The Empty Bench
George Edmonds placed his battered flask on his lap and fiddled with the lidtesting for leaks out of habit more than suspicion. The cap held tight, as always, but theres comfort in ritual. He settled on the far end of the bench outside St. Marys Junior School, away from the hustle of parents and the swiping of school bags. A small packet of crumbs for the wood pigeons rested in his left jacket pocket; in the right, a neatly folded timetable scrawled in his granddaughters round handwriting: which afternoons she had after-school club, which days were music lessons. Hed memorised it ages ago, but the paper soothed him.
Beside him, as usual, sat Leonard Gregory. Leonard held a little paper bag of sunflower seeds, flicking them one by one without eatingrolling the seeds in his palm, as if counting. When George arrived, Leonard gave him a nod and shuffled over a fraction, making space. Their greeting was always a quiet affair, as if a boisterous hello might disrupt the sanctity of the school routine.
Maths test today, Leonard remarked, gazing up at the second-floor windows.
Weve got reading, George repliedand was surprised to hear himself use we.
It pleased George that Leonard never poked fun at this slip of tongue, never pried.
They had met without ceremony. At first, just a coincidence of timing. Eventually, they recognised one another by coats, by gait, by the manner each held his hands. Leonard always arrived ten minutes before the final bell, settled on the same bench, then would look to the school gates, almost as if to double-check they were locked. George had kept his distance at first, standing in the shadow of the lime tree until, one day, fatigue nudged him to take a seat. From then on, the spot became their territory.
Everything about the schoolyard was reassuringly unchanged. The caretaker hunched in his glass cubicle, stepping out for a cigarette before vanishing back inside. The infant school teacher, brisk and businesslike, marched past with a stack of files, muttering into her mobile, Yes, after lessons, Julie. Parents squabbled about football practice and homework. Children pressed their faces to the upper windows, waving frantically at someone below. George realised, with some embarrassment, that it wasnt just his granddaughter he awaitedit was this comforting recurrence.
One afternoon, Leonard arrived with a second paper cup and placed it beside Georges flask.
I dont take tea, he apologised. Doctors orders. High blood pressure.
Thats my excuse to drink more, George half-jested, pouring a miserly measure into the waiting cup. Hereat least have a sniff.
Leonard allowed his mouth a faint upward twitch.
I suppose I might.
And so, a new ritual began. George pouring, Leonard holding the cup steady. Sometimes a shared ginger biscuit, sometimes comfortable silence. George noticed their silence was never heavynot the kind to choke or intrude. It was a pause, a place to breathe.
They spoke of grandchildren with the same caution as the weather. Leonards grandson William detested PE, forever inventing reasons to stay indoors. George laughed, saying his own Emily was the oppositealways sprinting, to the despair of her teachers. Their conversations broadened. Leonard, in a rare admission, confessed that after his wifes death hed struggled to leave the house, that only the routine of must fetch William had pulled him back into the world. George said nothing at the time, but that evening, scrubbing pans at home, realised he wanted to share his own story.
He lived with his daughter and granddaughter in a snug two-bedroom flat at the edge of town. His daughtera wizened bookkeeperreturned from work each night with tired eyes and clipped speech. Emily was noisy in a way that only children can be: more hum than disruption. George tried to be helpful, tried not to be one more chair in an already cramped kitchenalways present, always reminding.
On the bench, for the first time, George sensed he was anticipated not as an errand or task, but as a person. Leonard asked, Hows your pressure these days? or Seen the doctor lately?not out of obligation, but genuine concern. George answered honestly, surprising himself.
Then, one day, Leonard passed George a small bag of bird feed.
The pigeons think we own the place, Leonard said. See how bold they are now.
George scattered a handful. The birds descended, scrabbling over the wet pavement. The simple gesture made him strangely lighter; here was something that improved another creatures day, no more, no less.
Gradually, George cherished these interludesnot as stopgaps during Emilys lessons, but as a fixture in his life. He started arriving early, keen to secure their spot, to see Leonard maneuver his gloves off and set his eyes on the stained windows.
One Monday, George arrived as usualand found the bench empty. He paused, thrown off course, convinced hed chosen the wrong playground. The rain had left the bench slick, a lone golden leaf glued to the timber. George took out his handkerchief, wiped the corner, and sat. Flask at his side, pigeon crumbs ready. He glanced towards the caretakers cubby; the man was engrossed in his phone and indifferent.
Late, perhaps, George thought. Leonard was sometimes held up in the chemists queue. George poured his tea, sipped, and waited. The bell rang. Leonard didnt come.
The next daythe bench was vacant again. George stopped bothering with the handkerchief, settled on a dry strip, newspaper underneath. Each time the gates creaked open or a man in a dark coat approached, he hopedthen looked away.
On the third day, anger simmered. Not at Leonard, but at the unanswered absence. He caught himself thinking, Well then, clearly Im not needed, and immediately felt guilty. He had no right to demand. Yet he dida little.
Leonard had a clunky old mobile. George had seen him fishing for numbers, squinting at the screen. The number was jotted in Georges notebook, leftover from the time theyd debated taxis for Williams tournament. That evening, George dialed. The phone rang, cut to an abrupt tone, then silence. He tried againthe same.
On the fourth morning, George approached the caretaker.
Excuse me, do you know Mr GregoryLeonard, Williams grandfather? He usually sits here?
The caretaker looked up, bored, as if George had inquired about the Queen herself.
Lots of granddads about. I dont keep track.
Hes tall, has a moustache George realised how pathetic his voice sounded as he described Leonard.
No idea, replied the caretaker, his focus already drifting back to his screen.
George tried a woman who was always waiting at the gates, often complaining about homework to anyone whod listen.
Sorry, do you know Leonard Gregory?
