Empty Bench
John Whitmore put his flask on his knees and double-checked the lid just in case, you know. The lid was sound, but habit always won over trust. He settled down at the far end of the bench outside the primary school, the bit tucked away from the cluster of parents and their swinging bags. In his jacket pocket, he kept a little packet of dried breadcrumbs for the pigeons, and in the other, a folded piece of paper with his granddaughters after-school schedule: when she had club, when was piano. He knew it by heart, but having the paper there eased his mind.
Next to him, already in place as usual, sat Alan Sharpe. Alan had his small pouch of sunflower seeds, methodically cracking one after another but only dropping them into his palm, as if counting them, never eating. When John arrived, Alan nodded and shuffled a little, leaving room. They never greeted each other loudly, seeming to worry about disrupting the calm order of the playground.
“Theyve got a maths test today,” Alan said, gazing up at the second-floor windows.
“Ours is doing reading,” replied John, surprising himself with the word ours.
He liked that Alan didnt tease him for that.
Their friendship started quietly, really they just happened to turn up at the same time, then began recognising each other by jackets, the way they walked, how they held their hands. Alan always arrived ten minutes before the bell, claimed the same bench, and checked the school gates first thing, as if to be sure they were locked. John stood to the side for a bit, but one day, tired out, joined him. Since then, that spot was theirs.
Everything in the schoolyard stayed the same, and that made it feel safe. The security bloke in his hut, off for a smoke then back, barely glancing around. The Year 2 teacher, marching past with a folder muttering into her phone, “Yes, yes, after lessons.” Parents debated after-school clubs and homework. Kids burst out at break, waving frantically at the windows. John found himself looking forward not just to seeing his granddaughter, but to the rhythm of this routine.
One time, Alan brought a second cup and placed it next to John’s flask.
“I dont pour myself any,” he explained, apologetic. “Blood pressure.”
“Im allowed,” John said and, after a pause, poured a fingers worth for Alan. “Would you at least like a whiff?”
Alan smiled with just the edge of his mouth. “I wouldnt mind.”
It became their ritual John poured the tea, Alan held the cup to keep him from spilling, and handed it back empty. Sometimes, theyd share a biscuit. Sometimes, just silence. John noticed that sitting quietly with Alan didnt feel heavy. It was like a pause in a conversation that would pick up again.
They talked about the grandchildren cautiously, like chatting about the weather. Alan mentioned his grandson, Sam, didnt like PE and always tried to stay inside if he could. John laughed and said his Lucy was just the opposite she ran so wildly the teacher begged her to slow down. Soon their talks shifted Alan admitted he’d barely left the house after his wife died, and only the school could get him out, “because you have to.” John didnt reply straightaway, but later that night, washing up, realised he wanted to share his own story.
He lived with his daughter and granddaughter in a little flat on the outskirts of town. His daughter worked in accounts, always coming home knackered, speaking in clipped sentences. His granddaughter was noisy, but it was the sort of lively noise you dont mind. John tried to be helpful and stay out of the way. Sometimes, he felt like his presence was like an extra chair in the kitchen not in the way, but always reminding everyone about the lack of space.
On the bench he felt, for the very first time, like he was wanted for more than just what he could do. Alan would ask, “Hows your blood pressure?” or, “Been to the doctor lately?” and it wasnt just for show. John answered honestly without thinking.
One morning, Alan brought a little packet of bird food.
“The pigeons are used to it now,” he said. “Watch how they come up.”
John took the packet, sprinkled some on the ground. The pigeons, as if on cue, flocked round. Their feet scratched the sand, making a soft noise, and John felt an odd relief a simple act that made someones day just a little better.
Gradually, these meetings became his. Not “while Lucy’s in class,” not “when Ive got the time,” but a piece of his day he couldnt just cross out. He stopped showing up last-minute, started coming early to grab his spot and see how Alan arrived, how he took off his gloves, how he watched the windows.
