The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  ‘Oh Catrin,’ Mom said when I first told her about the job. ‘How are you going to find yourself a husband working in that place?’ She shuddered. ‘Never tell a soul you work there.’

  ‘Isn’t it a sin to tell an untruth?’ I teased her.

  ‘Well, this is different.’ She gave me a sad, damp look. ‘A gentleman would think it odd.’ She sucked in her cheeks. ‘Anyone would think it odd.’

  She can disapprove of my job as much as she likes; truth is, it’s the best-paid option for someone like me, with only a high school education and no qualifications. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to go to college to study English and American literature. ‘Plenty of books in the library,’ was Dad’s helpful take on it.

  Mom’s right, of course. I never will meet a man at a funeral parlour. But her Southern upbringing has made her believe a woman isn’t complete, or even capable, without a man at her elbow, protecting her virtue, paying her bills. Only I wasn’t brought up in the Deep South. I was brought up on the road, fending for myself at new school after new school, never settling in one place long enough to make real friends or finish my studies. More than acquiring a man, I’d like to acquire a talent.

  At Greenacres, I’m often the last in this world to touch a person, and it’s as if their spirit haunts my fingers. I have to find a way to release them through writing. After work, I go home and scribble out ideas for stories, writing those lost souls back into existence as brand-new characters. Maybe that’s it – maybe that’s my talent. I want to believe it.

  TWO

  Sam, March 1983

  A sea breeze salts the morning air, tugging at his hair. Sam wishes it would blow away the clatter and beep of slot machines. There’s a smell of coffee coming from somewhere, making him realise he hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. People around him all seem to be chewing bagels, or munching salt-water taffy out of paper bags. His mouth waters. He puts his guitar down carefully, unhitches the rucksack from his shoulders, letting it drop onto the boardwalk with a grunt. The weight has got lighter with each week he’s been travelling, but it’s still vertebra-crushingly heavy. According to his guidebook, there’s a hostel not far away. He takes the map from his pocket and presses it flat with his palm; the place is within walking distance.

  He’s calculating just how much he has left to spend on food when a couple stop to ask if he’ll take a snap of them; they pose beside a neon casino advert shaped like a huge dollar sign. He aims the camera at their shiny smiles, directing them to stand closer.

  After they’ve gone, he hoists his rucksack up, adjusting the angle of his body to balance out the familiar weight.

  He’s lucky, one bed left. A bottom bunk. He asks the woman at the front desk of the hostel what the local attractions are, and where he should go to get a flavour of the city. His stomach rumbles as he says the word ‘flavour’. She admires her painted fingernails. ‘Just stick to the boardwalk,’ she says in a bored voice. ‘Don’t go past Atlantic Avenue. Not if you wanna keep your watch and your billfold.’

  The dormitory is empty apart from a young man in Y-fronts doing press-ups in the middle of the room. Sam puts his guitar case on his bed. Sleeping in communal rooms is a bit like going back to his boarding school days, long over. Waking to find himself in a tiny bunk with someone else snoring close by came as a shock after the privacy of his airy flat in Barnsbury, the comfort of his and Lucinda’s double bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets. But he’s got used to travelling on a tight budget; he’s even come to like it, because it means he appreciates luxury all the more on the odd occasions he has it, and because having limited means forces him to use his imagination.

  The young man doing press-ups gets to his feet with a grunt. He glances at Sam. ‘One hundred, every day.’ He smiles a little self-consciously, inclining his head in greeting, ‘Levi Hansma.’

  ‘Sam,’ Sam says, craning his neck to look up. ‘Sam Sage.’

  ‘Sam Sage,’ Levi repeats, exaggerating the hissing sounds. ‘Nice name, buddy.’

  ‘Your English is good. You’re German?’

  ‘Dutch. Are you here for the gambling?’

  ‘No. Just passing through,’ Sam says. ‘Leaving tomorrow. Planning on visiting Miami, then New Orleans.’

  Levi pulls on a pair of jeans, shrugging his head through a checked shirt without undoing the buttons. ‘We’re here for the casinos. There’s three of us. You want to join us tonight?’

