A Bench for Two
The snow had all melted away, but the earth in the local park was still dark and damp, thin streaks of grit winding along the footpaths. Edith Middleton walked slowly, clutching her shopping bag, eyes fixed on her feet. Shed long ago perfected the art of memorising the location of every dip, every stray pebble. Not because it suited her temperament no, not naturally cautious, our Edith but since breaking her arm three years back, shed developed a persistent, stubborn dread of another tumble, lurking somewhere in her chest.
Edith lived alone in a two-bedroom flat on the ground floor a place once throbbing with chatter, the aroma of roast potatoes, slamming doors, school shoes kicked off with reckless abandon. Now it was quiet, so quiet. The TV droned an endless background monologue, but more often than not she simply stared at the scrolling news ticker, unable to recall a word. Her son video-called every Sunday haphazard, between meetings and childrens parties, but still, he called. Her grandson would wave on the screen, brandish plastic dinosaurs, then scamper away. It delighted her, of course, yet the moment the call ended, a heavy stillness reclaimed the room.
She lived by routine: morning stretches, tablets, porridge. Then a short walk to the park and back, to get the blood moving, as her GP encouraged. Afternoons: a spot of cooking, the news, the odd crossword. Evenings brought a serial drama and knitting. Mundane, perhaps, but it kept her going or so shed assure her neighbour Mrs Bird on the landing.
Today, the wind was sharp but dry. Edith made her way to her usual bench by the playground and perched carefully at one end, set down her shopping bag, double-checked the zip. Two toddlers in blindingly cheerful raincoats played nearby, their mums deep in conversation, utterly impervious to everyone else. Edith decided shed just have a brief sit, then home.
At the far side of the park, Mr Arthur Neville plodded towards the bus stop. He, too, had taken to counting his steps. Seventy-three to the newsagent. One hundred and twenty to the GP surgery. Ninety-five to the bus. Counting steps was easier than pondering the fact no one was waiting for him at home.
Once upon a time, Arthur had been a mechanic at the Ford factory, travelling for work, sparring with foremen, bellowing with laughter and exasperation in the staff smoking shelter. That was long gone, the factory flattened, colleagues scattered some to greener pastures near their children, others to the cemetery. His son visited once a year, squeezing an entire relationship into a rushed three-day stint. His daughter lived in the next borough, but life two kids, a mortgage, work pulled her every which way. Arthur insisted he wasnt bothered or so he claimed. And yet, most evenings, as the radiators gurgled and darkness pressed at the windows, he found himself straining to hear if the front door latch might squeak.
Today, he was out for bread and, just to be safe, an extra box of blood pressure tablets (the nurse said it was better to be prepared). He clung to his shopping list, the neat, oversized letters trembling just slightly in his grasp.
Reaching the bus stop, Arthur just missed the Number 27. The handful of waiting passengers had already dispersed. On the bench sat a woman in a pale grey coat and blue knitted hat, her bag beside her. She gazed not down the road, but absently at the park.
He hesitated. His lower back ached, and he hated standing about. Half the bench was free, but sitting near unknown women made him wary you never knew what people might gossip about in these parts. On the other hand, the wind cut straight through his coat, so he braved it.
Mind if I sit here? he asked, leaning forward, almost conspiratorially.
The woman turned. Her eyes, light-coloured and crinkled at the corners, sized him up.
Of course, be my guest, she replied, nudging her bag aside.
He lowered himself gingerly, gripping the end of the bench. They sat in companionable silence. A car rumbled past, trailing exhaust fumes.
Buses run to their own schedule these days, he remarked, breaking the quiet. Blink, and theyve vanished.
She nodded. I know. Yesterday I waited half an hour. Not even raining, thank heavens.
His face didnt seem familiar to her, nor she to him but new flats had sprung up everywhere, new faces flooding in.
Do you live nearby? he ventured, a touch cautiously.
Over there, beside the shops, first entrance, she gestured at a row of pebbledash terraces. And you?
Just beyond the park, he said. The nine-storey job not far, really.
Another pause. Ediths mental script for bus stop chitchat was simple: an exchange of pleasantries, then you both went your separate ways and forgot about it. But the man beside her looked genuinely worn out, unsettled even, despite his upright posture.
Off to the surgery? she nodded at his pharmacy bag.
Yes popped in for a repeat prescription. He lifted the bag. My blood pressures not what it was. And you?
Just a few bits from the Co-op. I cant let myself become completely housebound, or I really will start talking to the toaster.
Her own words caught her off guard. Housebound. It sounded awfully hollow.
Another bus finally huffed into view. The small gathering shuffled forward. Arthur rose and paused.
