Contents

Table of Contents

Cover

Contents

Copyright

Bench Warfare

About the Author

Copyright

Copyright © 2013 Nicholas Lim

The right of Nicholas Lim to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Richmond Press

A Richmond Press ebook

2.0.0

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Richmond Press

A division of ICraft Solutions Ltd

6 Bourne Gate

25 Bourne Valley Rd

Poole

BH12 1DY

BENCH

WARFARE

Nicholas Lim

Bench Warfare

Elsie's memorial bench commanded the best view of the river for miles around. Set on the path near the top of Terrace Gardens, it faced south, overlooking the water meadows where the River Thames swung down to Teddington Lock. At first glance it was a peaceful spot, not the sort of place you'd expect to find a war.

“Elsie Myers b. 1941 - d.1987

In loving memory.”

A small brass plate carried the dedication in raised lettering. If you sat on the bench and looked to your left, the river was visible between the trees as a curving grey lane of water beyond the park railings and the traffic hurrying along the avenue. In late autumn and winter when the trees were bare, you could almost see to Hampton Court.

Dr Lawson arrived at the bench at 9:30 sharp. A few moments later, Dr Ferguson appeared, walking briskly from the opposite direction swinging his umbrella. Neither man acknowledged the other. The two had been visiting this bench every morning for the last eleven years, missing a day only through ill health or weather. Wet days, they could be seen at window seats overlooking the path and the empty bench.

The bench had other regulars. There were the gulls, who arrived every morning at dawn to perch on the white wrought-iron arms. There was Trudy, the Border collie with the bad hip, for whom a rusty bench leg signified some personal boundary post and was marked as such most afternoons. And there was Clive, the park gardener of nine years, who would stop by most mornings for a cigarette break. But of all the bench's visitors, none were as dependable as the two doctors.

On this particular morning, Dr Lawson arrived to find his place occupied by a head covered in newspaper. From beneath a damp copy of yesterday's Daily Telegraph issued the regular snores of peaceful sleep.

Dr Ferguson also arrived to find his usual seat occupied, his by a pair of large booted feet. Dr Lawson's head and Dr Ferguson's feet were not, in fact, unconnected. A wide, purple neck, a well-swaddled torso, and two bent and trousered legs joined the offending appendages together into one continuous creature. After some moments’ study, Dr Lawson leaned down and rapped on the newspaper with his knuckles, as if at a door.

The sleeper gave no visible reaction, although his snoring was no longer audible. Dr Ferguson, not a patient man, brought up the point of his umbrella and jabbed it briskly into the sleeper's ribs. There was an hhrumph and a “What?” The head rose, feet dipped, and the sleeping form sat up, assembling itself into the complete man.

“Excuse me,” said Dr Ferguson politely, and sat down.

Dr Lawson nodded once to the tramp and took up his own position. The three men sat still and in silence in a line along the bench, like birds.

Most mornings on arrival the doctors would breakfast on pastries, then coffee from Thermoses. The meals were eaten separately and in complete silence. After breakfast, Dr Ferguson would read his paper, Dr Lawson a book. Still no word would pass. If an item were dropped, it would be picked up without offer of help. If suddenly cloudy or sunny, clothes and hats might be adjusted, umbrellas unfurled, jackets buttoned, but all without remark. A sneeze would pass unblessed. The view would change, or not, but no observation on it was ever made. It was as if for both men the other simply did not exist. In eleven years, not a single word had passed between them. At ten thirty, Dr Lawson would fold up his paper and sit in silence, contemplating his nose. Sometime shortly before or after, Dr Ferguson would pocket his book and light a cigarette.

Clive, the park-keeper, had been introduced to the two doctors on his first day, as though they were as necessary acquaintances to a would-be park-keeper as the hazel hedges or the old beech trees lining the Avenue. He had asked the reason for the doctors’ behaviour, but no one knew, or if they had known, had forgotten or died. The doctors had become the only creatures he knew to outdo his trees in their unbending patience, living in their permanent frost on the bench through wind, rain, or summer sun alike.

