against the armrest.
Nice out here, he said, glancing at the chestnut trees, the children in the playground. More cheerful than sitting inside, staring at the telly.
Are you on your own, then? she asked, feeling the question fair.
He nodded. My wife passed seven years ago. Kids grown up, busy lives. And you?
Widowed ages ago, Margaret answered. My sons up north, calls when he can but its not the same.
He nodded, understanding. Phone calls help, he said, but its the eveningsthe quiet, thats hardest.
Somehow, that simple observation made her feel warmer, lighter. They passed a few more moments togethertalking about the weather, the price of bread, and the constant turnover of GPs at the health centre. The next day, as if by unspoken agreement, their wanderings around the park brought them together at the same hour.
So began their regular meetings. Sometimes at the bus stop, sometimes on the bench, sometimes queuing outside Tesco or sitting in the health centre waiting area. Margaret soon realised she was timing her outings, adjusting her routine, just a little, so as to cross paths with Bert. She didnt admit this to herself at firstshe just made her porridge slightly earlier, or lingered over her crossword that bit longer.
They walked together up to the clinic, discussing the latest blood tests, despairing over the new online queue system that Margaret simply could not fathom.
They keep telling me to book through the NHS site, the girl at Reception would explain. Sign up on the Internet.
What Internet? Margaret would mutter, hurrying away. Ive a mobile from the last century, wont even send a picture.
Bert would just chuckle. Ive a tablet my grandkids gave megathering dust. Lets have a go together sometime, see if we can make sense of it.
At first, Margaret waved him off, but eventually, she gave in. Theyd sit by the surgery entrance, Bert squinting and swiping at the screen, occasionally pressing the wrong thing and muttering under his breath. Margarets laughter, to her surprise, bubbled up, genuine and unforced.
Theresee? hed say proudly. One doctors appointment, memory of a goldfish for passwords, but booked!
Ive a notebook just for passwords, Margaret replied. No one ever told me old age would be all paperwork.
Once, she helped Bert puzzle out his council tax forms. He fetched the lotstacks of envelopes and printed slips of paper.
Used to be easy, this, Bert grumbled. Walk to the post office, pay cash, done. Now its barcodes and terminals
Well sort it, Margaret assured him. This is for electric, thats for watercareful not to mix them up.
They sat at her little kitchen table with mugs of teashe offering homemade raspberry jam, he bringing a paper bag of scones. Through the open window, the sound of children racing bikes filled the air. Margaret found herself enjoying the way Bert neatly stacked his papers, occasionally asking her advice, sometimes disagreeing just for the sake of it.
No, I wont have you paying for me! he protested when she offered to use the terminal on his behalf.
Im not! she replied. You hand over the cash, I just press the buttons. Youre not a child, Bert.
He was sheepish but let her help. She meant nothing of it but he still felt uneasynot wanting to be a burden, even if only in small things.
From time to time, they argued. Not loudly, just sharply. One evening, on the way back from the village shop, they got onto the subject of children.
My boy says, Dad, sell up, move to London, be closer. Why live alone? But Id just clutter their flat. Heres my kettle, my bits and pieces.
My sons the same, sighed Margaret. Move in, Mum, theres a spare room. Lovely new-build, but I keep putting it off. My Alans grave is here, my friends, my life. Sometimes I think I should be braver.
Oh no, dont, Bert replied quickly. Youd just feel in the way. Theyre busy, kids have their own world. Seen it too oftenold folks sitting in the corner, silently drifting away.
And who do I matter to here? Margaret asked quietly.
Bert went silenther words stung, as though she meant him as well. Irritation prickled at him.
Sorry, I I thought wewell He couldnt say the word friends. At their age, it sounded oddly improper.
Wasnt talking about you, Bert, Margaret said softly, seeing his hurt. Sometimes I wonder if I left, would anyone even notice? Frightens me, actually.
He nodded, but they walked the rest of the way in silence. At her door, he said goodbye stiffly, and that night he lay awake, troubled by how things had been left.
For several days they didnt see each other. The weather turned; wet sleet slapped the windows. Margaret still ventured out, but no sign of Bert. She told herself not to fret, maybe he was busy, maybe feeling unwellbut worry burrowed away inside her nonetheless.
On the fourth day, back from the corner shop, Margaret found a note in her letter box. For Margaret Spencer. In hospitalB. Anderson. No address, no ward, just this.
