November 2010
It was just an ordinary wooden bench: one of the many placed on the sloping grassy cliff top dedicated to the memory of those long-gone residents of the quiet seaside resort, or 'watering place' as the more genteel liked to refer to it. It was not so much the brown-varnished bench that was special, but the view. Out across the cluster of hotels, cottages and homes below the hillside, the curve of the promenaded bay, away to the near-distance with its towering red cliffs with trees bent against the winter wind, leafless now but in summer covered in verdant vegetation.
There was nothing special about the people who sat awhile on the bench: ordinary holidaymakers and residents, resting their legs after the ascent from the town and taking in the view before walking down, perhaps to have tea in the quaint, old fashioned tea rooms which still served leaf tea in pots with separate hot water. There were no bags dipped into mugs in these establishments or worse still the polystyrene cups that now passed as acceptable drinking vessels. A tearoom where the clink of rose-decorated china still could be heard and you could even notice, from an antediluvian spinster aunt, the crook of a little finger as she held the delicate porcelain to her lips.
It had been a strange choice for a honeymoon, but destinations were limited in December in those pre-cheap long haul days, unless one could afford the Nile Cruise, way beyond Paul and Rose's pocket as they saved for the deposit they needed for their first home together. Perhaps it was the memory of a childhood holiday or the offer of half board for the price of Bed & Breakfast that drew them to the Woodlands Hotel, once featured in Country Life, but now just a little down at heel. The staff had hoped that they would stay over the 'Festive Season' to relieve the boredom of serving the fussy widows of Manchester manufacturers, now permanent residents at the seaside, spending their late husbands' money to find comfort in old age. The white, highly perfumed lilies clearly from a wreath sent in memory of a recently deceased inmate had been placed on their table that morning as an incentive to stay, although none of the withered painted and blue-rinse coiffured ladies in the coffee lounge had moved from their accustomed seats to welcome the young people.
So Paul sat on the cliffs in the increasing gloom of the December afternoon and remembered. He pulled his grey overcoat around him, the overcoat that had served him through so many winters and from which he refused to be parted for a more modern style. His hat too was pulled down over his now thin grey hair. It had been a relatively short engagement before the December marriage: two shy people, both in danger of being left on the shelf, introduced by well-meaning aunts who 'thought it would do'. They had had barely time to get to know one another: really get to know one another in those pre-try-before-you-buy days. With what trepidation on that first night they had undressed before each other for the first time with only the bedside light to illuminate the room in the half-timbered country inn they had stayed in, as they had motored down. They had spent the next 48 hours together and still the shyness had haunted them both. He had been as disappointed to find that she wore glasses, as she had been that he wasn't quite the six-footer he looked in the flattering picture she had been shown. And they had married with a lifetime before them and had spent their Spring days of personal discovery in a place seemingly reserved for people for whom the struggles of life were coming to an end.
And so he sat on the bench musing: looking at the grey clouds gathering in the gloom and the starlings beginning their early evening flights in great crowds before roosting for the night. A large seagull landed nearby: perhaps he had flown from the Atlantic and was here making landfall after his long journey across the oceans. He pecked at a few scraps left by some of the day's visitors, looked hopefully at Paul, realised that nothing would be on offer and flew off to find pastures new, perhaps in the fish and chip wrappers that might be floating about the municipal car park near the sea front.
This was their special place but she was not here with him. They had all been so kind, so full of sympathy, smiling at his face frozen in the first shock of disbelief and loneliness. 'You must come and visit.' 'Now, don't be a stranger.' 'You know there's always a bed at our place for you.' These well-meaning offers had passed over him: had not even gone in one ear and out the other, but hardly registered. How could she have left him? He felt almost angry with her, that young girl who had become his soul mate: why wasn't she here to share the scene she had loved and had meant so much to them both through all the long years of struggle.
He rested his head on his arm and gazed down again towards the town. A small tear slowly wound its course down his lined poorly shaven cheek, a tear that he quickly wiped away in case any passer-by should start fussing over him and asking if he needed help or an ambulance. As he gazed down, his tired eyes half shut now through cold and sad depression, he saw a small figure coming up the slope. The figure walked gracefully and almost seemed to glide across the grass: a figure he could see as she neared dressed in light clothes that belied the season of the year. So like that favourite dress she had: the one his daughters laughed at because it was so out of date, but that he liked because she had worn it in those first few days: had made it herself for her honeymoon, sitting for hours stitching and re-stitching until she was satisfied. The other people on the cliff top seemed to take no notice: seemed not even to notice her as she came steadily onwards towards the bench on which he was sitting, quite huddled now as the wind began to get up even more fiercely and the gloom deepen.
'Paul.' It was her voice. 'Did you really think I would leave you here without me? After all those years to let us to be parted at the end? Come, surely you are ready now?'
A figure like this had come to him before: had asked the same question, a question he had as yet answered with a shake of his head, muttering that their children needed him still, that he wasn't ready. But she was right: he was ready now.
He held out his arm to touch her extended hand, saw her smiling face, the brown eyes, now without glasses, those eyes that he had missed so much. Their hands met and slowly, so slowly he raised himself from the bench and his spirit went away into the clouds with hers, forever united again: but their special place knew them no more.