This is a fictional short story, in just 608 words.
It was a very conventional wooden bench. Varnished slats, with wrought-iron frames at each end to support it. Arm-rests capped off each end, and the metal feet were set into a concrete base, so that it wouldn’t be stolen. The curve of the back was enough to allow someone to rest, but still be able to admire the view. It would seat four adults comfortably, if they didn’t mind sitting quite close together.
On the back at the top, fixed to the wood by four tiny screws, a small brass plaque carried an engraved message, for anyone who could be bothered to read it.
‘Dedicated to Thomas Arthur Wilkinson, 1931-2010. He loved this spot.’
The brass was already pitted, worn down by salty air, and blowing sand. There was nobody left to polish it anymore. It had been paid for and placed there by his wife, Edna. But she was gone now.
One of the wrought iron frames had been disfigured by garish purple paint. A squiggle with no meaning, other than to the young person who had sprayed it on there. Scuff marks on the front slats showed where some had raised their legs and rested their feet on the woodwork, wearing away varnish that would never be re-applied. The seagulls that walked around looking for food scraps had anointed parts of the bench with their droppings as they flew away, quarreling and squawking.
Determined plants had eventually forced their way up through the concrete base. Dandelions and scrub grass, finding the smallest cracks as they broke through into the sunlight. A milk-shake carton had survived since last season, rolling from one side to the other underneath, further progress halted by the stout iron sides. Cigarette butts congregated in the corners of the base too, next to chewing-gum wrappers and squashed plastic straws.
The dark wood-stain has fared badly against the elements. The rich brown now faded, little more than a light tan now.
But the view is unchanged. The view that Tom loved as a boy, and continued to cherish as an adult. The small pier to the right, with the pavilion of entertainments at the far end. Glance to the left, and there is the Beach Cafe; still the same, despite new management. Open even during winter, offering hot drinks and warm food to the hardiest walkers along the promenade. Look straight ahead down the sloping beach, and in come the endless, gently rolling waves. They rush onto the stones as if needing to be somewhere in a hurry, then slowly recede, when their strength expires. The sound of sea on stones, the lullaby that soothed Tom for decades.
As wonderful vistas go, it may not have counted for much. But for Tom, it was paradise.
A family approach the bench. Young mum, squeezed into leggings that seem like a second skin. Heels on shoes inappropriate for long walks at the seaside. She pushes a folding buggy containing a screaming baby, with an older boy hanging onto the handles, demanding ice cream from the Beach Cafe he has just spotted. Her partner is tall, with arms and neck heavily tattooed, ignoring the demands of his children as he stares into his mobile phone.
She sits down, removing the shoes, and rubbing her blistered feet. The baby has stopped screaming, but the toddler’s demand for the ice cream is relentless. The man perches on the edge, rolling a cigarette from the makings balanced on the legs of his jeans. Once he has finished, they give in to the tantrum, and walk in the direction of the beach cafe.
Neither of them even noticed the plaque.
Love the new story, Pete! Yes, benches with dedicated naming are very interesting. They always remember making ourselves thoughts about the names, and all the stories behin. Thank you! Michael
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Thanks, Michael. Glad you liked the story. 🙂
Best wishes, Pete.
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Oh yes, remembered me by myself on a bench.🙂 Michael
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Great story 🙂 Those UK benches sure give a fair share of literary inspiration (I hope that makes sense). Anyway, keep up the great work as always 🙂
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Thanks, John. It does make sense. 🙂
Best wishes, Pete.
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Beautifully written Pete, and another reminder of why we should try to step outside ourselves and pay attention to our surroundings.
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Thanks, Kim. Those dedicated benches are a ‘big thing’ over here. 🙂
Best wishes, Pete.
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A melancholy reflection on that family at the end. I doubt he will be remembered with the same fondness as Tom.
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Thanks, Elizabeth. Times change, and most people just stop caring.
Best wishes, Pete.
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So very sad, Pete. You tell a good story.
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Thanks very much, Jennie. Those benches have always inspired me.
Best wishes, Pete.
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I love those benches. We have plaques on stone to pay tribute to someone. One that moves me is the bronze plaque mounted on a huge granite stone on the playground in town. It is a tribute to a child who died in the plane crash of 9/11. Best to you, Pete.
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I always thought it’s a lovely idea that is not that common in other places. But we all have those spots we love, and yes, it is great when we realise we share something with somebody who’s been there long before. Thanks for sharing. Beautiful memories.
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Thanks, Olga. Those named benches have long fascinated me.
Best wishes, Pete.
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You not only saw the bench, but the people too.
I once discovered an old fallen tree on a headland overlooking the sea in Jersey, well away from the foot path. The tree was carved into a seat along with a poem and memorial to a departed loved one, it soon became a favourite spot of mine to stop, look and reflect.
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Thanks, Eddy. I have always had a bit of a thing about benches.
Best wishes, Pete.
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You are so skilful with your observations. I was there at that bench, reading the inscription and looking at the view.
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Thanks, Jude. I know you have a fondness for benches. 🙂
Glad to hear you enjoyed the story.
Best wishes, Pete.
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This is a lovely story, Pete. You have deftly summed up how different people can be in what they see and appreciate in life.
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Thanks, Robbie. I have often thought about those benches over the years.
Best wishes, Pete.
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Interesting setup, Pete. Time sands the sharp present into a muted forgetfulness. Perfectly illustrated with the couple who is unaware of their surroundings. Thomas doesn’t exist.
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Thanks, Cindy. Those benches are a very British thing, and they get me thinking every time I see one.
Best wishes, Pete. x
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A beautiful deconstruction! That weathered bench will eventually be scrapped. More enduring would be a memorial stone, brick, or tile.
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Thanks, David. Some of those benches are well-maintained by relatives. But sadly, most will be lost to time, like those they commemorate.
Best wishes, Pete.
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A poignant story, Pete. I, too, often wonder about the people who are named on those plaques.
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It is one of those comparatively modern things that suddenly proliferated. I think I might like to have ‘my bench’ one day. Probably over on Hoe Rough, where I have my adventures with Ollie. 🙂
Best wishes, Pete.
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I’ve been wondering where I’d like one – lots of places to choose. I think maybe near the ospreys. We have some beautiful 19th century wrought iron benches in a park in Dumfries which were placed there for the benefit of the poor. They are very low so clearly ‘the poor’ weren’t expected to reach the same height as the better off.
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Lovely story Pete, there are lots of plaqued benches by the sea in South Shields and up at st Mary’s lighthouse a row of about 20. I often wonder about the people named so this resonates with me.
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I used to read them all at one time, FR. I remember spending an afternoon at Bexhill, reading all the plaques. Glad you ‘got it’.
Best wishes, Pete.
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And so it is when we allow history to fade., the human memory goes with it.
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Those benches with plaques are found all over the UK, GP. I often wonder about the people who inspired them.
Best wishes, Pete.
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You are not alone. That curiosity has inspired many to test their DNA and search for their ancestors.
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