Would anyone like a story ?

My poor blog has been a wee bit neglected recently as I have had my head in the poetry section of my writing course. Normal blogging should return when I submit my assignment next week. In the meantime, here is the story I wrote for the last one.

Lily’s Bench

The bench was for Lily, who liked to sit and think.  It was a new bench, made from a strong sturdy hardwood. Had Lily been alive, I’m sure she would have loved it. It was situated in possibly the best thinking spot in the whole park.  I read the engraved plaque on the bench. It told me that Lily had died a year ago and I wondered who had dedicated this spot to her memory. I wondered if Lily had liked to think alone, or was there a Bill or a William or a James who liked to sit and think beside her.

I sat and thought. I wondered how Bill, or William, or James was handling life without Lily. Had he pulled himself together or did he feel that his life had ended at the same time as Lily’s. Was he angry? Was he relieved? Did he want to scream till he had no more breath, then curl up in a ball and hide from everyone who told him that time was a great healer and that he was lucky to have had Lily in his life at all?

The sun was shining. It had been shining for days now and Londoners were starting to believe that summer was really here. Mums were chasing their children with factor 15 sun protection and dads had produced super soaker water pistols from the depths of their backpacks. Couples were strolling, holding hands and smiling at something the other one had said. It seemed to me that everyone was happy. Everyone apart from me had someone to be happy with. We used to come here all the time. Paul and me. Me and Paul. Us. We used to walk and talk and laugh. We used to laugh a lot. I don’t remember the last time I laughed.

Across the water I could see the new O2 arena, although I still think of it as the Millennium Dome. I met Paul at the Millennium Dome. It was a school trip in my last year at the Grammar School. He was with his school and we met in the nasal passages of the life exhibit.  We were so young, and so sure when we met. My friends teased me all the way back to school on the coach. We had swapped phone numbers and had promised to keep in touch and my friends thought it was hilarious that I was so sure that the boy from Gravesend would really call. He did, and we talked and we laughed and we fell in love over the phone that night.

I forced myself to look away. To look at anything, that would take my mind away from the boy from Gravesend. To the left, I saw Japanese students and American tourists posing for photographs in front of the entrance to the Royal Observatory, capturing the moment. Far out on the horizon, the London skyline reflected the life and endurance of the city. The green domes of Victorian roofs and the glass and steel of the new buildings shouted out loud and proud. Despite the sun I felt a chill and reached into my bag for my pashmina. Paul bought it for me last year. It’s nearly orange, but not quite. I’m not sure what you would call it. Somewhere between sunflowers and autumn leaves would describe it, but I don’t know what you would call that. I wrapped it across my shoulders and closed my eyes, trying to remember how it felt when Paul had wrapped his arms around me.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’ The question startled me, caught me off guard, and I squinted against the sun when I opened my eyes.

‘No,’ I said. Though what I meant was ‘Yes,’ I did mind. What I meant was, ‘go away, leave me in alone, don’t even try to start a conversation with me.’

I looked over at the tourists in front of the Observatory, pretending they were the most interesting thing I had ever seen. I looked at the O2 arena. I looked down the hill, past the laughing families and pretended that the Maritime Museum was even more interesting than the tourists.

‘It’s a lovely spot isn’t it?’ he said.   He was an older man, maybe late sixties, maybe a bit older. His brown shoes had been polished and his corduroy trousers were well pressed. He sat down at the far end of the bench.  ‘Lily loved this park,’ he said.

He was looking at the Maritime Museum and out across at the London skyline, as if they really were as interesting as I had pretended they were. I wondered if this was Bill, or William, or James. I looked closer and saw that he had kind eyes. Shiny shoes, and kind eyes, my gran would have liked him.

‘Was Lily your wife?’ I asked.

He carried on looking down through the park and I was beginning to think that he hadn’t heard, or maybe he had heard but didn’t want to talk. Maybe he hadn’t been talking to me at all; just thinking his thoughts out loud.

‘Lily was my granddaughter,’ he said. ‘She was going to be an artist.’

I said I was sorry because that’s what you say when you don’t know what else to say. He talked, and it didn’t matter that I didn’t say anything. He just needed to talk. Lily was seventeen years old. She was a thoughtful girl. She was very talented. She wrote poetry and painted. She was beautiful and funny and a little bit stubborn. She loved her mum, and her dad, and her little brother. She went to London. She got on a train and she didn’t come home.

I watched a cheeky squirrel. It was watching Lily’s granddad. It snatched at crumbs and seeds dropped by people and pigeons, using its little paws like little hands, then, with a backward glance, it ran along the length of a bench, down the other side and scuttled off. I watched another squirrel run along another bench. I watched a dad pick up a tumbled toddler, wipe her tears and kiss it better. I looked at the man sharing Lily’s bench.

‘What train was she on?’ I asked.

‘Aldgate,’ he said. ‘The Circle Line.’

‘Me too.’

