The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  Saskia Sarginson was awarded a distinction in her MA in Creative Writing at Royal Holloway after a BA in English Literature from Cambridge University and a BA in Fashion Design & Communications. Before becoming a full-time author, Saskia’s writing experience included being a health and beauty editor on women’s magazines, a ghost writer for the BBC and Harper Collins and copy-writing and script editing. Saskia lives in south London with her four children.

  Visit Saskia online:

  www.saskiasarginson.co.uk

  www.facebook.com/saskiasarginsonbooks

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  By Saskia Sarginson

  The Twins

  Without You

  The Other Me

  The Stranger

  How It Ends

  The Bench

  Copyright

  Published by Piatkus

  ISBN: 978-0-349-42000-4

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Hurog, Inc.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Lyrics from ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’ on p. 96 by John Denver. Lyrics copyright © BMG Rights Management, Reservoir Media Management

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Piatkus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  By Saskia Sarginson

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  One: Cat, March 1983

  Two: Sam, March 1983

  Three: Cat, March 1983

  Four: Sam, March 1983

  Five: Cat, March 1983

  Six: Sam, March 1983

  Seven: Cat, March 1983

  Eight: Sam, March 1983

  Nine: Cat, March 1983

  Ten: Sam, April 1983

  Eleven: Cat, April 1983

  Twelve: Sam, April 1983

  Thirteen: Cat, April 1983

  Fourteen: Sam, April 1983

  Fifteen: Cat, April 1983

  Sixteen: Sam, April 1983

  Seventeen: Cat, May 1983

  Eighteen: Sam, June 1983

  Nineteen: Cat, June 1983

  Twenty: Sam, June 1983

  Part Two

  Twenty-One: Cat, February 1984

  Twenty-Two: Sam, February 1984

  Twenty-Three: Cat, August 1985

  Twenty-Four: Sam, August 1985

  Twenty-Five: Cat, October 1985

  Twenty-Six: Sam, October 1985

  Twenty-Seven: Cat, February 1986

  Twenty-Eight: Sam, June 1986

  Twenty-Nine: Cat, July 1987

  Part Three

  Thirty: Sam, March 1988

  Thirty-One: Cat, June 1988

  Thirty-Two: Sam, December 1989

  Thirty-Three: Cat, January 1990

  Thirty-Four: Sam, March 1990

  Thirty-Five: Cat, August 1990

  Thirty-Six: Sam, August 1990

  Thirty-Seven: Cat, October 1990

  Thirty-Eight: Sam, October 1990

  Thirty-Nine: Cat, October 1990

  Part Four

  Forty: Sam, April 1991

  Forty-One: Cat, May 1991

  Forty-Two: Sam, January 1993

  Forty-Three: Cat, January 1993

  Forty-Four: Sam, September 1994

  Forty-Five: Cat, September 1994

  Forty-Six: Sam, September 1994

  Forty-Seven: Cat, July 2001

  Forty-Eight: Cat, September 2004

  Forty-Nine: Sam, September 2004

  Fifty: Cat, September 2004

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  PROLOGUE

  Hampstead Heath, 2004

  Panting a little from the climb, she reaches the bench and drops onto the wooden slats. She sits with her knees together, back straight, hands linked in her lap. Only her thumbs, moving restlessly across each other, betray her nerves. She closes her eyes, shutting out the view of scrub-covered hills, woods of ancient oaks, ponds filled with the dark waters of the Fleet.

  Is he here already? Walking one of the paths, passing joggers and dog-walkers, mothers pushing prams. If she had superpowers, could she discern the scrape of his feet against the gritty surface, dislodging tiny stones? A football match is in mid flow on one of the pitches at the foot of Parliament Hill, and she hears their shouting, and the yell of distant sirens.