I know no one, she snapped. Here for my own.
Finally, he approached a young mother with a pushchair, who sometimes smiled at him.
Sorrydo you know William? In 3B?
William? she mused. Quiet lad, yes. Why?
His grandfather has stopped coming.
She shrugged. Maybe hes caught something. Everyones ill lately.
George went back to the bench, heart thumping against his ribs. He tried to convince himself it was none of his business. But every glance at the empty spot beside him felt like a betrayala pretence at normalcy.
That night, slicing cucumber in the kitchen, George confided in his daughter.
Dad, anything couldve happened, she replied, not looking up. Perhaps hes visiting family.
Hed have said.
You dont know that, she sighed. Dont stressitll spike your pressure.
Emily was at the table, scribbling sums.
Granddad Len? she piped. Hes funnyonce he told me I read faster than he thinks!
George smiled, his chest aching.
There, you see, said Emily. Maybe he just needed to do something.
George nodded, but that night he lay awake, listening to his daughters gentle chatter on the phone in the neighbouring room. He wanted to get up and try Leonards number again, but he was afraid of a stranger answering or, worse, an endless silence.
At pick-up the next day, George spotted William emerging from school last, rucksack nearly swallowing his thin frame. By his side walked a woman about forty, composed and bracing. Instinct said she was Williams mum.
George hesitated, let them walk on, then hurried after.
Excuse meare you Williams mum?
She looked wary. Yes, and you are?
ImGeorge Edmonds. I used to wait here with your fatherLeonard Gregory. Hes stopped coming and I wondered
She weighed the risk. Then, her expression softened.
Hes in hospital. Minor stroke. Nothing too awfulwell, as much as these things ever are. Theyve kept his phone for safekeeping.
Georges knees nearly buckled. He clung to the strap of his bag.
Which hospital?
St. Annes, up on Forest Road. But its closed to visitors unless youre family. Sorry.
I understand, said George, though he didnt, not really.
Thank you for asking, she added. Hed be glad to know someone thought of him.
With that, she guided William toward the bus stop. George stood by the gates, caught between reliefhe had an answerand fresh dread, now the answer hurt.
At home he repeated the news to his daughter. She frowned.
Dad, youre not going up there alone. Theyll think youre security or something. Besideshes not family.
George heard no anger, but unease. Fear, perhaps, that her father would fix on someone new, become lost in concern.
No, not family, he said quietly. Still
Next morning, George made his way to the local surgery, where he gave blood tests from time to time. Hed noticed a poster advertising a support worker. The waiting room smelled of disinfectant and damp shoe covers. He grabbed a ticket, waited his turn.
The woman at the desk listened but her eyes were weary.
Are you a relative?
No, admitted George.
Then Im afraid I cant share informationits private.
Im not after details. I just want to send a note. Itshes alone. I sat here with him every day
I understand, she said gently. Any message must go through the family or ward staffif theyll permit. Im sorry.
George sat on a bench in the hallway, feeling small, as if hed begged for alms. Thats it, he thought. An old fool pushing at closed doors. He wanted to go home, to withdraw from the playground and routine.
But then he remembered Leonards little kindnesses: holding a cup steady, quietly nudging the seeds his way when George forgot. Tiny acts that made their afternoons brighter. Now, surely, it was time for George to do something, no matter how small.
He approached Williams mum the next day, askingawkwardlyfor her number. At first she refused; then, seeing his persistence, relented.
No nonsense, mind. They have strict rules.
George called that evening.
Its George Edmonds. II wondered if you could pass something on to Leonard. A message.
A pause.
Hes struggling to speak, but he hears everything. Ill be there tomorrow. What shall I say?
George looked at his notebook, where hed scribbled ideas. Now none seemed right.
Just tell him the bench is still here. Im waiting. Ill bring tea when Im allowed.
Alright, she replied. Ill make sure he knows.
Afterwards, George lingered in the kitchen long after the call ended. His daughter washed dishes at the sink, pretending not to listen. Eventually she closed the cupboard and said, softly,
Dad, if youd like, I can come with you. If they allow visitors.
He nodded. What mattered wasnt her presenceit was the way shed said with you, not why bother?
A week later, Williams mum sought George out at collection.
He smiled when I told him about the bench, she said. Waved his handlike thisinviting you over. The doctors say recovery will be slow. Well bring him to our place eventually. On his own, hes too vulnerable.
A fist clenched in Georges chest. He realised their daily bench-sharing was unlikely to return. The thought left him hollowlike a coat removed from its peg.
May I write to him? George asked.
Of course. Just a short notehe tires easily.
That evening, George took a blank page and wrote in bold, steady script: Leonard Gregory, Im here. Thank you for tea and seeds. Im waiting for you to come out. George Edmonds. After a pause, he added, Williams doing grand. He reread, let it be, folded the sheet, and addressed the envelope, recalling Leonards surname from a council tax letter hed once muttered over.
Next day, George brought the envelope to school and handed it to Williams mum. He held it carefully, as if carrying a fragile egg.
When the bell rang and the children flooded the courtyard, Emily darted up and hugged him, breathless, recounting her lesson. He listened, one ear attuned to her, one eye on the empty bench. This time, the emptiness did not scald or sting; it simply marked a spot where something meaningful had happened, even if only in memory.
Before leaving, George poured crumbs onto the pavement. The wood pigeons swooped eagerly, as if following a time-honoured schedule. He gazed at them, suddenly realising he could keep comingnot just for what he hoped, but for what he could still give.
Granddad, why are you daydreaming? Emily interrupted.
Oh, nothing, he replied, taking her hand. Lets be off. Well come again tomorrow.
He spoke not as a promise to anyone else, but as a decision for himself. And for the first time in days, his steps felt steady.