I didn’t realise that I had said it out loud. I felt him move along the bench. The polite space between us narrowed. The walls I had built from diazepam and painkillers were crumbling. His hand sat next to mine on Lily’s bench. Two empty hands, almost touching; an old hand and a young hand; a liver-spotted hand and a scarred hand.

There were two hands side by side on a train; both young, both healthy, both holding on to the bar in the packed carriage. Two arms. Stretched up.  And Paul, threatening to tickle my armpit. Both of us laughing.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I had said.

‘Or what?’ he challenged.

‘Or else,’ I said. And then the noise, the jolt, the shudder, the falling. I couldn’t see Paul and I couldn’t move. And then the blackness.

It was two days before I woke up. Paul was gone. My leg was gone. My hand was raw. I screamed, and I cursed, and I cried. And then I stopped.

I told Lily’s granddad about the boy from Gravesend. What he liked, what he did, how he laughed. How he cried at old films. How he filled my life and made anything possible. I told Lily’s granddad about the hospitals, about the surgery, about the rehab and the physio. I talked and he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. I realised that I needed to talk. I told him about the man at work. The one who said he liked me; the one who had asked me out. I told him that I couldn’t replace Paul; that I wouldn’t replace Paul.

‘You never will,’ said Lily’s granddad.  He took a freshly laundered handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I hadn’t even realised that I was crying, but it felt good to be talking. Odd, that I had been able to say so much to a stranger in a park when I had said so little to my family or my friends.

Lily’s granddad told me that his name was Bill. I smiled. He told me that he lived in Blackheath and that he walked over to the park most days. He liked to sit on Lily’s bench and watch.  ‘You see everything here,’ he said. ‘It helps.’

As if on cue, a yellow Frisbee soared, sputtered, and landed, right in front of us, followed closely by a big soppy looking dog. It sat, panting. Its tail waved liked a flag, skimming the grass under it. It stood, barked once, pawed at the yellow disc, and then sat again. Bill picked up the Frisbee and the dog stood, barked and waited. ‘I think he’s trying to tell us something,’ said Bill, and he stood up too. As he prepared to launch the Frisbee, a young boy appeared, red faced and breathless from running up the hill.

‘Sorry about my dog,’ he said. He ruffled the dog’s silky ears. ‘He’s called Bruce, and he’s bonkers.’

‘Nothing to apologise for,’ said Bill and handed over the Frisbee.

I watched.

The boy launched the yellow disc and Bruce set off in pursuit once more, followed not so closely by his owner. Bill noticed that I was smiling. He said that that was what he was talking about. ‘As long as you can smile at a boy, a dog and a Frisbee then you’ll be alright.’ Bill sat back down beside me. We weren’t strangers anymore. We probably looked like two friends sharing a bench on a summer’s day.

Families spread blankets on the grass and unpacked picnic lunches. Dads rounded up children, and mums wiped hands and faces before letting their children start eating. Bruce sprinted past carrying his Frisbee like a smile and the boy ran along behind. The sun was high and hot. I closed my eyes and tilted my head, listening to the quiet buzz of the park. The tourists and the students were still clicking their cameras. A radio was playing somewhere nearby. Voices and laughing and barking all merged in my mind, and for the first time in a year, the world didn’t seem like such an awful place.

‘Lily’s mum tried to kill herself.’ Bill spoke quietly.

I kept my eyes closed. I wasn’t ready to look at Bill.

‘I’ve thought about it,’ I said.

‘Just thought about it?’ He touched my bad hand. I opened my eyes and turned to face Bill.

‘Just thought about it,’ I said.

‘Good,’ he said, and produced a fresh handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his eyes and said that he could do with a cup of tea.  He asked if I’d like to join him and I said thanks, but no, there was something I had to do. I watched as the old man got to his feet. He took both of my hands in both of his and said that he was glad he had met me and I said, ‘me too.’

‘Bill,’ I called, as he started to walk away. ‘How’s Lily’s mum now?’

‘Getting there,’ he said and offered a wave before he set off towards to the Pavilion.

My mobile was in my bag. I took it out, switched it on and looked at it for a while. I pressed the numbers. Nine. Nine. Nine. I asked for an ambulance.

‘I’ve taken pills,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have,’ I said. ‘Can you help me?’

The voice at the other end told me not to panic, to stay on the line. She asked where I was and I told her Greenwich Park. I told her I was on Lily’s bench. She asked what I could see and I told her I could see the O2. She asked what I wearing and I told her about the pashmina and I told her it wasn’t orange. She asked what I could see and I told her about the Observatory and the Maritime Museum and the green roofs and the glass and the steel.  She asked what I could see and I told her I was tired and she said to try and stay awake and I told her about the Dome. I told her about the boy from Gravesend and I told her about the train and I told her about Bruce and Lily and the tourists with the cameras. I told her about the man on the motorbike with the green and white jacket and she said I was going to be okay.

The bike stopped and the man in the green and white jacket said hello. He said he was a paramedic and I said I was sorry. He crouched down in front of me and said his name was Martin. ‘Nice spot,’ he said, and I agreed. It was a very nice spot. He said I could trust him and I said I did.