The Caretaker of Our Square
Dorothy walked home in the early autumn dusk. The streetlamps, as usual, were only half-lit, and the courtyard was left in darkness. Every autumn, a huge puddle formed by the entrance, and the parked cars made it impossible to avoid. But today, though rain had drizzled all day, the puddle was gone.
Dorothy pushed open the front door and glanced back. The light from the hallway fell on the glistening wet pavement. “Not my imagination, then. How odd.”
The lift waited for her on the ground floor—another unusual thing. In the evenings, it was usually stuck at the top. The doors slid open, inviting her in. “Extraordinary. Something’s definitely changed,” Dorothy thought as she stepped inside. She pressed the button and caught a fleeting glimpse of herself in the smudged mirror.
A tired face with sad eyes stared back. She turned away, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then the lift shuddered and stopped, the doors creaking open to let her out.
“Home,” she said aloud, flicking the switch and scattering the shadows that had gathered in the flat.
Her mother had died six months ago. Since then, loneliness, emptiness, and memories had become Dorothy’s companions. She lingered at the office, avoiding the silence. By six, her colleagues were gone, but she stayed—tidying papers, planning the next day. They disliked her, thought her too precise, too unyielding. But she simply worked quickly and expected the same of others.
Before, she’d hurried home to her ailing mother, no time for self-pity. A schoolteacher by trade, her mother had raised Dorothy with discipline. Dorothy had learned to excel—though not without resentment. Now, she’d turned just as demanding.
There had been one romance. It faltered before reaching marriage. Her mother was already unwell then, and Dorothy refused to move in with her fiancé, unwilling to leave her alone. He, in turn, wouldn’t share a small flat with a sick future mother-in-law.
So, at thirty-two, Dorothy was alone. The men at work were either married or skirt-chasers. Beyond the office, she had nowhere to go—once because of her mother, now because of exhaustion and apathy. Another solitary evening awaited her—tea, the telly, or a book.
On Saturday, she rose late, stretching before peering out the window. The courtyard was dusted with snow, dark footprints crisscrossing its surface. Not frosty, then—it would melt soon. The sight stirred a wish to step onto the thin white blanket, leave her own mark. She hurried to the bathroom.
Was happiness so simple? Fresh snow and two cosy days ahead. Dorothy ate breakfast, dressed, and stepped outside.
“Dorothy, love—off to the shops? Could you fetch me a loaf and some bread?”
A neighbour leaned from a first-floor window.
“Of course. Anything else?”
The old woman hesitated. “No, just the bread, thanks.” The window clicked shut.
Well, at least she had a purpose. Dorothy walked to the shops, avoiding others’ footprints.
Handing over the bread, she asked, “What happened to the puddle by the entrance?”
“The new caretaker cleared it. Ever so diligent, isn’t he?”
“What happened to the old one?” Not that she cared—just politeness.
“Passed away last week. Come in, I’ll tell you.”
With nothing else to do, Dorothy entered the cramped, old-fashioned flat.
“I was coming back from the post office days ago, and there was this man sitting on the bench. Gloomy, but not drunk—I can always tell. He didn’t look like a layabout. Kept seeing him every time I glanced out—November, too! So I asked what he was waiting for. His eyes—so lost. I told him to warm up in the hallway. Said we’d lost our caretaker, the yard was piled with leaves. Told him to try the council next morning. And look—spotless now! Hard worker, polite. Lives in the storage room. Must’ve had nowhere else.” She nodded toward the window.
A tall man crossed the yard—not old, but stubble aged him.
The next day, Dorothy watched from her window as the new caretaker scraped the pavement. *Swish-swish, swish-swish.* She studied the rhythm of his broom. He didn’t seem the usual sort. Curiosity prickled.
Soon, chance brought them together. Tripping while taking out the bins, she was caught by strong hands.
“Thank you,” Dorothy said, recognising him.
Under a knitted cap—left by the old caretaker—were sharp grey eyes. The stubble gave him a rough look.
