| The
Bench in the Park
by Andy Humphrey
This is Jack’s bench. His name is spelled out on a little
brass plaque: in loving memory of Councillor Jack Parkin OBE – beloved
husband and father, and friend of the community. I had it put here in
memory of him, at the top of the park, looking down the arboretum and
across the sloping field where we used to walk. Two years now Jack’s
been gone, and every day’s a little greyer without him.
This morning I’ve shared Jack’s bench with two spiky-haired
schoolboys (probably truants); a tiny lady my age, a ratty terrier yapping
at her feet; a traffic warden on his way to the high street, a young blonde
mother with a toddler bundled in his buggy, and a fat man in a suit, dripping
coffee from a plastic cup. They don’t speak, mostly. They think
I’m part of the furniture – carved out of wood, a permanent
fixture.
But I’m no ornament. Knees and knuckles might be stiffer than they
were, but my eyes are as sharp as ever. And there’s such a lot I
can see, from my vantage point on top of the world. Such a lot I see.
In twenty minutes’ time, I’ll be joined by a middle-aged man
named Derek. He’ll nod hello and we’ll exchange pleasantries,
then watch the people for a few minutes. After that he’ll get up
and be on his way, usually leaving a plain brown envelope behind him on
the bench.
No one will see me picking it up. They won’t know that the envelope
is full of twenty-pound notes.
But then, other people don’t notice very much these days.
I come here every morning, recreating the walks that Jack and I used to
take: watching the people, the scurrying commuters off to work, the sedate
ladies walking their dogs. A little more gold and red creeps into the
leaves each day, this time of year. Gradually the trees are turning threadbare,
carpeting the park with musty, earthy leaf-litter. The light is fading
too: every day a little more feeble, more grey, like Jack was before the
end.
There’s the Tweed Lady, green wellingtoned in case of mud, throwing
a ball for her red setter. I could set my watch by her. Husband’s
off to London, to a dull, high-rise office block; kids have been packed
in the 4x4 and kissed goodbye at the school gate; her next stop’s
the park. The setter’s a fine creature, long and sleek, frisky.
Could almost have been a show dog, Jack would have said – he did
have an eye for animals.
A man arrives. Blue jeans, Barbour jacket, cap, a stride like John Wayne.
His border collie’s off the leash, greets Tweed Lady’s setter
with an excited bark, and soon they’re chasing circles round one
another, tails wagging. These two meet like this every day. Tweed Lady
rescues her ball, and the two dog lovers converge, nodding towards their
pets like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Down the grassy
slope they sidle, and by the time they reach the path through the trees
they’re holding hands – a nervous, two-fingered contact, easily
loosed in case of prying eyes.
He’s not her husband. He’s at work, incubating a coronary
while he pays for the big house, the 4x4, the children’s dance lessons.
This chap’s one of the local idle rich, nothing better to do with
his time than contrive affairs with married ladies.
I know where they both live. I know more about them than they’d
guess.
The town has changed since Jack and I first settled here. Today, everyone
is in such a hurry, going about their lives, that there’s no time
for people to get to know one another. Neighbours rub shoulders in this
park without knowing how close their front doors are, how close their
lives are. Nobody knows anybody’s name any more.
Jack was different. Everyone on our street knew Jack’s name, knew
they could call on him if they needed a babysitter, or if the plumbing
sprang a leak. They didn’t seem to notice me, though. Jack used
to worry about what would become of me once he’d gone. Our living
had always been modest, by our neighbours’ standards, and Jack had
a habit of giving money away when he should have been saving it.
Still, I didn’t begrudge Jack his ways. It did his heart good to
see his money make other people happy.
He made me promise something, a few weeks before he passed on. ‘You
keep your dignity, Elsie girl, make sure you don’t want for anything,’
he wheezed. ‘Promise me you won’t just give up. That you’ll
look after yourself, properly like.’
