The Bench Test
By
Graham Bibby
( Female voice, late fifties or early sixties)
It’s been an odd sort of a day, from the dog refusing his meaty chunks to the postman tripping over the kerb, he went full length in a flurry of junk mail and swear words, skinned his knees like a ten year old and blamed his boots.
You just never know, do you, what surprises a day will bring, better that way I suppose or we’d never get out of bed.
Or at least think twice about it.
Well, I try to get up to the cliff top at least once a week, give Martins bench a rub down, get rid of the seagull mess, tidy a few weeds and sit for a while to take in the view.
A bit sea fretty today but nice, nice and fresh and the sun came through so that was good.
Not many folk up there today, but I’d hardly got myself comfy when three young men floated past, paragliding I think it’s called, they were quite high up and going around in circles, swooping and diving, one of them waved at me, I waved back.
Must be nice to be so free like that and very brave, I could never be that brave, no head for heights.
Martin always said my knees trembled on a thick rug, he was probably right.
The floating men drifted off towards the cricket pavilion and it was, for a while, just me and the sea….and Martin, Obviously.
That’s why I go up there, better than the churchyard, it was Helens’ idea, a bench on the clifftop dedicated to his memory.
I’ve lost count of the amount of times we’ve walked along here, fair weather and foul.
One of the first places we ever came when we started dating and he loved it so much, always said he wanted to be buried here, so when the time came, I looked into it but you can’t because of the coastal erosion, as the man at the council said it’s all very well at the time of burial but ten years down the line you don’t want to have to paddle out to sea because your dearly beloved has escaped the grave one stormy night and is sailing his way across the north sea shipping lanes.
I could see his point.
So the next best thing was the bench.
It has an excellent, uninterrupted view of the sea and I paid a bit extra for a flower holder. Martin wasn’t keen on flowers due to his hayfever but I think it adds a little something.
So there we are, Martin and me, I talk to him, tell him the bits of gossip I’ve come across and family news if there is any, though I don’t see a great deal of Helen now she’s moved down south with Gavin and the kids, I’ll go down at christmas but it’s tricky as she’s busy and Gavin isn’t very social.
He smiles a lot but doesn’t join in much, Martin always reckoned Gavin had ADHD or some such.
We’d have said he was shy back in the day.
Well, I’d been there about forty minutes or so when a young woman two benches down calls over and asks if she can borrow the cloth I used to wipe Martins bench with.
She was tall with a nice coat, her hands clasped in front of her and she had to ask twice because her voice broke the first time.
She seemed a bit awkward about it, as though it was a bigger imposition than it really was.
I said of course she could and held out the cloth for her, she came over full of smiles and thank you’s, said she’d bring it straight back.
I watched as she walked back to the bench and started flicking the duster back and forth, she wouldn’t shift any bird poo like that.
And then, in an effort to make small talk she said it was her Grandma’s bench and that she didn’t get up there very often and it was then that I felt a little pang of I don’t know what but…. well you see I’ve been coming up here for so many years I know all of the benches and this is going to sound strange but, they’re like old friends, I know them all and I can imagine the people they’re dedicated to sitting, looking out to sea, exchanging stories and whatnot when everyone’s gone home and the moon is full.
But especially Doris, two doors down Doris because I knew her when she was alive and it was me that paid for her bench just to say thank you for all her help when we had all that trouble.
Doris never married you see and hence, no Granddaughters.
The fake Granddaughter came back to return the cloth, said thank you and asked if she could sit with me. I said yes but I meant no, she parked herself and said her name was Marrion.
‘Oh, I’m Shirley’ I said. She smiled and glanced down at Martin’s little plaque and asked .
‘Who’s this then?’
I hesitated, just a fraction, felt a bit on edge and I don’t know why but she was awfully close, her long hair danced in the breeze and touched my face, I turned away.
She smiled and looked out to sea.
A paraglider floated by and we watched in silence as he touched the sun and then she said
‘Wonderful thing the internet, don’t you think?’
I looked across at her, puzzled.
‘Well’ I said. ‘If you like funny cats and emails for viagra I suppose, yes‘
She continued to stare at the sea, unblinking and now, determined.
Ever so slightly under her breath she said.
‘Find out anything on the internet you can’
‘Marrion’ I said, ‘That’s a nice name, don’t hear it very often these days, do you’
‘No,’ She said. ‘it’s a bit old fashioned but then again so am I’
Her smile had gone and I knew; I really knew what her next question was going to be.