Im Arthur, by the way. Arthur Neville.
Edith Middleton, she replied, also standing. Nice to meet you.
The bus scooped Alfred and Edith up and promptly swept them to different corners. At one point, as the driver navigated a pothole, Edith glimpsed Arthur through a sea of heads he gave her a nod, which she cheerfully returned.
A few days later, their paths crossed again this time in the park. Edith was, as usual, occupying her bench, when she spied Arthur approaching, now wielding a walking stick. He hadnt used one last time, but, she presumed, better safe than sorry.
Oh, the bus stop companion! he grinned as he drew near. Room for a little one?
Always, she replied, delighted, though she tried not to sound too eager.
Arthur parked himself beside her, laying his stick between them.
Nice spot, this, he observed. Trees, kids, life going on. Not like home those four walls press in.
Do you live alone? she asked, gently, thinking this wasnt exactly a tactless question.
He nodded. Seven years since Elsie passed. The children well, you know. You?
She nodded. Widow. My Bert died a long time ago. My son moved up to Newcastle, phone calls and the odd parcel. That sort of thing.
He gave a knowing nod.
Calls are something, he said, but its the silence in between that gets you.
Unexpectedly, those simple words warmed her, just a bit. They gossiped about the weather, grumbled about rising food prices, appraised the latest shuffling of staff at the surgery. Eventually, they wandered off. Oddly, the next day they both happened to take their walk at exactly the same time.
And so, it began: regular rendezvous. First at the stop, then at the park bench, then by the shops, or outside the surgery doors. Edith caught herself timing her porridge with military precision or, alternatively, accidentally dawdling so her routine would align neatly with Arthurs.
They even took the bus to the doctors together, comparing notes on their ailments (What did your nurse say about cholesterol?) and groaning about the new online appointment system, which Edith stubbornly refused to grasp.
Youll need to go online through the NHS portal, chirped the fifteen-year-old receptionist.
Portal? Good grief, Edith would mutter in the corridor. Ive got a mobile phone, but it still runs on steam.
Arthur would just chuckle.
Ill help you, he offered one day, got an old tablet my lot bought me last Christmas. Well muddle through it together.
She objected, naturally, but soon relented. They huddled on a bench, Arthur squinting at the glowing screen, jabbing at Book an Appointment and occasionally, with feeling, missing the right box entirely.
Here you go just select your doc and the time. The only thing is remembering your password.
Ill write it down, declared Edith, triumphant. I have a notebook for that, nothing gets past me.
Another day, she helped him decipher a pile of utility bills. Arthur dumped a stack of them on her kitchen table, sighing.
Used to be so simple, he groaned. Stroll into the bank, pay the bills, chat to the old dear behind the glass. Now barcodes, machines everywhere. Its a minefield.
One at a time, said Edith with a reassuring pat. That ones for electricity, this ones the water rates. As long as you dont send Thames Water your television licence, well be alright.
They shared tea and digestive biscuits, gazing out at kids cycling round the common. Edith found herself enjoying Arthurs anxious bill-by-bill approach, his careful stacking, his cautious requests for her opinion.
I can manage it myself, you know, he protested, blushing, when she offered to pay one bill online for him. Im not helpless.
Dont be silly, she retorted. Its still your money Im not the Wolf of Wall Street.
He gave in. A muddle of gratitude and embarrassment churned inside him; he loathed feeling indebted, even for small things.
Sometimes, of course, bickering crept in quietly, a little testily. Returning from Tesco one day, they argued about their children.
My sons always saying, Sell the flat, Dad, come to York whats the point of you rattling about on your own? But what am I supposed to do there? Camp out in their box room? Ive still got my dignity, you know.
My sons the same, sighed Edith. He wants me to move up north to their house, Well make a lovely room for you, Mum. Well, yes, buteverything here is familiar. Friends, the butcher, Berts grave. Though sometimes I wonder if I ought to have gone.
Arthur bristled. Dont do it, he said, almost fiercely. Youd only be in the way. Lifes busy for them. Work, children, clubs. Youd end up quietly invisible in the corner.
And whom here would I trouble if I vanished? she replied, her voice steady.
His jaw tightened. If he wasnt mistaken, she might be referring to him, too. His irritation bubbled up.
Sorry, he muttered awkwardly, I thought never mind.
He left the word friends stuck in his throat; it sounded far too grand, too exposed for two retirees.
I didnt mean you, Edith said softly, noticing his retreat. I just mean, the older you get, the more you wonder if anyone would notice if you slipped away.
He nodded, abashed. They completed the walk in silence. At her door, he mumbled a half-hearted goodbye and spent that night rolling restlessly, convinced hed made a hash of everything.