To the casual observer, the two men might have been, by dress and gesture, identical twins. The few noticeable differences only emphasized their similarity, as distinguishing marks of warring tribes might appear to the foreigner as slight variations in a shared culture. Both wore dark blazers, collared shirts, cardigans and Winchester-knotted ties. Dr Lawson occasionally felt the need to adjust his tie-knot, while Dr Ferguson would take great care with his cuffs. And when ruminating on the pigeons, Dr Ferguson had a habit of poking his tongue underneath his upper lip; Dr Lawson favoured nibbling small fragments of flesh from his cheeks.

The men appeared to share interests: fresh air and coffee, the river view, dogs but not dog-owners, passing clouds, pigeons, traffic and women. A noticing sort of girl would find herself moving out of one field of vision only to find that she had been passed on, like a well-handled ball along a line-out, to the other man. Overlooking the river and being on the circuits of the local nannies, Elsie's bench was provided with plenty of fine views.

There was only one subject that outranked girls in the doctors’ affections. Pastries. This morning, Dr Lawson had with him a cinnamon Danish and a large blueberry muffin. Dr Ferguson was carrying an Eccles cake. They began eating at their usual time.

The tramp, sufficiently awake to smell breakfast, opened his eyes to find that he was sitting upright and not quite where he thought he had left himself the night before. He looked slowly to his left, moving as if still in a dream, and saw one Eccles cake disappearing like the grin of the Cheshire cat. With no more haste his eyes tracked to the right, sensing motion, to discover a diminishing blueberry muffin. His eyes returned to stare dead ahead.

“Nice day for it,” the tramp suggested. Receiving no answer, he began fishing around innumerable pockets, eventually producing a quarter-eaten cheeseburger. It hovered in the air in front of his nose for a moment, then began to take some damage.

“Yes, very nice,” he agreed with a nod, then, noting that Dr Lawson had finished his pastry, offered him a bit of cheeseburger. Dr Lawson declined. The tramp blinked and asked, “What's yer name, mate?”

Dr Lawson appeared to be deaf.

“Carm on, I'm only being friendly-like. I'm Larry, Lazzer!”

Dr Lawson stared straight ahead. On impulse, Larry put his arm round the doctor's shoulders and gave him a hug – it looked like he could use one. It was like squeezing fish bones. Dr Lawson detached himself.

Larry, rather hurt, announced, “Look, if you want to act anti-social like, you can fuck off to another bench – there's one free over there. I was ‘ere first.”

Dr Lawson, roused by this quoting of Park Bench Rules, responded stiffly, “I have been coming to this bench for eleven years. And, if it wasn't for me, it wouldn't be here at all. So I think I have the stronger claim and if you don’t like it you should be the one to leave.”

Larry-Lazzer stared, open-mouthed, at the doctor. This was different. He grinned, “Ass more like it. Now we’re talkin’!”

He settled back comfortably. After a moment, however, his grin faded.

“Eleven years? That's gotta be bollocks,” he turned to his left, “hasn't it?”

Dr Ferguson swivelled from the waist up. “I don't find that very remarkable. As a matter of fact, I myself have been coming here for longer: for eleven years, three months,” he paused to make a calculation, “and thirteen days, to be exact.”

Larry looked from one man to the other. “Wass-iss? Iss a set-up?” he jeered. “You two know each other, don' you?” He slapped his thigh. “Thassa goodun, that is! Thirteen days! Eleven years!”

Four or five minutes passed peacefully enough. Larry offered more conversation, more cheeseburger, and then gave up and concentrated on finishing his breakfast. After that, he settled down to wait. He was familiar with the endurance required by park benches and the kind of action they might offer, though today he was in for a surprise.

He rolled himself a cigarette. Lighting it, he took in a deep lungful of smoke and turned to Dr Lawson. “Ahhhh. First smoke of the day – straightens the spine out, eh?”

