The Bench

by Nigel Jones

  THE BENCH

  By

  N. G. Jones

  Copyright © N. G. Jones 2010

  The right of N G Jones to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  With the exception of actual historical personages identified as such, all characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-907540-15-8

  Published April 2010 by N G Jones

  For Sandi and Ashley

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to my lovely wife Sandi, without whose support and hard work in editing its content, this book would never have been written.

  Thank you to Nicola, my dear sister, for her help and expertise in computing, without whom I would still be formatting this book for Kindle.

  Thanks to everyone who has allowed me to bore them with my aspirations of being an author.

  As always, all mistakes are my own.

  (Love… it is an ever-fixed mark that looks

  on tempests and is never shaken..

  It is the star to every wandering bark.

  From Shakespeare’s Sonnet CXV1

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY_ONE

  TWENTY_TWO

  TWENTY_THREE

  TWENTY_FOUR

  TWENTY_FIVE

  POSTSCRIPT

  THE_VOICE

  AUTHOR

  ONE

  Buster cocked his leg and urinated on the leg of the bench.

  “Buster, why is it always that leg of the bench? What’s wrong with the others?”

  Buster looked up at the man and tipped his head to one side implying it was a stupid question, and the reason was quite obvious.

  The man brushed some debris from the bench and took his seat on the left hand side, carefully laying his bag on the ground as he eased himself down.

  Buster continued to sniff the other three legs in turn to confirm he had in fact made the correct choice, then sniffed the bag and moved to face the bench. With a Herculean effort he propelled his front paws onto it then gave the man a look that said, “Okay, now.”

  The man reached down and hooked his arm round the back legs of the dog and in one well-practised movement scooped him up onto the bench.

  Buster shuffled around awkwardly for a few seconds then slumped down and curled up with his head on the man’s lap. All of which was done with little grace and a loud grunt as he came to rest.

  “Those old legs aren’t getting any better are they, Buster?”

  Buster snorted his agreement and closed his eyes.

  The man surveyed the scene before him. It was as beautiful as ever. Off and on he had been coming here all of his life, since he was a small boy he’d taken the hike up the path to this exact spot. In recent months he’d been coming most days, apart from those with the most inclement weather, and he was always accompanied by Buster whose enthusiasm for the walk up the hill was not as great as it had once been.

  The man was beginning to struggle with the climb as well, but as long as he was able to he would come to the place that he perceived to be the centre of his world, and when he reached the bench and saw the view he had never once been disappointed.

  A rabbit appeared from under a gorse bush and scurried across the camomile grass that formed the path between the yellow-clad plants. Buster raised his head and looked at the bunny with disinterest.

  A few years ago the man would not have seen Buster for an hour as he tried to hunt down the elusive meal. He never caught one, but was never bowed by that minor fact. Buster was a hunter, albeit an unlucky one. He didn’t need to hunt anymore. The man always brought Buster his sandwiches and they were in the bag that Buster was guarding, just in case any rabbits should try and steal them. Buster knew he was good at guarding, no rabbit had yet succeeded in stealing his sandwiches but he would keep an eye open just in case, even if occasionally they would both be shut.

  The man surveyed the distant scene. It was a beautiful, clear spring day, and the sun was bouncing off the white chalk cliffs of the Needles. From the Needles the broad white chalk path of Tennyson’s trail stretched along the headland to the east, past Farringford House towards Freshwater Bay and the Downs beyond. Nearer to him, he stared down at the cable car that was taking early season holidaymakers down to the multi-coloured sands of Alum Bay.

  All around him was the wonderful smell of spring; new buds were blossoming into life as the gorse bushes revelled in their newfound warmth. On the air he could smell newly-cut grass from the farmers’ fields in the valley to his left, mixed with the sea’s own peculiar smell that invaded his nostrils carried from the chalk cliffs that descended hundreds of feet into the sea below. It was the same smell that he had grown up with, a mixture of seaweed and salt.

  He looked to his right, down to the benign Solent that lapped gently against the shore on this beautiful spring day. He remembered days it did not look so inviting, dark days that had taken loved ones’ lives. Today though, it hosted a flotilla of small boats. Sailing boats borrowing the wind to take them to Lymington and Yarmouth, others bade farewell to the Needles as they set sail to Jersey, Guernsey and France, his beloved France.

  Four miles away the ferry appeared, taking its leave of Yarmouth harbour on its short crossing to the mainland, or the North Island as he’d laughingly called it.

  He was happy here on Headon Warren, with the rabbits and Buster. This is where he came to reflect on his life. He could have done it anywhere, but in this place remembering had special meaning for him.

  “Lunch, Buster?”

  Buster was suddenly wide-awake, another job well done. ‘Ham, I like ham. Please let it be ham.’ Buster used to like ham and fingers, but for some reason the man didn’t, so Buster had rationed himself to ham alone.

