The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  I did it, I tell Frank. Spent an evening in a bar on my own. But now there’s disco music playing and everyone’s hammered. I’m going home to check on Mom.

  Way to go! Frank sounds a little surprised. Step in the right direction, sis. Hell, I’m proud of you.

  Outside, the lights from the boardwalk trail glitter across the dark sea. The beach between me and the water is a shadowy swathe of empty space. I know that junkies loiter under the pier at night, kids with flick knifes in their back pockets, but I go down onto the sand anyway, slipping off my shoes and socks. I want to walk by the sea and think about Sam Sage, the way he sounded up there on the stage, the way he smiled into the audience, and how, just for a moment, it felt as if he was smiling right at me.

  SIX

  Sam, March 1983

  As soon as the lead singer had fallen into the audience, Levi was poking him in the chest. ‘Get on the stage!’ he insisted. ‘They need you up there, buddy. You can sing, yes?’

  He resisted. But as soon as Levi had communicated the fact that Sam was a singer, the three of them lifted him and set him down gently behind the speakers. He blinked in the lights, stunned by the new perspective. Then instinct took over. It felt good to be in front of an audience. There was only a brief moment of dry-mouthed horror before the words came rushing through him. The band, apart from their idiot lead singer, were professionals. Afterwards, the manager stuffed a wad of dollar bills into his palm, asked if he’d sing for the rest of the week, or until the band got themselves sorted.

  As the blonde giants batter his shoulders with congratulatory punches, he squints towards the exit at a familiar figure. His heart skips. It’s her. The tall girl from the beach. He catches a glimpse of her face as she stares into the crowd, and remembers her expression from before: her terrible sadness, her stillness. He needs to talk to her. She’s leaving. Panic stirs in his gut.

  He makes his way as quickly as he can towards the door, but people are keen to be his best buddy. He pushes on, away from expectant strangers and clutching fingers, words crowding him, questions spilling before him like obstacles.

  Dammit, he thinks, breathing hard outside the club. He’s lost her. The avenue is frantic: a crowd of holidaymakers pushes past, features distorted by the electric pulse of casino lights. There’s a stink of fried grease and alcohol. He sniffs, hungry despite himself, and smells something else. The Atlantic Ocean. He follows the scent, his steps merging with the flow of the crowd, and finds himself back on the boardwalk. He dodges drunks, following the smell of brine towards the dark spill of sand and sea and night sky. He leans on the rail of the boardwalk, clutching it like a raft in a storm. Out there is the blackest navy, a glimmer of starlight. Movement catches his attention and he looks down. A figure is moving away, along the beach.

  ‘Hey!’ He’s blundering after her.

  She whips around with shoulders squared, fists clenched, and he realises she’s terrified. ‘Sorry.’ He stops, holding his hands up. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I just …’

  She’s staring at him. Her fear has turned to caution, a flicker of curiosity making her frown. ‘You’re the guy from the club.’ She tilts her head to one side, hair sliding across her cheek. ‘Sam Sage.’ She says his name as if to prove that she can remember it.

  He feels a tug of shame in his throat.

  ‘It was cool,’ she says, ‘what you did back there. Took some nerve.’

  ‘Actually, I didn’t have much choice … but thanks.’ He shrugs. ‘Funny, but I saw you this afternoon.’

  ‘You saw me? This afternoon?’ Her eyebrows shoot up.

  He’s not sure why she’s so surprised. ‘Yeah. You were sitting on a bench a bit further along the boardwalk from here.’ He gestures vaguely in the direction. ‘You went down onto the beach.’

  She takes a step backwards, folds her arms. ‘You were watching me?’

  ‘I noticed you,’ he says quickly. ‘You stood out a bit, you know. I mean, everyone else was all excited and laughing, and there you were in black from head to foot, walking like you were on a mission. And you looked …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sad,’ he says.

  ‘Oh.’ It sounds as though all the air has left her with that one sound.