  Sam is tempted. He likes Levi’s big, open face, his straightforward friendliness. He imagines Levi’s companions will be similar amiable blonde giants. He’s missed male camaraderie, his friend Ben and his constant banter, taking the mickey out of everything. But he shakes his head. ‘I’ve got no money left. Nearly at the end of my visa. Just three weeks left.’ He sits on his bunk. ‘I’ve been in the wilderness. Haven’t slept in a bed for a while.’

  ‘You’re a musician?’ Levi nods at the guitar.

  Sam pauses. ‘Yeah,’ he says. He sits up straighter. ‘I am.’ He opens the case and puts his hand on his acoustic instrument, pats it affectionately.

  ‘Cool. We were in a bar last night. The music was good,’ Levi says. ‘It was on Pacific Avenue.’ He frowns. ‘What was the name …’ He holds up a finger. ‘Ally’s. That was it. Not far from here. It was like, um, rock music? Live. It was good.’

  ‘If it’s free entry, I might give it a try,’ Sam says. Then he sniffs his underarms and rolls his eyes. ‘Think I’d better take a shower before I eat something. I’ve gone feral the last few weeks.’

  ‘Feral?’ Levi raises his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know this word.’

  Sam grins. ‘Wild.’

  Levi opens his mouth in an ‘ah’ of understanding. ‘Communal showers down the corridor. Hot-dog stand on the corner of the street.’ He gives Sam a thumbs-up. ‘See you later.’

  The shower room is deserted. There’s a public swimming pool smell of feet and disinfectant, and the drip of a leaky shower head. Sam steps out of his well-worn jeans, dropping his black sweatshirt onto the tiled floor, kicking off his trainers. He stands under the stream of water, letting it hit his scalp, his sore shoulders, the base of his neck.

  He looks down at the scum of water running down his skin, his gaze falling on his new tattoo. He grimaces. Lucinda will hate it. The thought gives him a familiar twist of guilt; he needs to find a phone booth. He promised he’d be in touch every week. He knows each time he rings that she’s hoping he’s ready to return to their life together. Ever since they started to date in their last year at Oxford, Lucinda always had grand plans – for going to London and applying for their first jobs, for moving in together, for decorating their new flat, and now for him to rise to partner in the law firm he works for. He’s tried to explain that he doesn’t want that. But she won’t listen. He dreads their stilted conversation, pauses magnified through the crackle of the long-distance wire.

  THREE

  Cat, March 1983

  I’m still a rookie at the funeral business. The young ones are especially hard. ‘No sense in taking on their grief, isn’t room enough in your heart for it all,’ Ray tells me. But unlike him, I haven’t spent forty years adjusting to the matter-of-factness of death.

  After work, I take the jitney to Maryland Avenue, heading for my favourite bench on the boardwalk. I like to spend a few minutes sitting there, looking out at the ocean. It makes me feel better.

  Get out in the evenings, Frank keeps telling me. You got to live a little. I want to do exactly that: find a drink in a bar, loud music, the rowdy press of other living humans at my elbows. I long for the casual touch of someone’s hand on my shoulder, to share a joke or two. The only people I know here are Ray and my boss, Eunice. Neither of them is going to be my drinking companion. And much as I know Frank would love to oblige, circumstances mean he can’t.

  I walk down the steps onto the beach. At the edge of the surf, I slip off my shoes and sit on the cold sand, wiggling my toes so that my feet are half submerged.
>
  ‘Wanna get a drink with me?’ I ask a nearby seagull, and he fixes me with a sceptical eye, flaps his great wings and takes off over the blue. ‘Well, I was only asking,’ I murmur, wrapping my arms around my knees.

  Behind me, people scream on the big dipper, the arcade machines ring and the crowd on the boardwalk chatter and whoop. The wind has got up, blowing gusts of grit into my eyes, scraps of rubbish from the boardwalk. As I head for home, a piece of paper slaps against my ankle, sticking there. I bend down to peel it off. It’s a flyer for a club: Ally’s on Pacific Avenue. Free entry. A live band. I go to screw it up to throw in the trash. Then blink at the words again.

  Go on, urges Frank’s voice. This is a sign, right? Take a little risk. Who cares if you go to a bar alone? This is the eighties, kid. You might meet someone, make a friend.

