The Meetings
As I sit on a park bench I trace the words engraved on the small metal plaque with my fingertips. By doing this simple act I recall the happiness I witnessed so long ago.
Every day I come here to watch others enjoying the park. As I sit, I reflect on an unknown person who was once so strong and so full of life, all those years ago. Maybe the plaque could be a marker for my life too. As crazy as it may seem, I used to watch him and her, while I was busy working among the flowerbeds and borders.
Most mornings the young woman would arrive via the side road into the park. Bohemian in her dress she walked briskly, her long, blonde hair streaming out behind her, like a veil of sunshine even on the dullest of days. Her footfall on the gravel was so light it barely made a sound. If I happened to be busy either weeding, hoeing or planting I would miss her arrival.
Sometimes while I straightened my back I would catch sight of her waiting patiently at this bench. On seeing the unknown man’s arrival, her face would brighten and with a laugh she would rush to his open arms. The man, tall and elegant in his posture, dressed quite casually in chino trousers and a light jacket. Some mornings he would arrive so early that the mist hadn’t time to clear to wait for her. He always came via the main entrance, with its large ornate gates of black and gold. A couple of hours later she would arrive with her beautiful smile.
I never quite knew what time of day they would arrive. Sometimes if the weather was awful in the morning they came in the afternoon, but I never saw them arrive together.
At first, I wasn’t sure about their relationship, whether they were lovers, or not? Not that it was any of my business. I just saw them as two happy people enjoying each other’s company.
Happiness is a rare thing these days. I considered myself lucky a silent witness to the pleasure they shared as I worked among the flowerbeds and borders. Not being a good judge of age I did think the man looked slightly older than the woman. The sun highlighted the passing of his years in the changing colour of his hair. However, in all honesty, I couldn’t begin to guess the woman’s age, as I hadn’t seen her close up, well, not at first.
I used to see them strolling, arm in arm around the park. The woman gazed into the man’s face as though she’d never tire of it. Occasionally, I would stumble across them standing close together down by the fountain, or up on the rise overlooking the town.
He stood with his arm around her narrow waist, talking in his easy, gentle way while pointing out something of interest to her. Like the multitude of colourful butterflies that fed restlessly on the globe buddleia bush. Sometimes, as if by magic, the man would produce a bag of bread. The young woman’s laughter carried on the air across to where I was working among the perennials. Together like children they would race along the path to the pond. Her gentle, laughing voice was conveyed on the light summer breeze as she called back to him.
“I win again!”
At the pond, the swans were the first to know there was food on offer. They would haughtily swim over as the woman attempted to throw the bread to them, but the smaller, more agile, comical ducks would get in first. Together the couple would laugh at the antics of the swans and ducks until all the bread had gone.
Some days while I trundled about with my wheelbarrow I would come across them, sitting with their heads intimately close. They were especially fond of the bench under the spreading oak tree on a rise overlooking the town.
On one occasion while I dug out a flowerbed ready for the seasons planting I watched as the man produced a bag of nuts. Within minutes as though by some sixth sense, from nowhere, squirrels appeared and came down from the branches above to feed on the nuts the woman held out.
The unexpected look of pure pleasure that crossed her face was a remarkable sight. It seemed to me the man brought a sort of enchantment into her life. I know he did mine, and I began to look forward to their visits, to share in the magic of their happiness.
It makes me smile even now. I remember sharing her birthdays and Christmas celebrations on this bench. The gentleman was like a magician conjured brightly coloured balloons and ribbons out of nowhere to decorate the bench before she arrived.
As she came up the rise towards him, he produced a cake with lighted candles. Once she was seated, he’d arrange her flowing bohemian skirt around her sandaled feet and then set up his camera to take a photograph of them together while she blew out the candles.
The autumn seemed to arrive quite quickly that year. You could smell the changing of the seasons in the air. I had only just unlocked the park gates when he appeared out of the early morning mist.
He walked much slower, unsteady on his feet and with the aid of a stick. He seemed embarrassed to see me and nodded his acknowledgement before making a slow progress up the slight rise to wait as he always did on their bench under the oak tree. Shocked at the sudden change in his appearance I quickly turned my attention back to raking the first of the falling leaves. Their absence from the park went unnoticed by me, I’m sorry to say, with too many jobs needing my attention.
***
As the flowering season ended I began cutting back shrubs, digging out the annuals, dead heading the roses and splitting some of the large plants to make new ones. As I worked my way through the list of jobs my mind was already planning next season’s planting. The weeks flew by as I continued working my way around the park, tidying the edge of the pond and pulling out the invasive weeds. Soon I was clearing the flowerbeds, borders and urns ready to plant up with the winter flowering plants and bulbs.
Early one morning I woke to find the first snowfall of the season had fallen overnight. After I had bought a pint of milk I hurried to the park as the snow began to fall again. As I turned the corner, on reaching the shelter of the park keeper’s hut, I found the young woman sitting huddled in her coat outside the hut door.
On seeing me she rose. Tears stained her face. With a weak smile she greeted me like an old friend and held out a small, brightly wrapped parcel. Words tumbled from her lips in-between uncontrollable sobs. All I could understand was that she was trying to explain something.
“Please, come in and have a cup of tea. While you’re warm up you can explain.”
On unlocking the door the warmth of the hut hit us, adding colour to her cheeks and hands. I gestured for her to sit on an old park bench I had just finished repairing. While we waited for the kettle to boil she repeated what she had said outside. As I passed her a mug of tea I noticed the fine lines around her eyes.
After taking a sip, she said, “I’ve been unable to face coming here, to our special place, since the funeral two months ago.” Tears bubbled up in her brown eyes as she picked up the parcel and handed it to me.
On opening it I was unable to speak after reading what was written on the plaque in my hands. I met her eyes and she smiled at the shock that must have registered on my face.
“Yes,” she said with a rueful laugh. “He was my father. I was only able to search for him after my mother passed away. On our first meeting my father promised me we would do all the things we had missed doing when I was a child. So we flew kites, visited the zoo and built sandcastles on the beach, but mostly we enjoyed spending our time here in the park. I recalled coming here with him as a small child before my parents divorced and my mother took me away. My father had remarried, but unfortunately, they were unable to have children. He kept me a secret from his new wife only wishing to protect her from any upset that might have arisen from our meetings.” She took another sip before continuing.
“Three months ago I received a call from Dad’s wife to say he’d been rushed into hospital. As his health was deteriorating fast he’d told her all about me. She phoned to ask me to keep her company at his bedside, wanting to share his last moments together. We’ve since become good friends and I spend my time visiting her now. I would like to have a reminder in the park of the wonderful times I’ve spent with my lost father and to remind other people of their fathers too. If it’s possible could we fit the plaque to the bench under the tree?”
I nodded picking up my screwdriver. Together we stepped out in the snow making our way to the rise. As the young woman held the plaque I fastened the last screw in place before she read the words aloud:
‘In memory of all the lost fathers everywhere: One day may your children come back into your lives so you can relive their childhood years together again.’
As I watched her leave by the main gates I recall the happy times I spent with my father playing on my sledge on sunny wintry days so long ago. As I made my way back to my hut I saw our footprints were the only ones in the freshly fallen snow and wondered whether I would see her again.
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About the author
Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer and has penned six books and
over a hundred short stories. She lives in an Essex village with her
husband, Russell.
Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up.
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