Benches

BENCHES

by Jan Watts

Copyright © 2014 Jan Watts

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-291-85603-3

First Published in 2014

Roaring Greasepaint for Jan Watts

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Printed by Lulu.com

The moral right of Jan Watts has been identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,  by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s consent in any other binding or cover  that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Cover Lino Print Copyright  © Linda Carter

Chapter One

It’s my favourite. There’s the first one where the kids go and drink vodka and then there’s the second one, my favourite and then the third where the cyclists put their feet up. I like the second bench best, ‘cos next to it, there is a sneaky way into the woods. You never know who might emerge from the undergrowth - a dog walker with a dog or two, a runner,  a couple adjusting their clothing, a cyclist who’s lost their way? Also you have a good view of the canal up and down. You can watch the angler across the other side, if there is one, without seeming to be too nosey. Of course on the other side of the Rambling Bridge, there is another bench a bit further on, but I don’t sit there ‘cos the dead lilies. Someone must have popped their clogs. Here’s a card, but you don’t like to pry, do you?

Anyway, half term and I’m walking the dog and I have my insulated mug with a milk and a dash. No bourbons - I’ve run out. Anyway, some little bastard has written on my bench. It says ‘The Fuck Bench’.  Blue paint and spelt right. I’m not keen on graffiti, ‘cos it always has weird spelling, so the communication isn’t clear, but this is freehand, but legible. I look for johnnies or other tell tale signs of sex. I am so cross. It’s spoilt my elevenses. I touch it against my better judgement with my pinkie and it’s still damp. If I’d sat down I would have got paint on my skirt. So I walk up to bench three and share my day with a man in lycra. I don’t tell him about the paint. Keep it to myself. After all, it is my bench and I don’t want to be associated with smut.

After telling him that Steven is fifteen and hates cats, but is immune to ducks and geese, I wander back passed my bench. Still tacky. So I think a bucket of hot water, Ajax (yes, you can still get it) and a stiff brush, but when I get to the front door, the phone is doing a samba and it’s my cousin Francine.

Francine is one of those women who never rings you, you always have to ring her.  Though in fact I never ring her, because I have nothing to say to her. We have never had a real conversation. Anyway, her Bobby ( yes, she is a girl) is getting married at last to her boyfriend. He’s always referred to as her boyfriend, but he’s 47 with a paunch and the father of her  four children. Well, I presume he’s the father - they all call him Dad. Anyway, Francine tells me to keep the 27th free and that the invite will be in the post. So Steven and I go off to find my diary. No, it’s me really. Steven doesn’t really track things down. He’s not a sniffer dog. He just gets under your feet all the time and it feels as if we do everything together. He has many cushions around the house to park his butt, but unless I am sitting down, he is at my feet.

By the time, I find my diary in the whatnot, I have forgotten about the bucket of hot water and scrubbing, but I do remember the date and pop it in and think about getting a present. I suppose I must get a present. You always get a present for people getting married, even if they don’t need anything, because they have acted like a married couple for years and years.

This leads me onto the laptop. Yes, I am in tune with the virtual world. I love it  - surfing the net. I find a site that does personalised heart shaped chunks of plastic and I order one with ‘Roberta and Fintan forever’. Did I say he’s called Fintan? It will be sent straight to their house, so I don’t have to do anything else except get myself to the hotel. Hotel, yes. not church or registry office anymore.Everyone gets married in a hotel nowadays. Quite handy really, because a hotel is full of beds, so it’s easier to sleep off the alcohol.

By this time, it’s time for lunch so Steven and I share a couple of tins of sardines and I toast myself the last crust off the bloomer. After a bit of a doze in front of yet another antiques programme, I remember the bench, My bench.

The hot water gets a bit luke in the afternoon, so I  boil the kettle and find the remains of a tub of sugar soap. I put the whole lot in and get an old brush that has seen better days and off we go. Steven can’t believe his luck, because afternoons are meant for napping not walking. He likes napping, but he loves walking, even if he is knackered.