  She opens her eyes, scared that she might somehow miss him, and runs her hands along the engraved letters on the back of the seat. A long time ago, Cat read the inscription aloud to him, and then each of them made up their own versions, like spells, making the other laugh. But the last time they met on the bench was the last time they saw each other, and by then words had become powerless. Instead, they squeezed as close as they could, his fingers holding her face, silently wiping away tears, salty thumbs grazing her cheeks. Ten years ago.

  She places her hand on the wood, almost as if she expects the warmth of his body to have lingered in the grain. Countless people will have found refuge here, eating a sandwich perhaps, reading a newspaper, pleased with themselves to have found such a good spot, alone or in company, holding a child on their lap or stroking a dog at their knee, looking down into the valley.

  Will he come? Fear tightens her throat. Maybe he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s found someone else. She spots a man making his way towards her. He’s doll-sized at the moment; as he approaches, she strains to make out details. Even from this distance and angle, she’s sure he’s the right height and build. Wait. No. This man’s hair is grey. But he’s nearly fifty, she reminds herself. He’s coming closer across the meadow. Is it him? She frowns and uses her palm to shield her gaze. Then she sees the child traipsing behind, sees him running to catch the man’s hand. They have a kite, a red triangle of plastic with a fluttering tail. They are laughing, this stranger and his grandson. Disappointment stings her eyes.

  She tries to steady herself, thinking of the diary, how it was all written down; the story of them, from the very beginning.

  The first time Cat and Sam sat on this bench, they couldn’t stop talking, there was so much to tell each other. The second time she was angry with him. Very angry. The third time they met here, life was a muddle, but not impossible, and the sheer joy of being together eclipsed the rest.

  ‘A hundred years ago,’ he told her, ‘there would have been cattle grazing here, locals coming to dig up sand, collect wood for their fires. Just think, we could have been a couple with a smoky cottage to go back to, standing out here, feeling the sun on our faces, the scent of the new ponds in the air. Me reaching for your hand, kissing you, your hair, your mouth, and not caring who saw.’

  She stayed quiet, imagining them in rustic clothes, living a simple life, no lies or deceit or thoughts of betrayal, just the pure comfort of each other, cows grazing around them, swaying slow and sure. Cat loved the poetry in Sam, how it came out in the lyrics he wrote, the sentences he spoke. How everything became a story, a song. With gleaming eyes, he explained that Guy Fawkes and his gang had planned to watch Parliament blow up from this vantage point; that there
was a myth that Boudicca was buried here.

  ‘Boudicca! Are you making this up?’

  He showed her a battered book in his coat pocket. Hampstead Heath: The Walker’s Guide.

  ‘Very sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll,’ she teased.

  He made a lunge then, and Cat slipped out of his grasp to run down the hill, stumbling over tussocks, feet slurping in and out of mud pools, arms flailing for balance, longing for him to catch her, anticipating the first thud of his body against hers, the judder of rib bone against spine, one heart behind the other.

  It is his shadow that touches her first, lassoing her inside its darkness, making her look up. He’s breathing heavily. He must have taken the steep slope at a run, sprinted up it like a young man to find her.

  His hair is not grey. It’s thick and black, with paler streaks at his temples. He runs a trembling hand through its damp strands, pushing it back. They stare without speaking. She has so much to tell him, but the words have caught in her throat.

  He does not look away or even blink. His stare holds her at its centre. Feelings flash across his features, one after the other, like a pack of cards falling from an opened hand. And despite everything, the last one that settles on his long mouth and around the creases on his forehead and inside his black eyes is hope.

  Part One

  ONE

  Cat, March 1983

  To Mom’s eternal disappointment, all the men I meet are dead. But that’s what happens when you work in a funeral home. Even the guys I spot on my days off strolling the boardwalk in their flared pants and open-necked shirts, smirking at girls and eating handfuls of salt-water taffy, look hardly alive. Of course, to be fair, they’re tourists, here for the gambling and the fun of the arcade. They’re in Atlantic City to escape reality.

