Ronald Didcot’s Bench. Or…

by Wendy Turner

Two elderly ladies sit on a bench by the lake in Victoria Park. They look very neat and orderly, clutching their handbags to their chests, but if you look closer, you can see that one has their hat on sideways and the other’s coat is buttoned up wrongly. Batty old ladies, you might think. You could be right. Or…

Beatty casts a sidelong glance at Doreen.

“Did that just happen?” Doreen looks back at Beatty.

“You mean…?” Beatty offers.

“The lights, like a red snowstorm and then… Well, I don’t know how to describe it…”

Not one of Beatty’s turns, then. Not unless Doreen has the same kind as Beatty.

“A big white space and red clouds everywhere.”

“Exactly. Are we going nutty, Doreen?”

“Well, if we are at least we’re going together. Don’t look now, there’s a young lad on a bike coming toward us. I said, don’t look. You should never make eye contact with his sort off the estate.”

“How do you know he’s off the estate?”

“Don’t nit-pick, Bea.”

The boy weaves toward the bench, staring hard at Doreen and Beatty. Is he about to mug them? Maybe. Or…

“You two alright? You look bare shook.”

Doreen and Beatty don’t know where to look, seeing as they aren’t supposed to be making eye contact.

“I only arxed ‘cos that bench is weird. It freaked me right out when I sat on it last week.”

“It did?” Doreen forgets about not making eye contact.

“Yeah. You too?”

“Did you see it? The red snowstorm and then the white place…”

“And the red clouds all round you? You know what I think, right? I think this bench is a portal to another universe, innit. Like in Dr Who or somefing.”

Doreen and Beatty’s eyebrows disappear into the tightly coiled springs of their shampoo and sets.

“Whatever it is, it hasn’t been here long. Look.” Doreen points to the plaque screwed to the slats at the back of the bench.

“I recognise the name, you know. He used to work in the library. Wore those awful Val Doonican jumpers.”

“I fink you should you get up. It might happen again.”

Doreen and Beatty jump up as if the bench is electrified.

“I might sit there again. It was weird, right, but sort of sick. It weren’t scary or nuffing.”

The boy rides away and Doreen and Beatty start walking slowly toward the exit gate.

“I think it best if we don’t mention this to anyone, Bea.”

“No.” Beatty thinks of trying to explain to her daughter, Tracey, who is a night sister at Newham General. She doesn’t stand for any nonsense, does Tracey, and this certainly qualifies.

“I mean, they could put us in the Funny Farm and who could blame them?”

Doreen and Beatty settle at their usual table in Pam’s Pantry. A nice cup of tea is just what they need after that shock.

“There he is!”

“Who?”

“Ronald Didcot. The man with the bench.”

“Not seen him here before.”

“Probably lonely, with his wife dying and all. Let’s go and say hello.”

“Oh, Doreen, I don’t think we should…”

“Just to offer our condolences, Bea.”

Ronald Didcot is sitting by himself forking up peas with steady concentration.

“Mr Didcot? From the library?” Doreen sits down and motions Beatty to do the same with a fierce nod at the seat next to her.

“I’m Doreen and this is Beatty. We’re so sorry for your loss, aren’t we Bea?”

Beatty nods.

“It was lovely of you to dedicate that bench in the park to your wife.”

Ronald Didcot glances up, eyes watery. He looks as if he’s about to come over all emotional. Or…

“That bench!” he says, hissing the words through clenched teeth.

Doreen sneaks a look at Beatty, then turns back to Ronald, all wide-eyed innocence.

“Oh? Is there a problem with it?”

“Problem? I’ll say! I wish I’d never told anyone about it, though. Everyone thinks I’ve lost my marbles. I might as well tell you, as someone else is bound to, sooner or later…”

“Did you… Did you go somewhere when you sat on it, Mr Didcot?”

He looks left and right and leans in across his congealing lunch.

“You too?” he whispers.

“Yes. And we spoke to a lad who says he’s been. He thinks it’s a gateway to another universe. Isn’t that what he said, Bea?”

“So, I’m not losing my marbles? We’ve all been somewhere?”

“I think so. It’s quite exciting, really, now I’ve had a chance to think about it.”

“Imagine, ordinary people like us…” Beatty says.

“Why do you think it’s happening, then?”

“I think the red clouds want to find out everything about us before they come for a proper visit. When they surrounded us they were sucking out information from our brains.”

Doreen always did have a fertile imagination.

“Sounds disgusting.” Beatty looks at the pile of grey mash on Ronald’s plate and shudders.

“But I think they’re kind, because they sent us back and we’re OK, our brains aren’t turned to mush, like in the films. In fact, I want to try and go again. Why don’t the three of us go down there now and see?”

“Oh, Doreen, I think that’s a bad idea.”

Ronald takes a last mouthful of stew. Beatty hopes that he might think it’s a bad idea, too. Or…

“I’m game if you are. I’ll just get my coat.”

It’s not far to the park from Pam’s Pantry and they sidle up to the bench.

“I think we should all sit down at the same time, so no one gets left behind.”

Nothing happens for a minute, then two. They have all lost their marbles. Silly old fools. Or…

The red snowstorm swirls round them, twinkling pinpricks of light. So pretty.

“Here we go again!”

Copyright © 2018 Wendy Turner