Bench no.6

Bench no.6

1.

Spraying the outskirts, unintentionally sprinkling passer byers, swatting their faces as though a fly was in their space. The fountain spewed its crystal waters up higher than the gates. The bustle of joggers and walkers, people simply chatting, stopping, and blocking the pathway. Scatters of breadcrumbs sprawled across the path even though the sign read, “do not feed the ducks.”

Children unable to resist the temptation of crumbling up Mammy’s left-over sliced pan. All the whilst the strong waft of grass puffing out the end of red eyed youths’ mouths, the early morning still only rising.

2.

Feet firmly planted; bench number six seemed too always be his. Never seated or even perched, stood like a statue, like one of those life-like ones that you see in town; the ones that suddenly move when you pop a coin in their cup. He was unusual, no frown, nor smile. As though he was impartial to the surroundings that past him by. Patiently waiting for someone who never came.

Rumor's circulated that he was a drunk. Yet the drunks seemed to always stay at bench number four causing a ruckus and yelling obscene things at the young ones that walked past. Whistling and jolting at each other for a reaction at a pathetic attempt at humor.

He took a particular interest to the bottom of the basin, the murky water seemed like nothing of significance. The brown flow was constant and almost hypnotic, I attempted to bring his attention away.

“Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

Swiveling shocked that I greeted him, an unexpected grin sprawled across his face more than delighted to have been noticed.

“The skies almost painted blue. I Think I have found my spot for the day.”

 It was his spot every day, but I did not mention it, nor did I want to push it.

“Enjoy.”

3.

The basin fashion grew grim, over coats, hats and gloves seemed to be all the rage, the misty air made breathing all the more heavy, unable to talk on phones with the air too icy for bare fingers to handle. Yet he still stood there, at bench number six, now staring into the frozen water. Even the pigeons had gone into hiding; wings too frozen to fly.

“Fekin freezing out here, isn’t it?”

“She used to love it like this. Quiet. Still.”

Standing puzzled for a moment, he was in his own head and I decided to take the opportunity.

“Who used to love it?”

“Marianne, my daughter, she would come and write when no one was around. Pen in frozen hand. shivering whilst sipping on hot chocolate. I used to bring her blankets when she had been out for hours.”

As he spoke, I could see the grief grow on his face, an ache for what once was. I had to ask, now in so deep. Taking notice instantly of the past tense.

“Where is Marianne now.”

“She’s gone now dear.”

Desperately trying not to be intrusive but there was something endearing about the way he spoke, his mannerisms seemed like an invitation for more information.

But before I had the time to speak. I glanced down at the floor and there I saw engraved in the floor,

“Marianne, with love, Dad.”

Swearing I felt my heart shrivel inside. That reason why he stood here.

“And the middle of the lake, why there?”

“I always hoped she’ll come up for air again one day.”

 The breeze came between us, pulling up my coat to cover my chin I felt my icy cheeks turn red and the heavy tears in my eyes become glacial.

Lifting my flask to the lake, I cheered,

“To the lovely Marianne, forever bench number 6.”

4.

Walking home I began to feel uneasy, as though something did not quite add up, I tried to piece together the story. How come no one knew, if what he said was true, surely the drowning off a young girl would have been widespread news. The stories of him being a drunk circulated in my mind, trying to push them back, every part of me wanted to believe him. I searched google for hours looking for any news story involving the basin. Hundreds appeared,

"Young man pick pockets elderly woman"

"Children's charity fair raises 1,000 euros for lake protection”

But there was nothing about young Marianne.

Why would he lie?

Maybe Marianne was a figment off his imagination? Maybe the rumor's were true after all.

5.

On route to work the next day, I had not planned to stop and chat, making eye contact, I gave a gentle smile, acting as though I was in more of a hurry than I was. Approaching me swift fully, and without a hello.

"I may have misled you."

The uncomfortableness of the situation made me uneasy. I did not want to be involved in this anymore. Hoping I had not landed myself into danger.

"And how did you do that?"

"Marianne, she is not really gone."

"So, you lied?”

"I did to an extent, she is very real, and she did come here to write, that is all true. but she did not pass here, and is very much alive. It is just easier to think of it that way. My last memories of her were here, at this bench; the reason why I engraved it. But she chose to leave me. I have tried to contact her, even go visit but she wants nothing to do with me. I wish everyday she would just come back here, sit at this very bench curled up in her blanket.”

I could hear in his voice his throat tightening, the cracking of each word.

"She had the flu and did not even want to come out, I was being selfish and stubborn, I just wanted to prove a point, it was only a work dinner, and it costed her life. He came in so quickly, I tried to grab her, but it was too late. I was supposed to be her protector. The guards got him whilst I coward behind a table. I can still picture his eyes now, an armed opportunist who took my girl.”

Now almost sobbing, every dark thought I had about this man came crashing down.

“You can see why I tend not to tell the story; I could not stand to be a monster in anybody else’s eyes, Marianne’s was enough, it should have been me, I know it should have. All for the appearance of having a date to show off to my colleagues.”

“You are not a monster he is. I don’t think you should ever stop trying. She’s still out there and without a mother, she might struggle to forgive you now, but if you give up, she has lost a father too.”

For a man I only interacted with yesterday, his story started to feel like my own. But it was not mine to tell. Truly hoping he could get his Marianne back; he had lost so much, and that guilt would never leave. The basin was his only reminder of what was, and he was hanging onto it with every bit of desperation.  

6.

June rolled around and the summer heat came in full force, Ireland’s hottest summer was pending, and the streets busied with tourists and children on their school holidays. Cans on the canal where a weeknight occurrence once more and the nights stayed long and cool. 

 Ready for my last day of work before heading down the coast, not having walked round the basin for a while, I decided to go the old route, to see it in the summer again. The spray hit my face and it felt oh so familiar.

Scanning the basin, he was not there. He was always at this time of day, had he moved on? I looked one more time, bench number 6 was occupied. By a middle-aged woman writing in a note pad. My legs began walking over before my mind registered what was happening. Meandering over without a plan.  

“Excuse me? You would not happen to be Marianne, would you?”

Clearly disturbing her from a deep moment in thought, her green eyes pierced up at me.

“I am indeed, have we met?”

“No we have not but you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

I had her attention now.

“You know my father, don’t you?”

“I do, and I feel as though I know you too. He adores you. I will leave you to it. I am sure I will see you around.”

As I started to walk away, I could not help the grin pinned across my face.

He did it.

“Wait! What was your name?”

Looking over my shoulder, “It is Lily, Lily Mae”

“It’s lovely to meet you, Lily Mae.”

“And you Marianne.”