WB-9. Woman on a bench.

W B - 9     Woman on a bench - Person, Place, When 

There was still a chill in her tiny flat at this time of the morning. She had resolutely turned off the heating at the first sign of spring. Hetty liked to think of herself as a climate change warrior but in reality the switch-off was driven by her need to save money. A large part of her pension had recently gone on the costs of the wooden bench and its concrete foundations.

It was all a bit of a rush and she took less time than she normally did to get ready to go out. She didn’t want to be late for her long planned date with Howard on this special day. 

She stood in the narrow hallway of her cramped, ground floor, flat and checked her appearance in the full length mirror screwed to the wall. She didn’t like the look of her trousers but knew she would like it even less if her legs were on show. Howard used to laugh with her at what he called her Stilton legs; creamy-white from lack of exposure to the summer sun and with a tracery of blue veins. Hetty had chosen to wear her full length coat today, in spite of the increasingly warm sunshine, because it hid the worn, shabby look of the rest of her clothes. The pair of ex-nurses black shoes, bought from the charity shop in the High Street were practical and comfortable but perhaps not at the height of fashion - she favoured comfort over fashion these days. Her sole concession to the importance of the day was a somewhat frivolous red scarf tied in a bow around her summer straw hat.

‘You don’t scrub up badly for an old-un,’ she said to herself.

‘You’ll always be beautiful to me, Henrietta,’

‘Thank you, Howard,’ she replied.

She grabbed her walking stick - one of Howard’s - from the rack and, with her thumb,  traced the comforting, finger-polished place where the blackthorn had been cut from the hedge. Yes, it was still there since she had felt it last week. She determinedly walked out the door for the last time, not forgetting to lock it behind her.

Hetty walked slowly along the road to the nearby bus stop. She waited there while getting her bus pass out from her bag to clutch defiantly in her hand. She knew that the bus driver would not give her long to get on the bus and present the card before they started muttering about ‘slow old people’, as if they would not be old themselves one day. Hetty herself wasn’t that fond of being old and slow but she didn’t feel she had much choice in the matter. 

The number 28 turned up and she hurried to swipe her diamond card through the reader after asking for ‘Queen Elizabeth Park please.’ She just had time to get to her seat before the bus lurched into movement, making it difficult for her to put her pass safely back in her bag.

The trip wasn’t long. She kept an eye on the stops, ready to press the ‘ting’ button early enough for the driver to stop and, hopefully give her time to get to the door and step off before the muttering started. Luckily the driver was a young woman who even offered to help her if necessary - almost unheard of. Hetty would have enjoyed a chat with a friendly face but she knew the driver had a schedule to keep so she hurried off the bus.

The park looked beautiful in the morning, early summer, sunshine. The grass had been cut and had not yet turned brown from it’s fresh, spring green. They had had many family picnics there over the years. The beds were full of flowering annuals and even the birds sounded cheerful. The sparrows she thought of as the Tescos of the bird world while the dignified blackbirds were the Waitroses with their darting runs between stabbing the grass for a worm, just like the obsequious shop assistants darting out to help ‘Madam’ select some overly expensive and exotically named jar. The starlings were the Aldis of the bird world of course. She walked slowly along the pavement on her three legs, favouring her weak left leg, supporting some of her weight on the stick. She didn’t try to hurry. She stopped to look across the road at the elegant three story house that overlooked the park. 

She let herself into her favourite world through the black-painted wrought iron gate which squealed as it swung open on the rusty hinges. Once inside, she walked along the path, past the benches, saying hello to each of the people mentioned on the memorial brass plaques.

‘Hello Peter and Barbara, good morning Sydney, how are you today, hi David, Sheila, how are the grand children? She had known them all when they were alive and lived in that row of houses with their curtained windows looking down on the park. Yes, she had known them all, and their children and their grandchildren. Then they got old and died; their houses sold by their children to strangers. Now she was the only one left and even she didn’t live in that too-big, too-expensive, house any more.

Hetty got to her destination, a new looking seat, bolted to a still-white concrete base in the dappled shade of a sycamore tree. She brushed the warm, smooth trunk of their tree with her free hand. She chose to sit at the right hand end of the bench so that she could turn and see the bright brass plaque whenever she wanted. She laid her stick gently on the newly varnished wood, she liked that smell.

‘I said I would be here today, didn’t I Howard? Can you believe it, our seventieth wedding anniversary. I’ve know you for seventy four years. It has gone very quickly.

‘Happy anniversary, Hetty.’

‘Thank you Howard and to you too.’

She turned awkwardly to her left and traced the engraved words on the plaque with a wrinkled, shaking finger.

Howard Green 1928  -  2015

There was room on the brass for her name to be engraved under Howard’s. She had always been good at planning ahead.

The gentle breeze rattled the big leaves on their sycamore tree above them as a zephyr passed through the park.

‘I’m sorry I had to do it but, the cost of keeping you in that home was outrageous. I had to sell our house, of course, to pay the bills. Towards the end you didn’t seem to know me, or yourself, so I thought it was the best thing to do. It was very easy with one of those big pillows. Everyone was so sympathetic and you seem to be happier here. I insisted on scattering your ashes here under our tree on my own - just the two of us as, always.’

‘Don’t worry, Hetty, it will always be our secret and I am happier here under the tree, with the sunshine and the birds. You did the right thing for both of us. 

It is a lovely day today, why don’t you come and join me?’

‘We led a good life, didn’t we Howard?’

‘Yes, I think we did, Hetty.’

‘Then I think I will, Howard, I’m feeling old and tired now. I’ll just have a doze here in the sun and then perhaps…’