She turned to face me and asked.
‘Is Shirley your only name?’
I couldn’t see her for the tears but I managed to say.
‘Marrion, my middle name’s Marrion too’
Then it was just the sound of the sea breaking on the shore and seagulls screeching overhead.
I wanted to tell her that all we had wanted was for the hard edge of life to soften, to give us a decent chance at a fair start and that when Doris said she could sort it all out, it took us until the day you were born to say yes, please do sort it all out because we were very young and every shilling in the electric meter was a shilling less for food for us or the baby.
Doris, wonderful Doris gave us all a fair start.
But I couldn’t, I just sat there, dumb and broken with a world of guilt sitting on me.
I wanted Martin to be there, to say something because he always knew what to say and he would have known what to say to, well to our daughter who was looking right at me.
I managed a ‘Sorry’
She took a tissue from her pocket and handed it to me, I wiped my eyes and she said.
‘You are, aren’t you, you’re Shirley Edgington, my birth mum.’
I nodded and started to cry, an uncontrollable sobbing that was over forty years worth, the same heavy flood of emotion I’d felt all those years ago on the day she was taken away, that small bundle of life that someone else was going to love and nurture, care for and protect.
I was going to stand up and leave but she’d wrapped her arms around me and was telling me it would be ok and that we should go and have a coffee and talk if that’s what I wanted.
I felt like a child after a fall, I felt small and undeserving of this gesture but so grateful nonetheless.
And now, I’m sitting in the Oceanview cafe staring out of the window wondering what comes next.
Martin and I came here on our second date, it was early summer and we waited here on the clifftop for over an hour for everyone to leave so we could kiss.
He tasted of cappuccino and bakewell tart and I would have done anything for him.
That’s not strictly true, I never forgot about Marrion, I didn’t put her out of my mind like I was told to, didn’t just get on with things and leave her behind. I couldn’t, I wasn’t strong enough for that.
I always held her close, said a silent prayer for her at bedtime.
She’s getting me that coffee now, my eldest daughter.
Wonderful thing the internet, don’t you think?
The Bench Test
By
Graham Bibby
( Female voice, late fifties or early sixties)
It’s been an odd sort of a day, from the dog refusing his meaty chunks to the postman tripping over the kerb, he went full length in a flurry of junk mail and swear words, skinned his knees like a ten year old and blamed his boots.
You just never know, do you, what surprises a day will bring, better that way I suppose or we’d never get out of bed.
Or at least think twice about it.
Well, I try to get up to the cliff top at least once a week, give Martins bench a rub down, get rid of the seagull mess, tidy a few weeds and sit for a while to take in the view.
A bit sea fretty today but nice, nice and fresh and the sun came through so that was good.
Not many folk up there today, but I’d hardly got myself comfy when three young men floated past, paragliding I think it’s called, they were quite high up and going around in circles, swooping and diving, one of them waved at me, I waved back.
Must be nice to be so free like that and very brave, I could never be that brave, no head for heights.
Martin always said my knees trembled on a thick rug, he was probably right.
The floating men drifted off towards the cricket pavilion and it was, for a while, just me and the sea….and Martin, Obviously.
That’s why I go up there, better than the churchyard, it was Helens’ idea, a bench on the clifftop dedicated to his memory.
I’ve lost count of the amount of times we’ve walked along here, fair weather and foul.
One of the first places we ever came when we started dating and he loved it so much, always said he wanted to be buried here, so when the time came, I looked into it but you can’t because of the coastal erosion, as the man at the council said it’s all very well at the time of burial but ten years down the line you don’t want to have to paddle out to sea because your dearly beloved has escaped the grave one stormy night and is sailing his way across the north sea shipping lanes.
I could see his point.
So the next best thing was the bench.
It has an excellent, uninterrupted view of the sea and I paid a bit extra for a flower holder. Martin wasn’t keen on flowers due to his hayfever but I think it adds a little something.
So there we are, Martin and me, I talk to him, tell him the bits of gossip I’ve come across and family news if there is any, though I don’t see a great deal of Helen now she’s moved down south with Gavin and the kids, I’ll go down at christmas but it’s tricky as she’s busy and Gavin isn’t very social.
He smiles a lot but doesn’t join in much, Martin always reckoned Gavin had ADHD or some such.