That Monday, John turned up as usual, but the bench was empty. For a moment he thought hed gone to the wrong place. The seat was still damp from last nights rain, a single yellow leaf stuck to the wood. John got out a hanky, wiped the edge, and perched down. He set his flask beside him, the crumbs pouch on his knees. He glanced over at the guard hut; the security man was hunched over his phone, not paying attention.
“Probably late,” John thought. Sometimes Alan was held up in the queue at the chemist. John poured himself tea, sipped, and waited. When the bell rang Alan didnt show.
Next day, the bench was still empty. John didnt bother wiping it, just sat on a dry corner, newspaper underneath. He watched the gates, eyeing every older gent in a dark jacket. Nobody came near.
On the third day, he found himself getting angry. Not with Alan, but with being left hanging, no word given. He even thought, “Fine, maybe it didnt mean that much.” But shame hit instantly. He couldnt demand anything. Yet, inside, he still did.
Alan had an old brick of a phone. John had seen him squint at it, searching for a number, punching buttons. John had scribbled his number in a notebook ages ago, the day theyd discussed how best to order a taxi for Sam for duathlon club. He pulled out the book at home and tried ringing. The phone just rang, then cut off, then silence. He tried again: same thing.
On day four, John asked the security guard.
“Excuse me, Alan Sharpe Sams granddad, he always sits here. Have you seen him?”
The guard looked up, as though John had asked for a password.
“We get loads of granddads,” he said. “I dont keep track.”
“Hes tall, has a moustache,” John realised how hopeless he sounded.
“Dunno,” said the guard, eyes glued to his phone again.
John asked a woman who waited by the gate, always complaining about teachers and homework.
“Do you know Alan Sharpe?”
“I dont know anyone,” she cut him off. “Just here to pick mine up.”
He tried a younger mum with a buggy who sometimes smiled at him.
“Sorry, do you know Sam? Year 3B?”
“Sam?” She thought for a moment. “Quiet lad, I think. Why?”
“His granddad stopped coming.”
She shrugged. “Maybe hes ill. Everyones catching something at the moment.”
John shuffled back to the bench, feeling the anxiety clutch at his throat. He told himself it wasnt his business. But every time he looked at the empty spot beside, he felt like hed let something precious slip away, just by sitting there pretending nothing was wrong.
That night, he told his daughter while she chopped salad.
“Dad, theres loads of possible reasons,” she said, not glancing up. “Couldve gone to family.”
“He would have said,” John replied.
“You dont know that,” his daughter sighed. “Dont overthink this. You know what your blood pressures like.”
Lucy listened, bent over work at the table.
“Granddad Alan?” she asked. “Hes funny. He said once I read faster than he can think.”
That made John smile, but it twisted painfully.
“See?” Lucy said. “Maybe he just well, has things to do.”
John nodded, but that night he lay awake, hearing his daughter softly talking on the phone in the next room. He wanted to get up and try Alans number again, but was scared to hear a stranger, or nothing at all.
Next day, while waiting for Lucy, he spotted Sam. The boy came out last, bag almost bigger than himself. A woman in her forties, strict face, short hair, walked with him. John realised she must be Sams mum.
He hesitated, let them walk on, then caught up, gentle.
“Excuse me, are you Sams mum?”
She eyed him warily.
“Yes. And you are?”
“I I used to wait here with your dad Alan Sharpe. Im John Whitmore. He hasnt been coming. I was worried.”
She watched him for a moment, deciding if he was safe to trust.
“Hes in hospital,” she said, finally. “Stroke. Not as bad as it could be well. Hes in the ward now. Theyve taken his phone so he doesnt lose it.”
John felt his knees buckle. He gripped his bag strap.
“Which hospital?” he asked.
“City, on Oak Lane,” she said. “But they dont let just anyone in, you see?”
“I understand,” John replied, although he couldnt fathom why anyone should be kept out if theyre alone.
“Thank you for asking,” she added, gentler now. “Hell be happy someone remembers him.”