Days passed with no sign of Arthur. The weather turned; sleet splattered windows, but Edith maintained her walks. She told herself Arthur must just be busy, or unwell, but a fretful unease gnawed away nonetheless.
On the fourth day, home from the shop, she discovered a note in her letterbox: For Edith Middleton Im in hospital. Arthur N. No address, no details, just that.
Her hands shook. She let her groceries rest on a chair and sat at the kitchen table, staring at the paper. Had he had a heart attack? Who helped him? Why hadnt anyone phoned?
Then she remembered him once mentioning cardiology at the local NHS hospital. She dug out the number and rang up, steeling her voice for the battle with the receptionist. After several transfers, she finally squeezed the answer from them: ward number, visiting hours.
Edith despised hospitals; the whiff of bleach and boiled carrots reminded her of too many ends. Still, the moment visiting hours arrived, she was there, a bag with apples and shortbread in tow (though worried he might not be allowed either).
Arthur was wedged up in a three-bed ward, middle bed, old newspaper in hand. When she appeared, he looked startled, then softly, visibly relieved.
Edith! How did you?
Followed the breadcrumbs, she said, setting down her bag. What happened?
Heart, in the night ambulance job. He tried a brave face.
She gave him a long, searching look. His face was paler, but the old glint was there.
Family know?
My daughters been, he replied. Brought soup. Havent told my son yet cant stand the fuss.
He spoke calmly, but she heard the strain.
She did ask about you, actually. Whos this woman, leaving notes? I said you were a neighbour, helping me sort things out.
Edith winced inwardly. Neighbour who helps with things sounded rather clinical. She sank onto the chair.
That is true, I suppose, she said carefully. I just help where I can.
Arthur, catching himself, backpedalled. Didnt mean to sound so daft. Its just if I say youre a friend, shed think Id lost my marbles. They imagine old people always up to some geriatric mischief.
Edith smiled wryly. Were not twenty, granted, but were still alive.
He nodded. Even the man by the window, pointedly pretending to be asleep, seemed to be listening.
Do you know, muttered Arthur, what I feared most lying here? Not dying, as such. But the thought of being carted off, alone, and nobody even realising. My children are far off, busy with their stuff. But then I remembered you. That made it a little easier. I thought: someone will notice if I disappear.
A lump rose in her throat. She glanced at the window, at a plastic cup holding a limp daffodil.
Im afraid too, she said. But I put a good front on, for my son, for everyone. Then sit in the evening counting my pills. Silly, isnt it?
Not silly, said Arthur. I do it too.
They shared a smile equal parts comfort and admission.
Just then, his daughter breezed in, looking very much like Arthur: same eyes, same chin.
Dad, she declared, setting down her shopping. Brought your favourite. And whos this?
She looked at Edith with polite curiosity.
This is Edith Middleton, Arthur explained. A good friend, keeps an eye on me, helps out with the paperwork.
Thank you for that, the daughter said earnestly. He can be so stubborn, wants to do everything himself.
We just sometimes walk together, Edith replied.
His daughter nodded but looked vaguely puzzled as she arranged his pillows and bombarded him with questions. Edith felt a sudden urge to flee.
Ill pop by again, she said, heading for the door.
Please do, Arthur replied. If its no trouble.
No trouble at all, and out she went.
Back home, she pondered what shed heard. Good friend sounded modest, but probably right. After all, the main thing was, Arthur thought of her when he was vulnerable.
Arthur lingered two weeks in hospital. Edith visited every other day: apples, socks, a fresh newspaper. In between, theyd reminisce: the old Ford plant, primary school days, allotments now long since sold. His daughter gradually warmed to her. She even walked Edith to the lift one evening and said quietly:
I know I cant always be here. Im glad Dad has you to talk to. But please, dont take on too much. Call me if ever theres a crisis.
I dont intend to adopt him, Edith replied evenly. But if I can help, I will.
By late April, Arthur was released home with the usual stern warnings: more walking, less stress, never skip your pills. His daughter got him home, tidied round, then left him to it. Soon after, stick in hand, he hobbled out to the park.
Edith was already waiting on their bench. She stood as he approached.
How are you? she quizzed, peering at him.
Alive, he grinned. And that, it seems, will do.
They sat together, letting the hum of the estate drift around them. Then Arthur said:
I did a lot of thinking in that ward. Please I hate the idea of imposing on you. If youve ever skipped something for me, Im sorry.
What grand commitments do I have? she retorted. Bit of telly, a trip to Boots, a spot of knitting. Dont flatter yourself.
Even so, he pressed, I dont want you to feel responsible for me Im not a child.