  Mind you, it wasn’t all bad news. In the old days he wasn’t allowed on the benches for lunch and had to sit on the wet grass. Now he could have lunch lying down, a fair trade for fingers.

  “Hello, Buster.” It was that blonde girl with the poodle. ‘Why did they always come at lunch time?’ thought Buster. ‘Now I’ve got to get up and sniff him.’

  “Hello, Jacques. Isn’t it a wonderful day?”

  “Yes, it is, Barbara. How is Jess, and yourself of course?” Jacques had always found it amusing that dog owners always enquired about the dog before its owner.

  “We are well, thank you.” Barbara delivered it as if she were Jess speaking.

  The owners passed a few more pleasantries before Jess and Barbara continued with their walk, then the man eased Buster back onto the bench so he could continue with his fingerless lunch.

  Others came and went, including Buster’s favourite. A well-upholstered woman who had the good sense to fill her pockets with small dog biscuits for Buster, a habit Buster found a
ttractive in a large woman

  Jacques watched the waves venting their wrath against the Needles with an increasing intensity as the westerly wind strengthened. With the strengthening wind came more yachts, drawn out onto the water by the promised excitement of engaging with the elements.

  Jacques loved the sea, it had brought him great joy and it had brought him sadness, but it was part of him and had played a role throughout his remarkable life. Even before he was born the sea had played a role in that life.

  Buster had decamped for the post-luncheon exploration of his domain, his senses heightened by the ham. It had been a good day so far, ham, followed by a small dog biscuit and now here came Daisy. He liked Daisy, not only did she have the good sense to be a Labrador, but she had a way of sniffing his balls he found quite intoxicating.

  While Buster reacquainted himself with Daisy and her charms, the man sat on the bench with that smile on his face again. He was remembering. Buster knew he liked remembering, he would laugh and mutter things to himself that did not involve lunch. Buster liked the man to remember, he was happy when he remembered and Buster loved him being happy. Actually Buster just loved him. He loved the man and he loved ham, oh, and he loved Daisy sniffing his balls.

  Also, after the man had remembered, they would usually go back to Buster’s sofa, which was much more comfortable than the bench. All in all, remembering was good.

  This day the remembering was over and the man got up and touched the memorial plaque screwed to the back of the bench and said, “See you tomorrow, old girl.” He picked up the bag and called to Buster, “Come on, Buster, back to the sofa.”

  Buster rather reluctantly left Daisy alone and headed back with the man. It was much easier going down the hill.

  Two days later the man once again helped Buster onto the bench, where he performed his small dance before snorting as he laid his head on the man’s lap.

  He’d already inspected the bench and was pleased to find there had been no other visitors in his absence. The general area also seemed to be in order, so as his eyes closed he knew it was safe to settle down to his main task for the day, guarding the sandwiches.

  He’d been guarding particularly well, so wondered why lunch had not been proffered by the man. He opened one eye and was both glad and sad to see he was remembering. Although Buster liked him to remember, sometimes if he did it before lunch, then lunch would be late. Buster loved the man so much he decided to let him remember some more. If it took too long there was always the bark. Something to which he occasionally would have to resort to remind the man that a dog could easily starve to death without a regular intake of sandwiches!

  Jacques’s remembering had not taken him far. In fact he was on the exact spot they were sitting now. It was the 16th August 1940 and Honeysuckle was tucked under his arm, the top of her head reaching his lower ribs and her mass of dark curls tickling his arm.

  Jacques’s arm was protecting her from the fight. That is what Jacques did, he protected her and she loved him. She had loved him for so long, she couldn’t remember when she had started to love him, it was certainly as long as she could remember! And Jacques loved her, his shadow, the little girl who lived in the fisherman’s cottage next door.

  It was Jacques’s job to protect her. It always had been, but she had sealed that contract in devastating fashion eleven weeks previously. Today it would be much easier for Jacques to protect her.

  Honeysuckle had both arms around his waist as the Merlin engine of the Spitfire roared just fifty feet above their heads. Five seconds later the Messerschmitt Bf 109 snarled as it gave chase, its machine-guns spitting deadly venom at the Spitfire, which weaved and kangarooed in an attempt to avoid the bullets.

  Even though she was only thirteen-years-old Honeysuckle was not scared. Jacques would look after her.

  Jacques watched transfixed by the dogfight that was taking place before his eyes. As he watched, the Spitfire suddenly dived towards the sea and became inverted before turning vertically skywards, the Merlin’s propeller eagerly eating slices of air as it pulled its pilot heavenwards.

  Jacques was trying to imagine what the pilot was doing with his control stick and rudders to make it pull out of an inverted dive. Whatever it was, it appeared to have worked. The Messerschmitt had not reacted quickly enough and had been further fooled by the roll off the top of the Spitfire’s climb. The Spitfire had now become the predator.