  There are never any tourists around when I get up and head for the beach. It’s not just the early hour, the sky pink with dawn light, it’s because our neighbourhood’s considered out of bounds. Don’t go more than one block from the beach, is the general recommendation. ‘Heavens to Betsy,’ the old ladies in their plaid pants tell each other, ‘be sure not to stray too far.’

  But once I’ve crossed the wide strip of Atlantic Avenue, the clapboard houses and vacant lots fall away, and I’m in the area people think of as Atlantic City: big casinos and towering hotels, doormen in uniforms yawning on their patch of red carpet. By now I can smell the briny tang of the ocean, and soon I’m on the long line of the boardwalk itself, the sea murmuring beside me. The weak spring sunshine doesn’t take the chill out of the air, so no one else is fool enough to think of swimming. As I pass shops with Closed signs on the doors, chained-up surfboards rattling in the breeze, it’s just me and the night cleaners, and a few stray cats.

  Green wooden benches are positioned all along the front, facing the ocean. Every morning, I stop beside the exact same one, resting my hand on its curved back, touching its little bronze plaque. And down by the shoreline, the sea waits: the comforting hush, hush of the waves, the never-ending stretch of blue on blue. I hold my breath, because I’m hoping for a sight of fins, and I gasp as I spot them: three dolphins ducking in and out of the waves. I know I won’t be able to get close, but the joy of seeing them propels me down the steps and onto the sand. At the surf’s edge, I strip down to the swimsuit I’m wearing underneath my jeans and sweatshirt, and before I can gauge the exact level of biting cold, I plunge straight in.

  Nothing else exists except green-blue water and mind-numbing cold. I swim fast, my arms carving a path through the low waves, keeping the shore in sight, counting the empty lifeguard stations in order to know when to turn and swim back. By the time I’m out and towel-dried, clothes pulled on over skin tacky with salt, the early crowds are gathering. I hear the familiar chink and clatter of the arcades opening for business, awnings being winched over shopfronts, racks of postcards and novelty souvenirs wheeled onto the wooden boards.

  As I head for home, the scent of coffee wafts from the Beach Shack, reminding me that I’m hungry. In front of me, a tall guy rests his guitar case and a huge rucksack on the ground, then rolls his shoulders and gets a map out of his jeans pocket. He looks to be in his mid twenties, and I like his face. He has a long mouth that seems made for smiling. He bends his head to examine the map, floppy dark hair falling into his eyes. I slow my steps, thinking I could offer him directions, but a couple have already stopped. They hold a camera out to him, gesturing. As I pass, I hear his voice replying politely. He’s English. His voice sounds as I imagine those old-fashioned heroes in my favourite novels might.

  Immediately, I have this scene in my head – a kind of mash-up of Pride and Prejudice and Rebecca, Mr Darcy crossed with Mr de Winter: a man with beautiful manners and a stately home. A man with a wide mouth and an easy smile. In my head, I watch him striding off into the distant green of an English countryside to right an injustice, to win the heart of the woman he loves.

  I wonder what the tall guy with the guitar would say if he knew that hearing a snatch of his British accent triggered a fantasy in the space of five seconds. But that’s what’s so great about an imagination, the freedom to roam inside your own head. Without it, I’d probably be certified by now.

  Dad’s slumped on his chair on the porch, and it’s clear he hasn’t been to bed. He’s been playing blackjack or poker at one of the casinos. Red-eyed and dishevelled, he gives me a weary glance.

  I take his hand. ‘Come on, Dad. You need to eat something. You can’t be late for work again.’

  ‘I was on a roll, Kit-Cat,’ he says in a hoarse voice. ‘It was my lucky night …’

  ‘… and then it wasn’t,’ I finish.

  ‘Yeah.’ He pushes a hand through his thinning hair, then fishes a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and attempts to light one with shaking fingers, the flame stuttering out. I crouch beside him and hold his lighter steady. He smells of stale sweat and nicotine. He takes a deep drag.