So we start to walk up the towpath. Steven free as the wind, well not really with his legs, without his lead on - I can’t manage a lead and a bucket and we can see in the distance that there is some sort of fracas going on. I can’t hear clearly because I haven’t got my aids in. But there is a girl. She looks like one of the bench number one lot. You know the vodka lot. She is screaming at this boy - definitely one of the vodka lot. Actually strong cider with vodka chasers, I think. As I get nearer, she turns and shouts at me.

"Look at what this bastard’s done to me new jeans - blue stuff all over my arse.’

Well, she’s right of course, there is blue paint all over her bum. But I find it hard to have any sympathy. I mean what was she doing on the fuck bench to get paint over her bottom like that. Then I think, well, she didn’t take off her jeans, did she?

I’m now aware that I am carrying a bucket of hot water and though I want to clean the paint off my bench, I don’t want to get involved in any shenanigans with young people who drink vodka. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the lone angler on the other side of the canal wetting himself. Oh lord, I don’t mean he was peeing - he was laughing a lot. That’s what I mean.

‘ Just emptying my bucket’ I explain.

And I do, and I walk back briskly to the house, Steven a little confused by the very short walk.

Steven is my best friend. He might have been a pug once. He has that squashed nose that could make it difficult to breathe. His little legs work, but only just.

Over a cuppa, I wonder if the writing on the bench is still so clear. Can you still read those words? Or has her bum blotted and blurred them? I decide that I will try again to get rid of them first thing the following morning. No kid is up in the morning before eleven over half term, so I decide that Steven and I will take an early walk with the bucket the following morning.

In my letter box amongst the junk is a postcard  of  the Manhattan skyline, New York to me from  Suz Bedgegood.

Hello Nancy Old Girl,

Did the water tour  inside and outside the boat- too late to go up Statue of Liberty - it was closed. Too much red meat. Americans over friendly. Love to the dog.

Have a nice day, Suz xx

Suz is my second best friend and she is on a world tour. New York is the first leg of the tour. She wanted me to go with her. Steven is my excuse for not going. Suz says she is looking for adventure, but she spends her life avoiding adventures. I remember when a toy boy asked her to..... It’s disloyal to talk about it here and anyway, she said ‘no’.

So, it’s now the next day. I had a bit of haddock the night before for my supper with a nice poached egg and it’s still with me, if you know what I mean. I have decided that I will do this job early and then take my elevenses up to the cyclist third bench and take my chances. I don’t want to sit on a hopefully clean, but wet bench. It will take a bit of drying, because it’s an old wood full of gnarly bits and moss. Did he push the moss off  when he painted those words? Was it a he? I don’t think a girl would do that? Would she? Certainly the girl with paint on her bum from the day before, didn’t do it. It wasn’t her. Was it the pimpled youth who was with her?

I wave to the angler. Has he been there all night? Sometimes they do, you know. He’s got his little tent with him. Well, it’s like half a tent - the front bit is missing, so you can see right in to all his fisherman’s stuff.

‘Any luck?’ I shout across.

He does a thumbs up. Well, I think it’s a thumbs up. It is some sort of gesture.

I get to the bench and yes, it is blurred a bit. The word bench is not easy to read, but unfortunately ‘fuck’ seems to jump up as clear as anything. So, I start on that. No sugar soap in the water this time and the paint is, of course, completely dry now. I shake the Ajax all over the offending word and use the brush, dipping into the hot water to make a thick paste of cleaner, bits of brush and bits of bench.

Looking up, I can see Mrs Bouncy Labradoodle with her Polly striding towards me, so I whoosh the water over the bench and retreat quickly with Steven at my heels. If his eyesight was better, he would be sad to miss Polly, because he enjoys sniffing her bottom, but I’m afraid, I’m not up to a chat with the Mrs, who is a crashing bore. She always swings Polly’s poo around in a little pink plastic bag. Putting dog poo in a bag is something I can’t abide. Buy a plastic bag that will end up in landfill, well that’s a good idea, not. Having said that, I know I’m very lucky with Steven, because he has trained himself always to poo into the canal. He moves his little bottom to one side and there it goes, plop. Now with his legs, he has been known to over balance and end up plop in the canal too. His dog paddle is not strong, so I have to lie down on the towpath to reach in to drag him out, but so far so good this morning.

