13December, 2024
Dear Diary,
Tonight the city is humming with the last few hours before the New Year, and the office corridors are already empty. Everyone has tricked off to their homes, yet I saw a lone figure lingering by the bus stop a young woman in a crisp coat, her eyes fixed on a tiny pine tree shed propped against the wall. I guessed shed been sent to deliver it to someones flat, perhaps a neighbours.
Her name is Ethel, a name you hardly hear anymore except in old novels. Shed just stepped off a doubledecker, and a few strides later she was at her doorstep, the warmth of her flat already waiting: two bowls of salad, a bowl of fresh fruit, a bottle of fizz chilling in the fridge, and a soft nightgown draped over a chair. She seemed eager to trade her heels for pajamas, as if the weight of the days expectations were enough to pull the shoes off her feet.
Ethel had been married to Andrew, but theyd split a few months back. The breakup was so bruising that shed shied away from any new relationship, preferring the quiet of her own company. Shed told herself that recalling Andrew would only tarnish the holiday spirit.
As she shuffled into her building, I lingered on the bench, watching the streetlights flicker. The nights chill curled around my coat, and I shivered. I slipped into the communal showers, wrapped myself in my favourite fleece nightgown, brewed a mug of tea, and peered out the window. Yet, despite the cosy glow inside, my gaze kept drifting back to the solitary old man on the bench.
A half hour later I spotted him again, unmoving, his breath forming little clouds in the frosty air. My curiosity got the better of me; I walked over, pulled my coat tighter, and sat beside him.
Excuse me, sir, I said, trying to sound friendly, you look a bit cold out here. Is everything alright?
He let out a soft sigh. Nothing to worry about, love. Im just waiting for the bus home. Ill be off to the station soon, back to my flat.
I frowned. The station? Its nearly midnight; the last bus wont run until morning. Why not come inside? I could offer you a cuppa and a warm seat.
He chuckled, a dry sound. Im not a tramp, my dear. My names George Whitaker. I came to see my daughter. Its a long tale, but Im not looking for a place to stay.
I pressed a little harder. Youve been sitting there for ages. The nights bitter enough to freeze a marrow. Lets get you inside. You can warm up, and then you can head wherever you need to.
His eyes softened. Youre right. Its just that Im not used to asking for help.
Ethel, hearing our voices, opened her door and stepped out. George, you look shivering. Please, come in.
I thanked her and followed her inside. The flat smelled of fresh pine and cinnamon. I eased onto a chair, clutched the mug she set down, and let the steam warm my hands.
Im not a vagrant, miss, I began, feeling the words tumble out, Im George Whitaker. I arrived in this town years ago to visit my daughter, Lily. Its a tangled story.
I told her how my marriage to Dorothy had crumbled when I fell in love with another woman in my thirties. We had a brief, passionate affair, but Dorothy discovered us through our little girl, Lily, who was then only five. The fallout was fierce; Dorothy cut off any support, refusing even child maintenance. She wanted to raise Lily alone, and I was left to watch from the sidelines.
For a while I tried to help through my parents, but Dorothy shut every door. She turned Lily against me, and one day at a nursery I tried to give Lily a toy, she fled, shouting that I was no one to her. I took that as a sign and retreated, moving away with my former partner, Marta. We tried sending money for Lilys needs, but the parcels were always returned, and I learned that Dorothy would not accept anything from me.
A decade later, after my parents passed and Marta died, I returned to this town, sold the old family house, and bought a modest cottage on the outskirts. I tried to build a new life, but the loss of Marta left a hollow that never filled. Two years ago she passed, and Ive been alone since.
Now I stand at Lilys doorstep, hoping perhaps for a glimpse of forgiveness. She lives in the same flat I once shared with Marta. I bought a little pine tree for the holidays, but she wouldnt let me in. I understand why; Im a stranger to her now.
I lingered outside her building, unsure where to go, and found myself back on that bench, where the night seemed to freeze my thoughts. Perhaps fate has another purpose for me still. Ethel offered me a bed on her sofa, and I accepted, grateful for her kindness.
In the early hours, as the clock ticked towards midnight, I whispered to Ethel, Thank you, Ethel. Youve saved me from a foolish decision to stay out here forever. I told her she could visit my cottage anytime a small farm with a handful of beehives, an orchard of apples and pears, and a river that runs nearby. Come in winter, have a cuppa, and rest your bones, I said.
She smiled, and as I stepped out into the cold, the bus finally roared past. I watched it disappear down the street, the lights of the city reflecting on the wet pavement.
What have I learned? That pride can keep a man on a cold bench far longer than any winter, but a simple act of hospitality can melt the frost from a weary heart. Even when we feel estranged from those we love, a small kindness from a stranger can remind us that were still connected to the world.
George.