“You’re the new caretaker,” she observed.
“Suppose so,” he muttered, walking off.
*What a grump,* she thought, dropping the rubbish.
Another time, she blocked his path as he carried boxes from the storage room. She greeted him, then stepped aside.
“Why work as a caretaker? It’s a job for pensioners—you’re young.”
“What’s it to you?” He barely turned his head.
“Nothing. Just wondering.”
He didn’t reply, his posture clear: no interest in baring his soul, least of all to this pale, nosy woman.
“Rude,” Dorothy huffed, but he was already gone.
*Strange man. Why do I even bother? He’ll think I’m desperate—lonely woman chasing the caretaker.* Annoyed, she hurried inside.
She found herself watching him often—sweeping, clearing the playground. No drunkard’s slouch. Educated, surely. Something had gone wrong.
The neighbour shared gossip: “The girls at the council say his business folded. Wife threw him out. Pride’s all he’s got left.”
“How awful,” Dorothy murmured.
She was the first to greet him outside. He’d nod tersely. Always alone in that tiny room. A man could disappear like that. She decided to help.
A note under his door: *Flat 14. Come for tea.* Just kindness—no expectations.
Hours later, her bell rang. The caretaker stood there, scowling under that ridiculous cap.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Pardon?”
“This.” He shook the note.
“People should help each other.”
He shook his head dismissively.
“What if I’m a thief? A madman? You’d complain—worth the risk?”
“You? Don’t be silly. You’ve kind eyes.” She stepped aside. “Come in.”
He entered. She warmed soup, served roast potatoes. His guardedness unnerved her. He ate carefully—his hands, unaccustomed to labour, were blistered.
“Parents?” she asked, filling the silence.
“My mother. Lives up north.”
“I’ve no one,” she blurted, then panicked. *Now he knows I’m alone.*
“I’ll go. The food was good. But—” He studied her. Her pulse jumped.
“Don’t do this again.” He left.
Dorothy felt stung. She’d offered kindness, and he’d thrown it back. Fine. Why care? Yet she watched for him, lingered outside—while he ignored her.
Before Christmas, she bought a tree. Fumbling for keys, the door slammed shut behind her.
“Blast it!”
“Need help?” The caretaker appeared.
He lifted the tree effortlessly, waiting as she unlocked the door.
“Thanks,” she said at the lift. But he followed—into the flat, propping the tree against the wall before leaving.
Dorothy shut the door—then gasped. Her handbag was gone. She’d set it on the side table. *Fool! Trusting a stranger!* She raced out.
His footsteps echoed below. “Stop!” she shouted over the railing.
He waited between floors.
“You—where’s my bag?”
“What bag?”
“My brown one! It’s gone!”
A door opened below. He gripped her elbow, pulling her upstairs.
“Let go!”
“Proving I’m no thief.” His eyes burned.
Back inside, he released her.
“I left it here.” She pointed.
He bent, retrieving it from behind the side table.
“Look properly before accusing people.” He thrust it at her. “Check if I stole anything.”
“Forgive me. Please.”
He left without a glance.
*Idiot. First the note, now this.* She avoided him after, head down when they crossed paths.
On December 30th, she decorated the tree. *Where will he spend New Year’s? That dingy room?*
Her mother had said: *Leave grudges behind. Start fresh.* She resolved to apologise again.
But his door was locked. She hadn’t seen him in days. *Gone to his mother’s,* she guessed, trudging upstairs. She wouldn’t admit how it stung.
On the 31st, she made her mother’s signature salad, fried meat for leftovers. The telly played *Love Actually* on two channels, ten minutes apart. A champagne bottle adorned the table. Loneliness was cruelest on holidaysAs midnight struck and the new year began, fireworks painting the sky outside, Dorothy turned from the window to find the caretaker standing in her doorway, his eyes no longer guarded but warm, holding out a hand—and she knew, in that moment, that neither of them would ever be alone again.
