Short story

Warwick's Bench

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It was, to say the least, a conundrum to be given several thousand pounds by someone she didn’t much care for. Many times in the past few days Annie had thought through the pros and cons of a journey from Glasgow to London to have a brief chat to a solicitor about her dead ex-husband, her wasband she amused herself by calling him.

 

Points against: it was a bloody long way; why get involved even indirectly with someone she hadn’t seen for many years, water under the bridge and all that; could she maintain her self respect by taking enough of his money to provide her with a new kitchen? Did she really want to be reminded of him every time she boiled a kettle? Points for: He’d left her the money so why not take it and run? It was lawfully hers and she needed a new kitchen. She wondered if she might spend it on a few holidays so she wouldn’t have to stare at it every day. It was only a day or so ago that both the points for and the kitchen finally won.

 

The train hushed through the West Midlands countryside. No more the ‘clickety clack’ that she recalled when she first took this journey travelling north. She turned back to her thoughts. The list was simply a cover for the real reasons for her indecision and she knew it. They were guilt and anger. The man had been a waster who sold rubber balls. How many years had she had to endure the half smile, the raised eyebrow, the brief silence as someone to whom she’d just vaguely mentioned that she was the wife of a rubber ball salesman digested the information and tried to work out in that instant how to respond. ‘Oh, really, that’s…interesting’, was the least offensive. ‘You two must just bounce along’, was the worst from women. ‘John plays his part in rubber,’ she got from men when her back was turned but her ears weren’t.

 

She had to admit of course that someone had to sell rubber balls. It wasn’t a crime. Kids loved them. But when those Japs and Koreans began to get their act together and realised they could make rubber balls and anything else they could turn their hands to at a fraction of the cost, both John and the company that employed him became surplus to requirements. And then she discovered that he sold rubber balls not so much as a service that brought in a small but living wage. He sold them because he could think of nothing else to do. So he took that archetypal and horrifying spiral downwards into boredom, drink and day time television.

 

She’d got a job as a cook at the local school. Hardly mind stretching but a consistent wage though it paid even less than John had got some months. Patrick was one of the teachers. A few years younger but clever, interesting, smart in mind and appearance, fit and good at his job. And most of all he made her laugh. She’d tried so hard to persuade Tom and Ellie to move north with her when Patrick got a lectureship at a college of education but, at ten and twelve years old, they had their own mates and a vision of the country beyond St Albans that Tolkien might have taken on board. The thing was that John was okay as a father. They loved him. And they never forgave her. She brushed the detail away, gave a light blow of her nose and watched the countryside morph into a tedium of roofs and back yards.

 

So yes, she had the guilt. A ton of it. It never left her. So taking his money was not an exciting prospect. But then there was the anger. Anger at what John had become, anger at herself making such a bad choice and, most of all, anger that she felt so guilty. To hell with feeling guilty. She could recognise she had born two lovely children by him that she rarely saw and she knew how well they got on with their dad. But being a dad is not the same as being a husband. Her experience had been one of quiet desperation after the first few years. He was a good laugh at first and looked after himself. He needed to look good for his clients, those men of the world who bought rubber balls. But then there was years of nothingness and after he lost his job there was even less than that. Annie pondered the notion that you can have less than nothing in a marriage. When you come home and find the house looks like it’s been invaded by squatters and your husband hasn’t even got out of his pyjamas, that’s less than nothing.

 

The train slowed through the back streets of London as it approached Euston. Trains were always the worst way to see a town, as though the line cuts a wound through its flesh and you get a brief look at the otherwise unseen entrails of washing lines and kitchen extensions, unkempt factories and junk yards.

 

The solicitor’s office was a few stations away by Northern Line and she had given herself plenty of time. She hadn’t been down to London for years and had no desire to get lost in an underground maze. She could have come down for the funeral but she’d instantly decided that that was a consideration too far.

 

A young man walked from a side passage into Reception.

 

‘Mrs Warwick?’

 

He was tall, almost gaunt, with thick rimmed glasses that seemed to provide some character to an otherwise characterless face. He held his hand out.

 

‘Damian Weatherley,’

 

Annie gave a brief smile and shook his hand. So young! It wasn’t just policemen who looked as though they were still getting used to their first razor.

 

‘The boring bits first I’m afraid,’ said Mr Weatherley when she’d settled herself in his room. ‘We need to see evidence that you are in fact the ex wife of John Warwick. You have the brought the papers we requested? We’ll need to make copies for the file.’

 

Annie handed over her marriage and divorce papers, passport and a couple of bills showing her name and address. And it seemed suddenly very odd she had never changed her name and never married Patrick. These days of course those two things don’t have any necessary connection but still, she could have changed it by deed poll. Was that wrapped up in the guilt?

 

‘As we advised you by letter Mrs Warwick, your ex-husband left you a sum of money. It is a little unusual in that an amount has been deducted in accordance with the will and it requires me to explain why this is the case. The gross amount is ten thousand pounds but you are to receive eight thousand, three hundred and eighty.’ Mr Weatherley fumbled amongst the papers and produced a single sheet. ‘The deduction is one thousand, six hundred and twenty pounds which has been used to buy a bench in his memory.’ Mr Weatherley looked closely at the paper. ‘The cost to be precise was one thousand three hundred and fifty plus VAT.’

 

‘I don’t quite understand,’ she said. ‘If he wants to give me eight thousand why doesn’t he just do it? He can buy a bench with his own money but that’s nothing to do with me.’

 

‘Yes, you would think so wouldn’t you but that’s not how the will reads. He specifically provides you with ten thousand less the cost of a bench.’ Mr Weatherley showed the paper to Annie. ‘This isn’t an estimate. It’s a bill. He’s already done it. The cost consists of the bench, the Council’s installation and admin fees and the memorial plaque. I’m not sure how he arranged it before he died but he appears to have done so.’

 

Annie studied the paper. It mentioned the park in which they’d put it but she’d never heard of it.

 

‘The will also makes a personal statement to you. You may read it for yourself.’

‘I don’t want to read it. It’ll be something awful.’

‘Not at all, Mrs Warwick. Quite the reverse.’

‘Well you read it then.’

‘If you wish Mrs Warwick. It states that the ten thousand is a token of his love and he very much regrets that you didn’t feel the same way.’

 

Annie sat in silence while the young man squirmed slightly. Was this the final twist of the knife, a game being played out from the grave? Or had she really missed something all these years? Laughing and crying both seemed appropriate at that moment. She did neither. That would come later.

 

‘Where’s this park?’

 

‘I’m afraid I don’t know. I commute in every day. All I know are the streets around here but I’m sure one of our secretaries can help you.’

 

Armed with her papers, a cheque and directions to the park, Annie walked into the street. She was hungry and needed a meal and a drink or two. But she knew she’d never be able to sit for an hour trying to relax while not knowing what words he’d had engraved on his plaque on her behalf. The tube journey would take about half an hour but after that she’d need a bus. She hailed a taxi. The cheque would cover that even if he had stripped it of the compulsory purchase of a damned bench.

 

The park was a nondescript area of green amongst a mass of suburban estates, one of those many areas in which the country took such pride in exhibiting a total lack of imagination. The park seemed well looked after, with pleasant flower borders edged with a curved path studded with benches.

 

Annie’s heart thumped deeply as she approached the bench and she could see the plaque had a lot more words than was usual.

 

“John Warwick’s Bench. Placed here by Annie Warwick in memory of a dear husband who tried but failed to reach the standard she required.”