The bench felt cold and damp beneath his thighs. His tattered coat only just reached around his stomach if he breathed in and pulled. It missed a button or two. He watched the leaves curl beneath his feet, a sea of vibrant reds and ochres. The wind caught his face and whipped through his hair, rolling through the trees and under the children skipping along the path. The church bell chimed eleven. It always chimed one number short of the hour, before a long pause and a final strike. It rang with gusto, threatening to take the steeple with it. Cars hooted from the road beyond the park – beyond its railings skirting the perimeter – reminding him of days in the city. He tried not to think for too long about his hours in that God-forsaken place. It pained him to recall the sacrifices he had made, and for what?
‘Would you mind taking our picture?’
A long, wiry teenager handed him a camera. His gestures were awkward. A girl clung onto his shoulder. Her head danced from side to side and she stood, leaning on one leg like a flamingo. He stayed bolted to the bench, pressing the button on the camera to snap a freeze frame of two smiling faces. He was young once. They giggled and swept the camera from his grasp, rucksack swinging behind them. She pushed her bike as they walked away, giggling the way young people do. It was difficult to remember what carefree felt like to an old man.
He watched a small girl, just ahead of two adults. She walked close to the bench, and he tucked away the bottle, already half empty. The liquid was clear, not that it made any difference. She swung her skirt and smiled at him in a way that only a small girl can get away with. Inching closer, step by step, she planted herself next to him.
‘Lola, my name’s Lola. What’s yours?’
He thought for a while. He had answered to many names in his life – Bertie, Bernard, Sir, Dad, and some that he did not care to name, if anyone asked.
‘Call me Bill,’ he said, hoping she would say something to lift his spirits, hoping she would restore life to him. There was a freshness about her that he could barely remember ever seeing.
‘Right, Mr Bill. Can you count to ten? I want to hear you practice.’
This was not a question for an adult. He frowned. It was all he could express these days. ‘Why do you want me to count?’ he said.
‘You just need to count. Oh, and close your eyes at the same time. Can you do that, Mr Bill, can you close your eyes and count? I’m sure you can.’
She smiled with an enthusiasm that could only be matched by a circus clown. Counting was the last thing he would choose. It was all he could manage not to count the hours, not to count the days rolling away – unable to retrieve them – one by one. She was slight but confident. He had not seen such a small girl with this brightness and certainty and he envied her for it.
‘Come on, Mr Bill. You can do it.’ Her voice was insistent. Usually, it would go against his nature to trust a stranger, and to follow orders such as these, but she was engaging, and he felt compelled to play into her hands. It had been a long time since any soul had paid him this kind of attention. He obeyed orders, and scrunched his eyes shut.
‘One, two, three, four,’ he began slowly, imagining in another, perhaps more successful life, that he was launching a rocket into space, amidst crowds of admiring spectators. He opened one eye, enough for her to notice.
‘And no peeking,’ she said with a wry grin.
‘Don’t you trust an old man?’ He felt duly reprimanded by his instructor.
‘We’ll see.’ She put her hands up against his eyes, making him feel nothing short of claustrophobia. He didn’t want to spoil her game, so he continued.
‘Five, six, seven, eight.’
‘I forgot to tell you to open your eyes when you finish.’ Her voice was bursting with excitement.
‘Nine.’ She took her hands away. ‘Ten.’
‘Now you can open them.’
He peeled his eyes open and blinked hard until the trees re-aligned, and the outline of the path in front of them was clear.
‘Look,’ she said, pulling her hands out from behind her back. ‘Look at what I’ve got. What do you think they are Mr Bill?’
This is an extract. Read the rest on Amazon.