Her hands shook as she read. In a daze, she put down her groceries, stared at the note, her mind whirringwas it his heart? Had he had a fall? Who helped him? Why hadnt anyone called?
Then she remembered Bert once mentioned the cardiac ward at the local hospital. She dug out an old scrap of paper from her drawer with the number for the switchboard. After ages on hold, an overstretched nurse finally gave her the ward and a time she could visit.
Margaret hated hospitalsthe smell of bleach and rustling uniforms unnerved her. But the next morning she was there, clutching apples and a packet of shortbread, worrying if Bert was allowed any sugar at all.
She found him propped up in a ward with two other patients. He was paler, darker under the eyes, but his old spark was still there.
How on earth did you find me? he asked as soon as she appeared.
Bit of detective work, she replied quietly, putting the bag on his locker. What happened?
Heart episode, he sighed. Middle of the night. Blue lights, the lot. Ill be out in a spell.
She studied him, checking for the old Bert beneath the frailty.
Have your kids been? she asked.
My daughter popped inbrought soup. Havent called my lad yet, dont want him fretting.
Margaret pretended to fuss with the fruit. Your daughter asked after me? she said, forcing a casual tone.
Bert coloured. She did. Didnt know how to say told her youre a neighbour, helps out a bit.
Just a neighbour, eh? Margaret joked, keeping her voice steady.
He looked sheepish again. Didnt mean it like that, he murmured. Shed think I was daft. They worry were making fools of ourselves.
We arent kids, Bert. But company still matters.
A silence. The man in the next bed rolled onto his side with a pointed yawn.
Lying here, I realised, Bert said quietly, its not dying that scares me most. Its the idea that it could happen and no one would knowno one to phone, nothing but the ceiling for company. And then I found myself thinking of you. Its daft but comforting all the same.
Margaret blinked away a sudden sting behind her eyes. She turned to the little vase on the window.
Im frightened too sometimes, she admitted. I put on a brave face for my son, for myself then at night, I count my tablets and imagine silly things. Probably daft, but there it is.
No, not daft, Bert replied gently. I do the same.
They smiled at each othera moment of perfect, unguarded understanding.
Just then Berts daughter came in, a brisk woman in her forties, shopping bag in hand. She looked at Margaret with polite curiosity.
Dad, I brought your nice soup. Whos your friend?
This is Margaret Spencer, Bert said calmly. A good friend. She pops round, helps me if Im in a muddle with forms and things.
Thank you for helping, his daughter said. But please dont take too much on. Dad, youre not to wear your friends out, you know.
Dont worry, Margaret replied. We help each other. Thats all.
Berts daughter rearranged his blanket, laid out his sandwiches, and asked after his medication. Margaret excused herself.
Ill drop in again, she promised.
Would appreciate it, Bert replied. If its no trouble.
No trouble at all, she said, and left, feeling calmer than she had in days.
Back home, Margaret considered things carefully. Good friend sounded understated, but perhaps that was right. At their age, dignity mattered more than declarations. Bert remembered her, after all, when he needed someone most.
Bert was in hospital two weeks. Margaret visited every other dayfruit, clean socks, the newspaper tucked in next to the Radio Times. Sometimes they sat in silence, just sharing the space, the background hum of nurses and trolleys comforting in its way. Sometimes they traded stories: Bert talking about strike days at the old plant, Margaret recalling her school days, the last caravan holiday at the seaside.
Slowly, Berts daughter relaxed with her presence. One day, seeing Margaret out, she said, Thank youreally. I cant always come. It helps knowing Dads not alone. But please dont feel responsible for everythingcall me if youre worried.
I dont expect to do everything, Margaret replied. But if I can help a bit, I will.
Near the end of April, Bert was discharged. The doctor gave strict orders: walk more, worry less, keep taking the tablets. His daughter brought him home, planted him in an armchair, sorted his groceries.
Next morning, determination etched on his face, Bert set out for the park. His stick tapped the path, steady if slow. Margaret was waiting on their bench.
All right? she asked, searching his face for signs of fatigue.
Still breathing, Bert replied. Could be worse.
They sat together, listening to the birds, to the distant laughter of children. After a while, Bert spoke:
Ive thought a lot while in hospital. Margaret, I dont want to be a burden to you. Means the world you visited, but Id hate for you to feel obliged. Im not a child needing minding.