“Do you smoke?” he asked Dr Ferguson.

A magpie flew past hoping for crumbs, its swoops following some roller-coaster of air invisible to the human eye. Two more of the glossy black-and-white birds followed. Across the expanse of grass below Elsie's bench, the autumn leaves flopped and flipped in their hundreds, turned over and over by the unseen hands of the wind as if the park were playing a vast and endless game of patience.

Larry finished his cigarette and rummaged around for something else to keep him amused. His many pockets and unreliable memory together rarely failed to provide a surprise. He discovered a small bar of chocolate in an outer compartment of his second overcoat.

“Chocolate?”

Chocolate was one of Dr Lawson’s great weaknesses. He adjusted his cuffs.

“You?” he asked Dr Ferguson, snapping off a run of black squares. Dr Ferguson stretched his neck, checked his tie and said nothing. Though known to be occasionally sour in his remarks, by way of compensation Dr Ferguson also possessed an extremely sweet tooth.

“Oh well, all for me,” Larry sighed, gulping down the squares. He stowed the rest of the bar away. Teeth crunched loudly on the chocolate. Dr Lawson reached into his bag to retrieve his Thermos. Dr Ferguson was not far behind, pouring out his morning coffee into a blue screw-top plastic cup. Larry, watching, hastened to produce a half-litre bottle of Old Ship from a hidden pocket.

After a couple of swigs, the rum revived a niggle in him.

“Wha-jer mean, ‘if it wasn’t fer you?’” he asked of Dr Lawson, who replied without pause, as though they had never stopped speaking.

“I arranged for this memorial bench to be placed here–”

“–I think you’ll find I was the one who funded this bench, and had the idea for it in the first place–”

“–yes, the original application form was put in by me – I even have a copy of it,” Dr Lawson continued as though the only speaker present. Larry’s head jerked back and forth as if at a tennis match.

“–there’s a record of it in the public library, for those who care to check,” Dr Ferguson ended.

“Wha’ d’you say ta that?” asked Larry of Dr Lawson. He was beginning to enjoy himself.

“You can tell Dr Ferguson that I am not interested in public records.”

“He’s not interested in public records.”

“And you can tell Dr Lawson that that is a shame, as that is where he would find the facts, including my wording for the dedication, signed by me. “

“–that would be odd, as they happen to be my words.”

“They are not.”

“They–” Dr Lawson recollected himself and sat back.

Larry also sat back trying to keep a watch on both doctors at once out of the corners of his eyes as though caught between a pair of mad dogs. After a moment he got up and inspected the bench and the plate carrying the dedication.

“Elsie Myers, born 1941, died 1987,” he read out slowly, glancing at the doctors. They might have been carved in stone.

“In loving memory.”

Still clearly visible, the words had turned green with age.

“Elsie Myers. Elsie Myers – she was in that film! What was it? The Thirty Something Something?” Larry scratched his chin and Dr Lawson stared at him in disbelief. “The thirty-six–”

“Thirty-nine–” Dr Lawson interrupted.

“–steps,” Dr Lawson and Dr Ferguson finished together.

Larry nodded with pleasure. “I like when she takes her stockings off with the handcuffs on!”

“That was the remake,” Dr Lawson said darkly.

“Madeleine Carroll,” Dr Ferguson added with a scowl.

“She was fantastic!”

“She was wooden,” Dr Lawson corrected.

“This bench could act better than Madeleine Carroll,” Dr Ferguson was barely able to contain his scorn.

“Compared to Elsie, this bench would have a better chance of acting its way out of a paper bag!” Dr Lawson gave a gnomic nod.

“Well,” Larry bent down to pick up a battered rucksack from beneath the bench, “I gotta go. Love to chat all day gents,” he pantomimed consulting a watch, “but I've a meeting with a bottle-bank. Busy, busy.”