She gave him a steady look.
Do you think Im eager to be a burden myself? Thats what terrifies me. But, you know, Ive realised something: you can hide out in your flat worrying about bothering people, oryou can come to an arrangement. Not grand promises just be there, in a manageable way.
He mulled this over.
What sort of arrangement?
She smiled. For example: If you decide to chat at 1 a.m., dont phone me ring the Samaritans. But if you need someone to take you to the GP, or decode your water bill, call. If its just laziness and youve run out of custard creams, Im not a takeaway service.
He laughed.
Very no-nonsense.
Very honest, she corrected. Same for me: if I feel unwell I might ring you. But I wont ask you to drop everything. Youve got children, and so do I. Thats only fair.
He nodded. There was something a little freeing in her frankness. Neither heroics nor martyrdom required.
Deal, he said. We help each other but no playing nurse or butler.
Exactly, she agreed, a twinkle in her eye.
After that, their friendship acquired a gentle steadiness. They continued their daily walks, doctors visits, occasional tea. But now, each respected the line in the sand.
When Ediths kitchen tap developed its own Old Faithful impression, she called Arthur.
Would you mind having a look? Im worried the place will flood.
Certainly, but if it needs more than a washer, lets get the plumber in. Im not crawling under the sink at my age.
He came, fiddled, and together summoned a professional. While waiting, he discoursed on his youthful exploits with spanners and pistons, now a distant memory. Edith thought, not without affection, that growing old was as much about learning when to hand over the toolkit as anything else.
They began going to the market together. Amid banter and crowds, Arthur haggled stubbornly over potatoes while Edith made discerning noises at the butcher. The journeys back were spent moaning about prices but, truthfully, both knew that without these errands, the days would be distinctly drabber.
Their children, meanwhile, reacted as only children can.
Ediths son rang up and said, Mum, you keep mentioning this Arthur Neville is he?
A neighbour. We go for walks. He deals with my technology, I handle his bills.
Fine, but dont hand over your bank details, all right? There are scammers about.
Edith snorted. Thank you, darling, I think Ill muddle along.
Arthurs daughter, too, had opinions.
Dad, dont overdo it with this neighbour shes not your carer. And you never know, she might have her own agenda.
Weve got an agreement, Arthur replied calmly. We dont take liberties.
What, like a code of conduct or something?
Exactly. The Retirement Codex, he quipped.
Summer ambled in. The local park burst into leaf, the benches now jostled for space: mothers, teenagers permanently glued to headphones, fellow retirees. But Edith and Arthur had their bench, a routine as fixed as the changing seasons.
One dusky evening, they watched boys chasing a football, warm air thick with cut grass and dust. Arthur leant on his stick, eyes on the scene.
You know, he mused, I used to think old age meant everything stopping. No friends left, no work, no excitement just telly and pills. But it turns out, sometimes something new can start. Different, obviously, butnot nothing.
She smiled. Is that your way of saying, us?
In a manner of speaking, yes. I dont have a word for it. Mates, accomplices in NHS waiting rooms but I feelless alone. Less scared.
Edith glanced down at their hands veined, scarred, unmistakably lived-in.
Me too, she said quietly. There was a time I used to lie awake, thinking: If I dont wake up tomorrow, whod notice? Now, at least, I know one person would be flummoxed Id skipped the park.
Arthur chuckled.
Flummoxed isnt the half of it. Id alert the entire block, just you watch.
She laughed in response.
They sat there a while longer, enjoying the evening, before strolling home at their own pace, separate but side by side. At the crossroads, she asked,
Surgery tomorrow?
He nodded. Ive got my blood test. Will you come?
To the door of phlebotomy, he said. After that, youre on your own. Your veins dont need my commentary.
She grinned. Deal.
They parted at their respective doorways. Edith mounted her stairs, unlocked her flat, set down her bag. In the kitchen, she flicked on the kettle. Waiting for it to boil, she watched through the window.
Down below, Arthur was fiddling with his front door key. He looked up as if sensing her gaze and gave a wave. She waved right back.
The kettle sang. Edith poured her tea, cut herself a thick slice of bread. In the opposite chair lay her woolly shawl. She stroked it, thinking: theres something new, here, in this old stillness. Not silent, not truly; just across the green, there was someone who would meet her at the park, walk beside her to the surgery, pass the time in gossip and gentle complaint.
Old age hadnt gone away, of course joints still grumbled, the pill box still clicked, prices still climbed. But now, there was a small comfort, a buttress for the soul. Not a miracle, nor a rescue. Simply another bench in life, where two people might pause, catch their breath, and then carry on each at their own pace, but, for once, not alone.