  There’s a small birthmark on my forehead shaped like a star, or it is if you squint and use your imagination. ‘My lucky star,’ Dad likes to say. I don’t ask him how much he lost. He wouldn’t admit the truth anyway. No need to panic, I tell myself, my wages will cover the rent. Just as well, because there’s nothing of value left in our house to sell or pawn. Mom’s piano went months ago. She says it’s easier now, better without the worry of losing it. But sometimes I catch her running her fingers over the kitchen table, sounding notes in her head.

  After a quick shower, I’m dressed for work in my uniform of black shirt and trousers. In the kitchen, Mom’s bustling about, a white apron over her sprigged cotton dress, a blue ribbon in her hair like a young girl. She’s cooking grits and eggs for my father. Coffee boils in a pot on the stove. I pour myself a cup.

  She gives my steel-capped boots a sorrowful glance. I’ve given up telling her that I wear them for protection. It’s mandatory. She longs to see me in elegant pointed slippers with delicate heels.

  I take a sip of scalding liquid. ‘It’s got worse, hasn’t it?’ I lift my eyes to the ceiling. Above our heads, Dad’s heavy footfall creaks across the boards.

  She turns, hisses, ‘You think I don’t know?’

  ‘But Mom—’

  ‘There’s no point, Catrin. No point talking about it. We manage, don’t we?’ Her words trickle into silence. Neither of us speaks for a moment. ‘He found it hard after little Frank died.’ She flutters her fingers. ‘Then you were so ill … at death’s door. It took a toll. And there were the medical bills. It’s been a struggle ever since. I think that’s it. I think that’s why he does it.’

  ‘I know he doesn’t want to hurt us …’

  Mom grimaces. ‘I have one of my sick heads.’ She touches her temples with the tips of her fingers, rubs in tiny circles. ‘Just do one thing for me,’ she says.

  ‘Mom?’

  She comes close, and I think she’s going to ask me to massage her feet or fetch a damp cloth to cool her brow. ‘Don’t be h
asty when it comes to finding a husband,’ she says. ‘Not like me.’ She grips my wrist and squeezes hard. I didn’t realise she had the strength. ‘Make the right choice. Use your head, not your heart. I want you to have a good life. I want you to be secure.’ She lets go of me. ‘Safe.’

  ‘Safe?’ I repeat. ‘Mom, I’m not going to rely on a man for that.’ I frown, rubbing my wrist. ‘Do you … regret marrying Daddy?’

  She looks at me with something like pity. ‘Regret is pointless, Catrin. Best just to make decisions that will save you from the sorrow of it.’

  ‘But … you did love him, before?’

  ‘Love?’ She clicks her tongue impatiently. ‘Love’s not real, Catrin. Not romantic love.’ She turns from me, busying herself with putting crockery away.

  I spent so long wishing Baby Frank hadn’t died, imagining how he’d have turned out, that the wanting has made him real, real enough that I can conjure him at will: a lanky big brother giving me bear hugs, dishing out advice along with plenty of teasing. He sounds deep and slow, with a hint of the South; not country, but that lovely, lazy stretch to his vowels like Mom’s.

  Mom’s fallen out of love with Dad, I tell him. Do you suppose Dad knows?

  I imagine Frank wrinkling his eyes in irritation. What’s to love about a man who lies? Dad hasn’t got a clue. Haven’t you been watching? He whispers into my ear. Listen, you can’t fix Mom and Dad. You need to fix yourself, Cat. You need to start living.

  I suspect Frank disapproves of my job. Which is ironic, when you think about it. Like Mom, he probably worries that there’s not much of a social life attached; I’m the first to admit that most people I meet aren’t exactly raconteurs. Corpses tend to be on the quiet side.

  I get to Greenacres on time, clumping up the steps to the front entrance, past the sign saying: Funeral Home. Est. 1927. Pushing open the door, I’m in the hushed, respectful silence of the foyer, lilies upright in a pale vase.

  At the end of every working day, there’s a silky dust on my skin, a grey tinge of something that looks like soot. Human ash gets everywhere, flying free just as soon as the door of the retort is opened, riding on a wave of heat.