Elsie girl. I liked that. Even at the end, Jack could still make me feel
like I was seventeen. I patted his hand and promised him, whatever it
took I’d take care of myself. I tried not to let him see the mist
in my eyes.
I’ve been true to my word. After all, I wouldn’t want to be
a burden to the children. The ache in my joints isn’t getting any
easier to bear, and there might come a day when I can’t get about
by myself. James and Rebecca live too far away now, they have their lives
and careers. Why should they have to spend their best years looking after
an old lady?
‘Morning Elsie.’ A gruff voice above my head brings me back
to the park, the earthy smells of autumn, and Jack’s bench. A podgy
man in a grey trenchcoat perches himself next to me. ‘Bit of a nip
in the air this morning, don’t you think?’
‘To tell you the truth, I don’t really notice.’ I’m
well wrapped up – dark blue mac, scarf, cardigan underneath –
and the chill from outside doesn’t bother me these days, not compared
with the slowly growing aches inside. ‘You keeping well, Derek?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’ He keeps up the small talk for a
few moments, but doesn’t smile. We sit a little while in silence,
our two pairs of eyes watching the wheeling gulls, the straggle of humanity
around the park. Then he rises and says his farewells. A glint of autumn
sunshine catches his glasses as he pauses, halfway down the arboretum,
to look back at me.
The plain brown envelope is there – exactly as I knew it would be.
Lying on the bench as if he’d dropped it.
Derek and I have had this arrangement for six months now. We’ll
meet in the park from time to time. He’ll leave behind one of these
envelopes, and I’ll be so good as to refrain from letting his wife
know what he gets up to in the public toilets at the other end of the
arboretum.
Derek lives in the next town. He has a desk job in a high street office.
Nobody around here knows his little secret. His biggest worry is that
the police might catch him. An old lady who sat in the same place every
day, who happened to notice his comings and goings, hardly seemed likely
to cause him any trouble.
We met over a sandwich lunch on this very bench.
I think it was a relief to him to know that I wasn’t shocked by
what he does. He sees me as a sort of eccentric aunt now, one he can come
to when he needs to tell someone how his wife just doesn’t understand
him, how hard it is for him to lie to her. But mostly, we just talk about
the weather.
I don’t ask for very much, really. He doesn’t miss a hundred
or so each month, and it’s easier for him to pay than to go to his
wife and admit what he is.
That’s always been my rule of thumb. Never ask more than they can
afford.
I learned my lesson from that civil service chap – the one who left
his laptop computer behind on Jack’s bench. I knew from his business
card that he was important. But that first ’phone call was a little
unwise. I almost asked too much. He threatened me with the police; I threatened
him with the News of the World. It was like haggling the price of pork
chops. We came to an arrangement in the end; he got his computer back,
and I got my first two hundred pounds.
It’s such an ugly word, don’t you think? The ‘B’
word. I prefer to see it as a service to the community. When Jack and
I were starting out, folk would go to the vicar to atone for their misdeeds.
Today, they have me – a grey bit of lady on a park bench. I look
after them, in my way, and I look after myself too, just as I promised
dear Jack. There’s a nice bit of money put by, so that by the time
the arthritis gets its grip on me, I won’t have to sell the house
to pay for my care. James and Rebecca will still have their inheritance,
such as it is, and I’ll still have the home I kept with Jack, the
memories we made together.
I’ve been thinking I should find a better way to commemorate dear
Jack. He gave years of devoted service to the borough. A bench seems a
pitiful gesture to the memory of such a fine man. I’m thinking of
a small statue, perhaps outside the town hall.
I reckon I have a couple of years to raise the money – and I think
I know where to start.
Here’s Tweed Lady again, back from her morning’s dalliance.
Climbing the grassy slope while her red setter runs ahead. Is it me, or
is she looking a little flushed?
I push myself up from Jack’s bench, and start off across the field
towards her. ‘Excuse me, madam. I wonder if I might have a word…’
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