  I crumple the paper.

  I dare you, his voice insists.

  I don’t remember when I first invented my brother’s voice; I must have been pretty small, I guess. Now he’s a character all of his own. He’s been with me for years, giving me strength each time I crouched in some dark place, listening to Mom sobbing in another room, with Dad promising her he was gonna stop, that this was absolutely the very last time, hand on heart, that he was gonna see the inside of any goddam casino. Dad’s lies taught me not to trust, but Frank has never let me down. He was with me on every midnight flit we made from rental places, whispering comforting words as I struggled to keep up with Mom and Dad, hurrying through the night, Dad loaded down with cases. I worked out early that I couldn’t hang on to anything precious; even my old plushie, a torn dog with one ear called Titch, got left behind in one of those houses we abandoned, in a city we never revisited. Anything of financial value could disappear into Dad’s pockets, and anything I loved could be lost at any moment. Nothing was safe. But Frank couldn’t disappear, because his voice was inside my head.

  I look down at the crumpled paper in my hands. Frank knows I’m not going to wimp out of a dare. All right, I tell him. You win. You’re a goddam bully. But I’ll go to this club.

  FOUR

  Sam, March 1983

  The hostel bed proves too tempting to resist. After his shower, and a hot dog eaten too fast, he rolls into the bunk and closes his eyes. Just a couple of hours, he thinks.

  When he wakes, bleary-eyed, with a taste of onions in his mouth, mustard dried to a crust on his cheek, it’s early evening. He fumbles for his trainers and finds a piece of paper tucked into one of them: See you at Ally’s tonight! Levi.

  He calculates that he’s got a little time to explore, find somewhere to eat, see what this place has to offer before he meets Levi and his friends. He puts his guidebook in his pocket.

  He walks the boardwalk for a while, checking out the arcades, craning his neck to stare up at towering casinos, and then, with a jolt of something that feels like electricity, he sees her. She stands up from a bench. She’s hard to miss: tall and slim, dressed entirely in black, and with such a sad expression he wonders if she’s just been to a funeral. His fingers fall still and his shoulders straighten as she walks by, so close that he catches the slant of her cheek in profile, the shine of bare skin. Sunlight picks out golden glints in her light brown hair, pulled off her forehead, tied at the nape of her long neck. Nobody else appears to notice her. It’s as if she’s a ghost, he thinks. He watches as she goes down the steps onto the beach, big workman boots clumping un-ghost-like against the wood, and his gaze follows her across the sand towards the ocean. He feels an urgent need to go after her, and his body flickers into involuntary movement, but she looks as though she needs to be alone. He turns away.

  It’s getting chilly, the last dregs of sunlight seeping away. He settles himself at a corner table of a café called the Beach Shack, where he buys a plate of chips and ekes out a flat white, watching the deserted sand. He’s hoping to see the girl again. He imagines that he’ll spot her easily in her black clothes. But she doesn’t make another appearance. Disappointed, he reads through his guidebook again. He loves facts and stories about the places he’s visiting. He orders another coffee and reads about the Mob shooting each other on the streets of Atlantic City in the twenties.

  After the waitress has asked for the fourth time if he wants anything else, he closes the book with a snap and stands up, stretching stiff muscles. When he finds Ally’s on Pacific Avenue, he asks the bouncer what the band is. The roar of chatter from inside is already deafening. The hulking man in black pea coat and dark glasses frowns, cupping his hand to his ear.

  ‘Who’s playing tonight?’ Sam shouts again.

  ‘The Magic Men,’ the bouncer says. ‘Cover act.’

  ‘Cover act?’ Sam’s heart plummets. He hesitates. Maybe there’s another band, something authentic and interesting, playing somewhere nearby? On the other hand, it’s cold, and entry is free. He dithers, trying to make up his mind.

  ‘Sam! Sam Sage!’

  Levi looms over the shoulder of the bouncer. He steps forward, flanked by two ruddy-faced young men, his companions so exactly as Sam imagined, it makes him laugh.

  ‘Hey, buddy.’ Levi gives him a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘You came. You won’t regret it. It’s a cool place.’

  And Sam is corralled into the club by three blonde giants, all of them clapping him on the back, offering to buy the lagers.

