November 2011
They say that 'ghosts', or 'apparitions' are all in the mind; but, then, all our perceptions are processed by that Super Computer we call the brain. Whether or not the 'mind' is a separate entity is one of those questions which has been exercising scientists and philosophers for many centuries.
However, be that as it may: let us continue.
He was there, most days, sitting, seemingly relaxed, on the third bench along from the Tavistock Street gate of Cambridge park. When Robert, on his lunch break, took his sandwiches into the ornamental gardens he would usually pass the young man and settle on the fourth or fifth bench; but, as the weeks went by he became increasingly curious about the stranger. He didn't seem to have any kind of lunch with him nor was he reading a book or newspaper . . . so he was probably not from one of the many offices nearby.
Not that Robert was exactly happy with his own routine . . . seven years with Excel Import and Export Agents Ltd. With little to show apart from one or two modest pay increases and promotion from accounts clerk grade 3 to accounts clerk grade 2. These days he couldn't even be sure of, one day, getting the decent pension he had originally expected.
Perhaps the stranger was one of those very self-contained persons who went to the park just to think, in quiet surroundings . . . and had no need of such things as lunch or reading matter.
Maybe he was someone quite important – even the owner of one the many prosperous businesses in that area.
The weeks and months passed uneventfully, as usual. Late winter, with its snowdrops, turned into early spring, with crocuses – followed by the inevitable display of narcissi and tulips; a glorious sight at last in the welcome warm sunshine. But still Robert knew no more about the stranger on the third bench. Of course he could have spoken to him many times – except that he could not help feeling a sense of apprehension and foreboding. The man, whoever he was, did not radiate much in the way of a welcoming ambience.
By the time the firm's Christmas party came round once again Robert had begun to think he must, once and for all, try to clear up the mystery of the unknown visitor to the park. It so happened that this year's gathering was to include a retirement ceremony for old George Stumpy, who had been with Excel, man and boy, during forty two conscientious years. After the buffet meal and more than a few drinks from the free bar Robert decided that if anyone could throw some light on the question of the park man it should be old George.
'George, you must have used Cambridge park for more years than anyone else around here – I just wondered if you know anything about that strange character who always seems to be in there; by himself, usually staring into space, a bit creepy really.'
'Oh,' said George, 'you must be talking about Cyril Jenkins – when he left school he went to work at the old National Bank, just down the High Street; where Starbucks is now. When the First World War started he volunteered for army service in the County regiment; nice young fellow, always polite and quite friendly, or so I've been told often enough. I believe he used to like the park as you do now. However, the poor chap was sent off to France and was killed in the second Somme offensive like so many more of his comrades.'