What Old Men Know
For the next two years, Theo went over the fence at three o'clock most weekdays.
It started as a bowl of plums. It became a routine.
Mr Halpern, on the bench, was different from Mr Halpern over the fence. He was funny. He had stories. He had been an engineer for a railway, in his working life. He had built, with his own hands, four bridges and a small station building that was still standing two hours' drive away.
He told Theo about his wife, Mira. He told Theo about how they had met at a dance in 1955. He told Theo about the year his daughter had been born and lived only two months. He told Theo, very slowly, about the small grief that had stayed with him for sixty years.
He did not tell Theo all of it. He told Theo what was right for a ten-year-old, then an eleven-year-old, to hear. Mr Halpern was wise about that.
Theo told Mr Halpern about school. About football. About a bully called Ulrik who had bothered him for a term in Year Five. About his fear of the maths exam.
Mr Halpern listened. Mr Halpern asked questions. Mr Halpern, sometimes, gave advice — not too much, but enough that Theo always left the bench with something to think about.
When Theo was twelve, Mr Halpern fell while getting out of bed. He broke a hip. He went to hospital. He came back, after a long time, in a wheelchair.
He could not get out to the bench.
Theo, instead, started going inside.
Mr