We’d have said he was shy back in the day.
Well, I’d been there about forty minutes or so when a young woman two benches down calls over and asks if she can borrow the cloth I used to wipe Martins bench with.
She was tall with a nice coat, her hands clasped in front of her and she had to ask twice because her voice broke the first time.
She seemed a bit awkward about it, as though it was a bigger imposition than it really was.
I said of course she could and held out the cloth for her, she came over full of smiles and thank you’s, said she’d bring it straight back.
I watched as she walked back to the bench and started flicking the duster back and forth, she wouldn’t shift any bird poo like that.
And then, in an effort to make small talk she said it was her Grandma’s bench and that she didn’t get up there very often and it was then that I felt a little pang of I don’t know what but…. well you see I’ve been coming up here for so many years I know all of the benches and this is going to sound strange but, they’re like old friends, I know them all and I can imagine the people they’re dedicated to sitting, looking out to sea, exchanging stories and whatnot when everyone’s gone home and the moon is full.
But especially Doris, two doors down Doris because I knew her when she was alive and it was me that paid for her bench just to say thank you for all her help when we had all that trouble.
Doris never married you see and hence, no Granddaughters.
The fake Granddaughter came back to return the cloth, said thank you and asked if she could sit with me. I said yes but I meant no, she parked herself and said her name was Marrion.
‘Oh, I’m Shirley’ I said. She smiled and glanced down at Martin’s little plaque and asked .
‘Who’s this then?’
I hesitated, just a fraction, felt a bit on edge and I don’t know why but she was awfully close, her long hair danced in the breeze and touched my face, I turned away.
She smiled and looked out to sea.
A paraglider floated by and we watched in silence as he touched the sun and then she said
‘Wonderful thing the internet, don’t you think?’
I looked across at her, puzzled.
‘Well’ I said. ‘If you like funny cats and emails for viagra I suppose, yes‘
She continued to stare at the sea, unblinking and now, determined.
Ever so slightly under her breath she said.
‘Find out anything on the internet you can’
‘Marrion’ I said, ‘That’s a nice name, don’t hear it very often these days, do you’
‘No,’ She said. ‘it’s a bit old fashioned but then again so am I’
Her smile had gone and I knew; I really knew what her next question was going to be.
She turned to face me and asked.
‘Is Shirley your only name?’
I couldn’t see her for the tears but I managed to say.
‘Marrion, my middle name’s Marrion too’
Then it was just the sound of the sea breaking on the shore and seagulls screeching overhead.
I wanted to tell her that all we had wanted was for the hard edge of life to soften, to give us a decent chance at a fair start and that when Doris said she could sort it all out, it took us until the day you were born to say yes, please do sort it all out because we were very young and every shilling in the electric meter was a shilling less for food for us or the baby.
Doris, wonderful Doris gave us all a fair start.
But I couldn’t, I just sat there, dumb and broken with a world of guilt sitting on me.
I wanted Martin to be there, to say something because he always knew what to say and he would have known what to say to, well to our daughter who was looking right at me.
I managed a ‘Sorry’
She took a tissue from her pocket and handed it to me, I wiped my eyes and she said.
‘You are, aren’t you, you’re Shirley Edgington, my birth mum.’
I nodded and started to cry, an uncontrollable sobbing that was over forty years worth, the same heavy flood of emotion I’d felt all those years ago on the day she was taken away, that small bundle of life that someone else was going to love and nurture, care for and protect.
I was going to stand up and leave but she’d wrapped her arms around me and was telling me it would be ok and that we should go and have a coffee and talk if that’s what I wanted.
I felt like a child after a fall, I felt small and undeserving of this gesture but so grateful nonetheless.
And now, I’m sitting in the Oceanview cafe staring out of the window wondering what comes next.
Martin and I came here on our second date, it was early summer and we waited here on the clifftop for over an hour for everyone to leave so we could kiss.
He tasted of cappuccino and bakewell tart and I would have done anything for him.
That’s not strictly true, I never forgot about Marrion, I didn’t put her out of my mind like I was told to, didn’t just get on with things and leave her behind. I couldn’t, I wasn’t strong enough for that.
I always held her close, said a silent prayer for her at bedtime.
She’s getting me that coffee now, my eldest daughter.
Wonderful thing the internet, don’t you think?
The Wombwell Rainbow 