  FIVE

  Cat, March 1983

  The security guy waves me through; no cover charge. Inside, it’s small and loud.

  I am bumped and jostled by shoulders and elbows as I make my way towards the bar, where I buy a Miller Lite. The crowd are clapping and whooping. I turn towards the stage and see four guys arranging themselves at drum kit and keyboard, grinning over their guitars. One of them grabs the microphone and shouts, ‘Atlantic City! We’re the Magic Men. And we’re here with all your favourite songs tonight.’

  They begin to play a version of Aerosmith’s ‘Walk This Way’, and the room goes wild. I take a gulp of my beer. At first, I’d thought the slurring lead vocals was down to faulty equipment, but when the singer stumbles over his guitar flex, I realise he’s drunk. There’s laughter and catcalls as he gives the audience a thumbs-up before launching into another song. Halfway through, he staggers forward, appears to attempt an Elvis-like hip gyration, catches his foot on a speaker cable and, with a surprised squawk, pitches head first over the side of the stage. The music screeches to a halt, a guitar twanging tunelessly, a last clash of the hi-hat, as the rest of the band members peer over the edge at their fallen singer.

  Burly security men move purposefully forward. There is an eerie silence, and then the buzz and mutter of conversations starts up.

  ‘Shit,’ someone is saying. ‘Maybe he’s unconscious.’

  ‘Nah, the dude’s wasted,’ another voice says. ‘Won’t have felt a thing.’

  There is laughter and booing as the singer is half dragged, half carried between the flanking shoulders of the stony-faced bouncers. A man in a suit climbs onto the stage and waves his arms for silence. ‘Management,’ someone says. But the noisy crowd refuses to shut up. The band members are conferring in a huddle, worried faces in the strobe lights. Another man has appeared on the stage, and I’m guessing he’s a roadie, as he’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. He says something to the nervous man in a suit, who scratches his head. Now the new guy is talking earnestly to the band. They discuss, gesticulate. The new guy comes to the front and picks up the microphone.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘It seems that your singer tonight is … a little indisposed.’ Hoots. Whistles. He waits for them to die down. ‘My name is Sam Sage. If you’ll have me, I’m happy to front a couple of covers for you tonight.’

  ‘I’ll have you!’ a woman calls. There’s more laughter.

  Sam Sage smiles. He has a long mouth and a crooked smile. And it adds up fast in my head: that mouth, his accent. He’s the same guy I saw on the boardwalk this morning. I remember the guitar by his feet. He pushes a hand throug
h untidy black hair, and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he nods his head, and clicks his fingers. One. Two. Three. The room falls silent. The band look at each other and shrug, and the keyboard begins, a gentle swell of notes. Sam opens his mouth and launches into a Patti Smith song, ‘Because the Night’. One of my favourites. By the time the drums kick in and his voice blasts into the chorus, the room is singing along with him, and I want them all to shut up, because he’s good. Really good.

  Sam Sage sings more covers. When the band stops, there’s a frenzy of relieved high-fives between them. The audience clap and cheer. Sam springs off the stage into the crowd, and I see hands reaching to pat his shoulders, a tall blonde man thrusting a beer towards him.

  ‘Must be nice being the hero,’ the man next to me says.

  ‘He was amazing,’ I say.

  ‘He’s too cocky,’ says a guy to my left. ‘I could have got on that stage and done the same.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ I say.

  The restroom is full of girls jostling for space at the mirror. As I sit in the stall, disembodied voices float over the door. ‘Cute,’ one of them says.

  ‘I’m a sucker for the accent,’ sighs another.

  ‘I’m gonna get his number.’

  Out of the cubicle, I wash my hands, bending towards the faucet to take mouthfuls of lukewarm liquid. I straighten up, wiping my lips and chin with the back of my hand. The girl next to me is tilting close to the glass, batting blackened lashes. She straightens up and winks at me, ‘That English dude has started a riot. But I wouldn’t say no.’

  I go back into the club, but the band have packed up. I don’t want to stand in this crush, drinking by myself. I catch sight of Sam Sage in the crowd, people grabbing his hand to shake, patting him on the back. He deserves it, I think. He saved the night.