She considered him, her eyes gentle but firm. Do you think I want to be someones burden? she returned quietly. Were both wary of that. But Ive learned something. You can hide away and risk no one knowing you exist, or you can make a bargainagree what you can give, and what you cant.
He mulled this over. How do you mean?
Well, she began, counting on her fingers, you dont call me at midnight for a chat because you cant sleep. If you need a walk to the surgery and feel unsteady, you ring. If you want to chat about bills, come round. But Im no delivery service. If you fancy a loaf or some milkpop out yourself.
He laughed. No nonsense, you.
Straightforward, she corrected. Same goes for me: if Im not well, I might call. But I wouldnt expect you to drop everything. Youve your kids; Ive my son. Thats part of the deal too.
Bert smiled. Fair enough. Were friends, not keepers. No drama, just support.
With that, their friendship found a steady rhythma quiet sort of ease. Lunches shared, shopping trips, afternoons spent arguing over the best way to poach an egg. Each knew how much to offer, where the boundaries lay.
Once, when Margarets tap started leaking, she called Bert.
Could you have a quick look? Its making a dreadful mess.
Ill see what I can do, replied Bert. But if its major, were calling a plumber. My hands not what they were.
He came round, poked about with a wrench, decided a replacement was needed and rang the agency. While waiting, they drank tea, lifting scones to their lips and talking over old times, comfortable to admit when things were no longer possible.
They often visited the market togetherMargaret picking out a small chicken, Bert boasting he could get a pound off the potatoes if he haggled just so. Walking home, theyd grumble about prices, but both knew this odd ritual made the days less empty.
Their children had mixed feelingsMargarets son called one day.
Mum, you mention this Bert an awful lot. Who is he, exactly?
Hes a neighbour, helps out occasionally. Teaches me those tablet thingies, I sort his bills. Nothing exciting.
Dont trust him with your bank card, please, came the cautious reply.
Margaret laughed. Im not a goose, son.
Berts daughter, on the other hand, occasionally fussed. Dad, dont go thinking that neighbours your nurse. Shes got her own life.
Weve struck a deal, Bert replied. Friends, nothing more.
Friends and deals! Youre a funny pair, she sighed.
Before they knew it, summer rolled in and the park filled with leaves, old men arguing football, teenagers sprawled with ice lollies. That old bench”their” benchseemed to belong to Margaret and Bert now, a little anchor in the busyness of things.
One golden evening, sun slipping low, they watched a group of boys boot a ball up and down the grass.
You know, Margaret, Bert began, “I always thought old age meant the world sealing itself up. Years roll on, friends fall away, just you, the TV, and your memories. But now, its not true. Something new can start, even if its quieter, slower.
She smiled. About us, then?
Us, sure, he replied. Could be called friendship. Or just being at ease. You make it less lonely.
Margaret looked at his hands, lined and worn, then at her ownso alike, after all lifes years.
I used to wonder if anyone would notice if I didnt get up in the morning, she confided. Now I know at least one person would ask.
Berts eyes twinkled. Ask? Id have half the street out searching!
She patted his arm. Thats enough for me.
They sat together in the golden light, then rose, taking their time across the grass.
To the clinic tomorrow? Bert asked.
Blood test for me, responded Margaret. Will you come?
Ill come, he agreed. But I stop at the door. You can handle the needles better than I.
She laughed. Youre on.
They parted at the crossing. Margaret climbed the stairs to her flat, closed the door, and made tea. The flat was still, the silence dense as usual, but oddly, she didnt mind so much. Across the way, she glimpsed Bert fiddling with his keys, head bobbing in greeting. She waved back.
Putting a teacup and bread on the table, she settled herself. Her old shawl lay draped over the opposite chairshe stroked the wool, thinking how once the silence had seemed full of absence, but now, it was less hollow. For now, someone would notice if she didnt come to the park, would stand beside her at appointments, would listen and grumble and reassure. Old age could never be escaped completely: joints ached, medicines cluttered the counter, prices always rising. Yet now there was a little anchor beneath it allnot a miracle, not salvation, just one more bench where two tired travelers could catch their breath together.
And in that I learnt something: the world often grows smaller with age, but it neednt be emptier. Sometimes, presencequiet, reliable, and kindis enough. And Im grateful to have found that, just in time.