  The Messerschmitt turned and sought the protection of the hills and was flying directly towards them. It was below the level of Headon Warren, so they were actually looking down on it with the Spitfire in hot pursuit, its Brownings venting their wrath on the German plane. Fifty feet below them Jacques could hear the bullets slamming into the cliffs and he could imagine the puff of chalk that each would produce.

  The Messerschmitt banked hard right and flew round the side of the hill before levelling its wings and flying down the valley towards Farringford House, the country retreat that Alfred Lord Tennyson made his home. What would he have made of the drama playing out in the skies above his beloved house?

  Jacques raised his hand and cheered as the Spitfire clung to the German’s tail. Its pilot squeezed the trigger of the Brownings once again. They purred as they delivered their stream of death.

  The tail of the Messerschmitt was reduced to a skeleton as fabric was torn from its bones, then finally its tail ripped from its body. The canopy opened and the German pilot tried to eject from his flying coffin, but it was too late, he can have been no more than fifty feet off the ground when the guns had struck. The plane hit a copse of trees about a hundred yards from High Down Inn and burst into a ball of flames. The pilot could not have survived.

  The Spitfire banked hard left, staying within the valley and flew back towards them at head height and no more than thirty yards away. The noise was deafening as he waggled his wings and waved at the small girl and the boy standing next to her, before opening the throttle of the Merlin and doing a victory roll as it climbed back into the sky to find another kill. There would be many more, on both sides, before the Battle of Britain was over.

  Honeysuckle did not like people being killed, but there was a war on and it was necessary. That is what her mother had told her, and at thirteen years of age she had seen first hand the cold reality of war. This time, as then, Jacques had protected her.

  “Come on, Trouble, your mum will be cross with me for not bringing you home as soon as the sirens went off. Don’t tell her that you have just stood and watched a dogfight up here. She’ll be livid.”

  “No she won’t. She knows I’m with you, and she loves you. Everyone loves you, Jacques.” She said it as a matter of fact, and it was true.

  He held her bicycle as she nimbly jumped on and they cycled back down the hill, then rode the short distance back to Yarmouth.

  Jacques was sixteen, and he was charming. He had the sea in his blood, but what he had just witnessed changed the course of his life. If this war carried on, as soon as he was old enough he would become a pilot.

  The man’s eyes had been scanning the valley as he relived the dogfight and his fingers had been tickling Buster behind his ear, just as he had tickled little Honeysuckle when she was small. The tickling had woken Buster up and he was hungry, so he was very pleased to see the well-upholstered woman approach. ‘Good, a biscuit and lunch at last.’

  TWO

  The heather was in full bloom and particularly fragrant. Jacques decided to go on one of the lesser-used paths on the Warren and see if her tulips had survived the winter. They had, and today they survived Buster’s attentions as well.

  A cormorant flew overhead, visiting from its home a short distance away on the Needles and screeched a ‘good morning’ as it passed, gently soaring on the westerly wind that today whispered over the headland.

  Buster sensed that this would be a good day for remembering, but a bad day for lunch. Whenever they visited the tulips the man would enter into a long session of remembering, which
always meant a late lunch.

  Jacques sat on the bench and said, “Good morning, old girl,” as Buster completed his inspections.

  Within minutes Jacques was in Hanoi in a dimly lit, smoke-filled room with a gin and tonic on the table in front of him. People surrounded him; all were listening to the dulcet tones of the wonderful voice that filled the bar. The voice was enchanting all who listened to it and he found himself mesmerised by it once again. It was the same voice that had said, “I love you,” the previous evening as they had made love in her apartment.

  It was November, the year was 1953 and Jacques had now been in Hanoi for three years. They had been good years; the last one in particular had been quite spectacular since he had met Saphine.

  After Yvette and what had happened with Honeysuckle, he needed to get away and start anew. Where better than Vietnam? His skills were needed there and it would be an adventure. Added to which, part of him had missed the adrenalin-rush that the Second World War had given him, even though he was glad it was over so his lovely Honeysuckle and others like her could live in peace without fear of occupation, or worse. But the end of the War had brought complications with his relationships, relationships that had been perfect for short periods, but had spiralled out of control. Yvette had been one of those relationships, but that was over and he had moved on.

  He was in a new relationship now, with Saphine. She owned the voice that was singing and she was the most exotic woman he had ever met. She was half-French and half-Vietnamese, and the two had combined to form a most exquisite-looking woman.

  He looked at the stage where she shimmered through the smoke-hazed room. Her waist-length black hair was curled up on the top of her head, leaving enough for a ponytail to hang seductively over her bare shoulder. Her almond-shaped blue eyes sat perfectly within her otherwise western features, which made up her strikingly beautiful face. Her skin was the colour of honey, and her lips screamed out to be kissed. His eyes traced the line of her body being caressed by a tight red, off-the-shoulder dress that reached to the floor but allowed one long shapely leg to protrude though the slit that ran almost to her waist.