There are some dog walkers who put their dog’s poo into a little bag and then hang it on a tree. I don’t understand this at all. What is that about? Is it to attract birds or insects? Or is it just bloody mindedness.

Anyway, Mrs Bouncy Labradoodle and Polly are heading our way, but Steven and I make it to our front door, before we are snagged in conversation about the church organ fund. No that is a lie - there is no church organ fund. No, it’s always some good cause or she’s looking for volunteers.

Is a tin of tuna a good idea for a late breakfast? Probably not after the haddock, but I don’t want to disappoint Steven, so I give him half a tin and keep the rest for my lunch in the fridge in the hope that the haddock will have moved on by that time.

The postman comes and goes leaving just a catalogue I haven’t asked for, a polling card for someone I don’t know and a second postcard of Caesar’s Palace, Las Vegas to me from Suz Bedgegood.

Hello Nancy Old girl,

Played Blackjack all night and still don’t understand it. Lost my pension. Chips are not fries here. Air conditioning so cold need a cardy. Love to the dog.

Missing you already, Suz xx

Sorry Suz, I’m not missing you yet. And there is no wedding invitation.

I check my emails. No invite there either. Ones about mesh patches for your lady bits, viagra and bingo and one from Sharon in Botswana that was full of Botswana news, nothing personal, sent to all her English and Irish friends and relations. Her gap year is now running into ten years. Well, good for her, I say. Better weather in Botswana. Who is Sharon? I have no idea, but I get lovely emails from her from time to time.

At eleven, I take my milk and a dash up to the third bench. My efforts on bench two have been a waste of time. Through the residue of the Ajax, you can read ‘The Fuck Bench’ very clearly. It needs turps or some sort of paint stripper. It must be an oil based paint. It is not emulsion. It is gloss. I don’t think it is a spray paint, like the ones that they use on the factory wall beyond the Rambling Bridge. I decide it is a glossy paint that has been put there with a brush. A big wide brush. A decorating paint brush, rather than an artist’s brush.

There are no cyclists today on the third bench, just a man with a roll up. I’m tempted to ask if I can have one, but as I can’t offer my drink I decide not to. Do I really need nicotine?  He is happy in silence and so am I, but he has rotten teeth and I know why.

I walk back towards the house, carrying Steven - his little legs have given up. My bench is still  damp and damaged and I resolve to look in the shed for something chemical to clean it.

I see that the little tent is still there on the other side of the canal, but there is no sign of the angler. It’s a bit risky leaving all his stuff there surely. I mean, there is no towpath on that side, but people do walk their dogs along there. The canal attracts all sorts of very nice people - dog walkers, cyclists, runners, those who think they are runners, people with young children who feed ducks and people with young children who think it’s a good place to learn to ride a bicycle.

But of course, it’s not all sunny down here. We are the most direct route for inmates to abscond from the prisons in Redditch. One of the cluster of prisons is an open prison and all you have to do there is walk to the canal and then walk the towpath to freedom and the city. It does attract unsavoury characters from time to time. Months earlier, I found a kid under bench one. Yes, he seemed sort of stuck under it. Perhaps he was trying to hide, but it was too difficult for him to get out again, because his mind couldn’t co-ordinate it. His mates had gone off and left him. He was burning hot, out of it with greenish grey skin and snot and  his body was in mid convulsion There was a glass pipe with bits and pieces of paraphernalia. I phoned for an ambulance. He’d been smoking crack. Lots of stuff goes on around here that I don’t see. It mostly happens after dark, but this was in broad daylight.  I miss most of it, because I get up in the morning. Just an observation, but people who are up to no good are not often early risers. Just as well. Just as well for me. Just as well that time that the youth was up with the lark too and that I caught him in time. I do hope he is still alive.

Talking of ducks, which I wasn’t, there are a gathering of them close to the house. There’ s Michael and Derek, the twins Harry and Barry, Frank and who is that? Ah yes, it’s Donald - haven’t seen him for a long time. Geraldine is in with the boys too, looking a bit frumpy.  Poppy is over the other side, standing on a log and trying to get her beak into some greenery. I decide that they can have the remains of the bloomer. Then I remember I ate it. They like white bread better than the wholemeal stuff. No bread, but I have the stubby remains of a madeira - that will do them.