She took Sams hand and headed to the bus stop. John lingered by the gates. Relief washed over him because at least there was an answer, but a new ache replaced it, because the answer was heavy.
He went home and told his daughter. She frowned.
“Dad, youre not going barging in there,” she said. “Youll get roped in as a volunteer next. And anyway who is he to you?”
John heard the fear in her voice, not anger fear hed get wrapped up and lose balance.
“No one, really,” he admitted. “But still.”
Next day he went to the surgery where he sometimes gave blood. He knew they had a social worker he’d seen the poster. The corridor reeked of disinfectant and the clatter of wet shoe sleeves; people, folders, complaints. John took a ticket, waited until his turn.
The woman at the desk heard him out, face lined and tired.
“Are you family?” she asked.
“No,” John said truthfully.
“Then I cant give you any patient info,” she said, softly. “Its confidential.”
“Im not asking for a diagnosis,” Johns voice cracked. “I want to send maybe a note. Hes alone, you see? We we met here every day”
“I get it,” she softened. “You can pass a note through family. Or maybe the ward if they allow. But I cant without familys consent.”
John went out and slumped on the waiting room bench, embarrassed. He felt pathetic, like a silly old chap poking his nose in where it wasnt wanted. He wanted to turn around, lock himself away in his room and never visit the school again.
But then he remembered how Alan used to hold the cup so John wouldnt spill the tea. How hed quietly slide the bird food over if John forgot. Little gestures that lightened the day. John realised it was his turn to do something, however small.
He called Sams mum he didnt have her number but asked her next day at school, and she, after some reluctance, wrote it down.
“Just no fuss, mind,” she warned. “They run a tight ship there.”
John rang in the evening.
“This is John Whitmore. I Id like you to say a few words to Alan for me, if possible.”
She paused.
“Hes struggling to speak,” she said. “But he can hear. Ill visit tomorrow. What shall I tell him?”
John looked at his notebook on the table. Hed written a few lines, but now they felt wrong.
“Tell him the bench is still there,” he said softly. “And that Im waiting. And the tea Ill bring it, when its allowed.”
“All right,” she replied. “Ill let him know.”
He sat in the kitchen for ages after. His daughter did the washing up, pretending not to listen. Then she placed a plate in the rack and finally said:
“Dad, Ill go with you, if they let us visit. When its time.”
John nodded. What mattered wasnt that shed come, but that she said “with you,” not “why bother?”
A week later, Sams mum stopped John at school.
“He smiled when I mentioned the bench,” she said. “And waved like, come on over. The doctor reckons itll be a long road. Well probably bring him home to stay with us. He cant be left alone now.”
John felt something twist inside their daily meetings wouldnt come back, and it left him feeling oddly empty, like a coat taken off its hook.
“May I write him a letter?” he asked.
“You can,” she replied. “Short one though he tires easily.”
That evening, John got a blank sheet, wrote large so it would be easy to read: “Alan Sharpe, Im still here. Thank you for the tea and seeds. Im waiting for when youre well enough to come out. John Whitmore.” He added, “Sam is doing great.” Read it over and let it be. He tucked it into an envelope, wrote Alans surname, which hed seen once on a council bill Alan had grumbled about.
Next day he brought it to school and handed it to Sams mum. The envelope was crisp, kept carefully as if fragile.
When the bell rang and the children poured out, John stood as usual. Lucy ran up to him, hugged his waist and launched into her tales of lessons. He listened, but kept one eye on the bench. It sat empty, but this time the emptiness didnt make him angry it was a space where something meaningful had happened, even if “something” wasnt there now.
Before leaving, John fetched the packet of crumbs from his pocket and scattered them on the ground. Pigeons swooped quickly, as if they too knew the timetable. Watching them, John realised he could come here not just to wait, but to stay open.
“Granddad, what are you thinking about?” Lucy piped up.
“Nothing much,” he replied, taking her hand. “Come on. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
He said it not as a promise for someone else, but as a choice for himself. And it made his steps steadier.