Larry slung the rucksack over his shoulder and sauntered off over the grass, watched by both doctors. In his absence, silence returned between the two men, flowing in like a tide. Across the grass, the leaves were still turning over and over, moved by the cold gusting wind. Dr Lawson opened his bag. He withdrew his Thermos again, unscrewed the cup and poured out a generous measure of coffee. For a long moment he stared down at the steaming surface of the liquid. Larry was crossing the grass, moving towards the bordering trees. Dr Lawson continued to stare at the trembling surface of the coffee, as though telling his fortune in the cup's steam. He nibbled at a small fragment of flesh on his lower lip.

“Coffee?” he extended the cup forward and a fraction of an inch to his right.

Dr Ferguson sat perfectly still.

Trudy, the Border collie, bounded into view at the other end of the grass. She stopped on seeing the two men sitting on her boundary post, still as gargoyles. She barked.

“It's all right Trudy!” her owner called out, emerging from behind a hedge and throwing a stick.

“Very kind.” Dr Ferguson accepted the cup. “I finished mine earlier.”

“I thought it would be colder today.”

“S'turned mild.”

“Mm. I think it's the cloud cover.”

The two men continued to watch Larry's retreating figure. He reached the edge of the grass and disappeared into the trees.

“Know who he reminds me of?” Dr Lawson asked.

“Hm?”

“Tony Curtis.”

Dr Ferguson smiled, “In ‘Some Like It Hot’?”

“Something like that.”

“When they were on the train at the beginning?”

“Well, the pantomiming.”

There was silence again for a while.

“Did you see ‘Reptile Man’?”

Dr Lawson shook his head in disbelief. “Terrible!”

“His speech to his young self was good.”

“Yes.”

Their conversation ran down into the scratched silence of the wind and the turning leaves, like a wind-up gramophone playing to the end of an old recording. The ghost of an older feeling hung in the air. Dr Lawson stretched over to pour out more coffee.

“Talking of bad films, d'you remember ‘The Lost Weekend’?”

“The Billy Wilder film?”

Dr Lawson shrugged. “Larry could do the remake of that.”

“He could do ‘Barfly’ too!”

“Well, if Oliver Reed can come back, anybody can.”

The two men laughed. Clive walked past, staring.

“Do you still go to the cinema, William?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I can't believe the Paramount's closed.”

“And Priory Road.”

At this, there was another silence. The closure of Priory Road seemed sad beyond all proportion.

Trudy began to bark again. The gardener stopped to talk to her owner. He nodded towards the bench. The dog jumped in circles around them.

“Well, there's half a cup left,” Dr Lawson announced, peering into the silvered depths of his flask. “I could do with a tot of that Larry's rum.”

“Me too. That was Elsie's favourite. Do you remember?”

“No, it was port! There was nothing she liked better than a drop of port.”

“But she liked anything with rum – especially daiquiris! She was a devil for those!”

“Well, maybe at a party. In the evenings, after work, it was always port. She told me it was the one drink she never tired of–”

“–I think you’ll find it was rum,” Dr Ferguson interrupted pleasantly.

Dr Lawson held the Thermos with its dregs. He gripped it tightly without moving. On the lower terrace, the magpies were chattering loudly. Dr Lawson refilled his cup. The park, the weak sun, the river beyond the railings, the whole day seemed to pause, to be waiting, as the space between the two men filled with the noise of the wind, turning the leaves over and over on the grass.

The End

About the Author

Nicholas Lim lives in London with his wife and two sons. An Oxford and Faber Academy graduate, he has been writing and editing for over twenty years, publishing poems and short stories in a number of award-winning anthologies. His first novel,  The Pattern Maker, won the Pen Factor prize in 2012 and is due to be serialised in audio and e-book form early in 2014. A new short story, The Bottle Shop, is out next month. Subscribe to the author’s newsletter to receive updates on new releases, or for more information on Nicholas Lim please visit www.nicholasrobertlim.com.

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