The Bench in the Courtyard
Edward Thompson drifted into the courtyard just as the church clock tolled one. A dull ache lingered in his templesyesterday he’d polished off the last of the Christmas turkey, and this morning he’d been busy packing away the fairy lights and glass baubles. The house was oppressively silent. Edward jammed a woollen cap over his grey hair, tucked his mobile into his coat pocket, and eased himself carefully down the stairs, fingers trailing along the bannister for balance.
In the sharp January midday, the courtyard could have been a stage set: footpaths swept clear, snow draping the lawns in untouched pillows, no sign of a soul. Edward brushed the bench by the second entrance, sending cascades of frost tumbling to the paving stones. He liked it here, especially when the place was deserteda few minutes of quiet and he could retreat indoors.
Mind if I join you? A mans voice, deep and unfamiliar, floated through the chilly air.
Edward turned. The newcomer was tall, in a navy parka, somewhere around fifty-five, his features oddly familiar in the winter light.
Plenty of room, have a seat, Edward replied, shuffling along the bench. Which flat are you in?
Number twenty-three, second floor. Only just moved in about three weeks ago. Michael. He offered his hand.
Edward Thompson, Edward said, automatically shaking it. Welcome to our sleepy little corner.
Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Okay if I smoke?
Go ahead, dont let me stop you.
Edward, who hadnt smoked for a decade, was startled by how the smoke curling in the air conjured memories of his old newspaper office, where hed spent half his working life. For one strange moment, he wanted to draw the scent in, but quickly set the thought aside.
Lived here long? Michael asked.
Since 87. Theyd only just put up the block then.
I used to work nearby, over at the Metalworkers Social Club. Sound engineer.
Edwards head jerked up.
With Harry Hopkins?
Thats right! How did you?
I did a write-up on him once. Remember the big anniversary concert in 89? August played that night.
I could recite that whole concert! Michaels grin was wide. They hauled in these massive speakers, power kept cutting out
Conversation meandered along its own winding pathnames resurfaced, old tales, sometimes funny, sometimes tinged with regret. Edward considered heading back indoors, yet every topic led to several more: bands, mixing desks, glimpses behind the heavy velvet curtains.
It had been years since Edward engaged in such long chats. The end of his editorial days was all rapid deadlines, and after retirement hed become reclusive. Hed told himself it was calmer that wayno ties, no obligations. But something inside him thawed as the smoke rose between them.
You know, Michael flicked away the stub of his third cigarette, Ive still got the whole archive upstairs. Programmes, photos. Loads of old gig tapesI recorded them myself. If you fancy
Why bother? flashed across Edwards mind. Itd mean talking, possibly making friends. His usual rhythms would be shaken up. Besides, what would he really see that was new?
Wouldnt mind a look, he said. When suits?
How about tomorrow, say five? Ill have just got back from work.
Sounds good, Edward pulled out his phone and opened the contacts. Jot down your number. If anything changes well talk.
That evening, Edward found sleep elusive. He replayed pieces of conversation, details of concerts long faded. Several times he reached for his phonemaybe he ought to cancel, make an excuse. But he didnt.
In the morning, the phone buzzed him awake. Michael, neighbour blinked across the screen.
You havent changed your mind, have you? Michaels voice was tentative, almost apologetic.
No, Edward replied. Ill be there at five.
At five sharp, Edward climbed to the second floor, heart knocking against his ribs with each step. Michael opened the door wide, letting the heat and the warm scent of coffee spill out. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere, but the small living room was dominated by a battered tape deck and a heap of old programmes. On the mantle, next to a blinking digital clock, stood a photograph: a younger Michael with his arm around a man Edward recognizedHarry Hopkins, grinning, half-shadowed by stage lights.
Make yourself at home, Michael said, gesturing to the sagging sofa. Coffee?
Edward nodded gratefully, digging his hands deep into his pockets. The room filled quickly with the hiss and crackle of a tape rewinding. Michaels fingers moved swiftly, unspooling old cables, lining up tapes inked in fading marker.
The first burst of music was rough, gutturalfeedback, then a thudding, relentless bassline. Edward smothered a laugh. They always sounded better after a few pints.
Michael grinned. And after Harrys third amp blew up.
They sat together, stories tumbling out as easily as the tapes themselvesgossip about vanished bands, long-shuttered pubs, the night of the great blackout when everyone finished by candlelight. Michael passed him an old programme; Edward traced his own byline, thick with nostalgia.
At one point, Edward caught his own reflection in the window: a tidy, slightly stooped man, mug of coffee gripped close, eyes bright with something new. It occurred to him that hed spent years packing his life away neatly, boxing memories like ornaments hauled down in January. Tonight, with each song and story, the boxes inside him were being reopened.
When Edward finally stood to leave, snow had started to fall again, dusting the pavement white. Michael offered him a stack of tapes to borrow.
For next time, he said, hope flickering in his voice.
Edward slipped on his coat, clutching the tapes with a care he hadnt felt in years. At the stairwell, he paused. There will be a next time, Michael.
Crossing the courtyard, Edward glanced back: a warm square of light, a friends silhouette at the window, music humming faintly through the glass. Suddenly, the evening felt brighter, the courtyard less empty. He walked home, heart lighter than it had been in decades, certain thatof all the things hed carried through lifethe best were meant to be shared.
