**The Caretaker of Our Square**
I walked home in the dim twilight of early autumn. The streetlamps, as usual, weren’t all lit, and the courtyard lay in darkness. There had always been a huge puddle by the entrance in autumn, impossible to avoid because of the parked cars. But tonight, despite the drizzly rain all day, the puddle was gone.
I pushed open the front door and turned to look behind me. The light from the hallway spilled onto the wet pavement, glistening faintly. *I wasn’t imagining it. A miracle, truly.*
The lift was waiting for me on the ground floor, which was unusual—it usually sat at the top in the evenings. The doors slid open as if inviting me in. *Fantastic. No, something’s definitely changed,* I thought, stepping inside. I pressed the button and caught my reflection in the smudged mirror—the dull, tired face staring back at me had sad eyes. I looked away, absently tucking a loose strand of hair under my beret. Then the lift shuddered to a stop, the doors rattled open, and I stepped out into the corridor.
“Home,” I said aloud, flicking the light switch and startling away the shadows.
Six months ago, Mum had passed. Since then, the flat had been filled with nothing but silence, emptiness, and memories. I didn’t rush back anymore—instead, I lingered at the office. Colleagues vanished like clockwork at six, but I stayed, organising files, jotting down plans. They thought me fussy and inflexible. I only knew how to work efficiently and expected the same—nothing more.
Mum had been strict when she taught at the local school, raising me to excel. I’d always pushed myself, even when I resented it. Now I’d turned into her—exacting, demanding.
There’d been one romance in my life, but it fizzled out before reaching marriage. Mum had been ill by then, and I refused to leave her. He wouldn’t have moved into our tiny flat with an ailing mother-in-law anyway.
At thirty-two, I was alone. The men at work were either married or skirt-chasers, and outside the office, I had no life. First because of Mum, now because of fatigue. So here I was—another solitary evening ahead, just me and the telly, or a book.
Saturday morning, I woke late, stretched, and peered outside. The square was dusted with snow, dark footprints etching patterns across it. Not frozen yet—it would melt soon. Something about it made me want to tread on that pure white veil, leave my own mark. I hurried to get ready.
A little happiness, wasn’t that enough? Fresh snow and two peaceful days ahead. Breakfast done, I bundled up and stepped out.
“Lottie, love, off to the shops? Would you grab me a loaf and a baguette?” The voice came from the first-floor window—Mrs. Wilkes, our neighbour.
“Of course. Need anything else?”
She hesitated. “No, just the bread. Ta.” The window snapped shut.
At least now I had purpose. I walked carefully, avoiding the footprints of others.
When I handed her the bread, I asked about the missing puddle.
“Oh! That’s the new caretaker. Wonderful chap, isn’t he?”
“What happened to the old one?” Not that I particularly cared—just politeness.
“Passed last week. Come in, I’ll tell you.”
With nothing better to do, I stepped into her cosy, cluttered flat.
“Few days back, I was coming from the post, and there’s this bloke sitting on the bench. Miserable-looking, but sober—no drunk, I can tell you that. Kept seeing him there. November chill and all. So I asked him, ‘What’re you waiting for?’ Sad eyes, he had. Told him, ‘Come inside, warm up. If you need work, the caretaker’s gone. Look at this mess—leaves everywhere. Go to the council, get the job.'”
She nodded at the window. “Look at the place now. Hardworking, polite, greets everyone. Lives in the storage shed. Nowhere else to go, I reckon. Speak of the devil—there he is.”
A tall man crossed the square—youngish, but stubble aged him.
The next day, I watched from the window as the new caretaker swept the pavement. *Swish-swish, swish-swish*. The rhythm was hypnotic. He didn’t look like the usual sort. Curiosity gnawed at me.
Soon enough, we crossed paths. Tripping on my way to the bins, a strong hand caught me.
“Thanks,” I said, recognising him.
Beneath the ridiculous knit cap (inherited from his predecessor), intelligent grey eyes studied me. The stubble gave him a rough edge.
“You’re the new caretaker,” I remarked.
“Suppose so,” he muttered and walked off.
*What a grump,* I thought, dumping the rubbish.
Another time, coming back from the shops, I blocked his path as he hauled boxes from the shed. I greeted him, then stepped aside.
“Tell me—why be a caretaker? It’s an old man’s job. You’re young.”
He barely glanced back. “What’s it to you?”
“Just curious.”
He kept walking, radiating disinterest.
“Rude,” I huffed, but he was already gone.
*Why did I bother? What must he think? Lonely woman harassing the caretaker—perfect.* Annoyed, I hurried inside.
I caught myself watching him often—sweeping, clearing the playground. Not the type to let himself go. Educated, clearly. Something had gone wrong in his life.
Mrs. Wilkes shared the gossip.
“Girls at the council say his business went under. Left skint, wife kicked him out. That’s how he ended up here.”
“But how awful,” I murmured.
“Pride, love. That’s what does it.”
I started greeting him first. He’d nod curtly, never more. Always alone in that dingy shed. A man could disappear like that.
One evening, I slipped a note under his door: *Flat 14. Come for tea if you like.* Just kindness—no expectations.
Hours later, the doorbell rang. There he stood, scowling, cap pulled low.
“Why?” he demanded, waving the note.
“What?”
“Why’d you write this?”
“People should help each other.”
He shook his head like I was daft.
“What if I’m a thief? A maniac? You’d let a stranger in?”
I smiled. “You? No. You’ve kind eyes.”
He stepped inside. I warmed soup, served roast potatoes. He ate neatly, his unworked hands blistered and raw.
“Parents?” I asked, filling the silence.
“Mum. Lives up North.”
“Nobody left for me,” I admitted, then froze. *Stupid—now he knows I’m alone.*
“I’ll go. It was good. Just—” He studied me, and my pulse leapt. “Don’t do this again.”
He left. I felt stung. I’d meant well, and this was his thanks? Fine. None of my business.
Yet I thought of him constantly, hoping for encounters he ignored.
Christmas Eve, I bought a real tree. Fumbling for keys, I dropped them twice. The door slammed shut behind me.
“Bloody hell!”
“Need help?”
He lifted the tree effortlessly.
“Thanks,” I said by the lift. But he followed, carried it inside, set it down, and left.
I locked up—then noticed my bag was gone. *Idiot. Trusting fool.* I tore downstairs.
His footsteps echoed below.
“Stop!” I leaned over the banister.
He waited between floors.
“Where’s my bag?” I accused.
“What bag?”
“Brown leather. I put it on the sideboard—it’s gone!”
A door creaked open below. He hauled me upstairs.
“What’re you—?”
“Proving I’m no thief.”
Inside, he released me, scanned the room, then pulled the bag from behind the coat stand.
“Look properly before accusing people.” He thrust it at me. “Check if I nicked anything.”
“I’m sorry—”
He left without a glance.
*Stupid, stupid. First the note, now this.*
I avoided him after that, eyes down when we passed. On the 30th, I decorated the tree.
*Where will he spend New Year’s? That shed? Alone?*
Mum always said to leave grudges in the old year. So I went to apologise again. His door was locked.
Two days since I’d seen him. *Gone to his mum’s, maybe.* I trudged back upstairs, unwilling to admit my disappointment.
New Year’s Eve, I made Mum’s signature salad, fried meat for leftovers. *Love Actually* played on telly—twice, staggered by ten minutes.
Champagne on the table, just for show. LonAs she turned back to the glittering tree, she heard the doorbell again, and this time, it was Mrs. Wilkes with a plate of mince pies, chatter about resolutions, and an invitation to tea the next day, reminding her that even in the quietest corners of life, small joys could still take root.