  ‘Had something … bad happened?’ he asks.

  But she says at the same time, ‘That was my bench—’

  Their words cross, and it makes her laugh. Him too. Nerves zing in the air between them. She has a nice laugh, he thinks. It’s big and honest and she doesn’t put her hand in front of her mouth as so many people do.

  ‘Your bench?’

  ‘Not mine personally, no. But I’ve gotten fond of it. It has a great view. And there’s the inscription …’

  ‘Inscription?’ He takes a couple of steps closer. She has a gap between her front teeth, and he finds it incredibly endearing.

  ‘Yeah, you know. The plaque on the back. I love reading them. Each one is like a little story. Love and loss. I always wonder about the people they’re for – make up stories about them in my head.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, startled. ‘I know what you mean. It’s funny. I do the same thing.’

  ‘You do?’ She widens her eyes. ‘I thought I was the only one.’

  He notices that a few strands of her hair are caught in her earring, creating a delicate loop that he wants to touch, to unravel. Her hair is halfway between blonde and brown. What name do people give to that colour? Honey? he guesses. Amber?

  ‘What does the inscription say?’ he asks. ‘On your bench.’

  ‘“For Frank, who loved the view from this bench. I know you are still sitting beside me.”’

  His pulse jumps with recognition. ‘It says that?’ Then he registers the first bit of the inscription. ‘But did you know this guy … Frank?’

  ‘No. Just, he’s got the same name as someone … someone important to me.’

  ‘A boyfriend?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Nothing like that.’ She rubs her nose. ‘You’re English?’

  Relieved, he nods again. ‘From London.’

  ‘On vacation?’

  ‘Kind of. I’ve been travelling. Nearly at the end of my visa.’ Is that disappointment he can see in her eyes? Maybe it’s just his wishful thinking. But he makes a decision in that second. ‘I’m staying here for the rest of my trip,’ he tells her. ‘Got a job at Ally’s until they find a permanent replacement. I’ve never been in Atlantic City before. Fancy showing me around?’

  ‘Fancy?’ She turns the word over, smiling to herself. Then she gives him a long, penetrating look. ‘Why me?’

  Sam’s heart has started to hammer at his ribs. ‘I don’t know anyone else.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘No, but I … well, I hoped that you might be kind enough …’

  ‘I’m not a groupie. Just so we’re clear.’

  ‘No.’ Sam widens his eyes. ‘God, no. I didn’t think …’

  She shrugs. ‘Not much to see. Tourists stick to the boardwalk and the casinos.’

  ‘Well,’ he says slowly, doing a good impression of casual, ‘maybe you could show me the real city, then?’

  ‘You wouldn’t like it much.’

  He looks at his trainers, kicks them into the sand. Is this her way of saying no? He glances up. She’s bending down, and he realises that she’s pushing her feet into her shoes. Not the clumpy men’s boots from before, but red pumps. She’s not in black any more; she’s wearing glittery ankle socks and a red and yellow dress. She straightens up, brushing her hands against her dress. ‘After work,’ she says. ‘I can meet you after work tomorrow.’

  ‘Great.’ He tries to stop himself grinning too hard. ‘Can I walk you home?’

  Her head jerks and she angles her body away. ‘No need.’

  ‘It’s just … well, isn’t it dangerous on the beach at night?’

  ‘I can look after myself.’ She gives him another penetrating glance. ‘And we’ve only just met
, so I’m not sure if I should trust you to get me home safe.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry. I didn’t mean …’

  She softens. ‘I live here. I can handle myself.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He puts his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Goodnight then.’ She begins to walk away.

  ‘Wait!’ His hands are out of his pockets, his voice rising to a squeak, all pretence of cool gone. ‘Where do you work?’ He clears his throat. ‘So I can meet you?’

  She frowns as if it’s a difficult question. ‘Just find me on the beach,’ she says after a pause. ‘Where you first saw me. Around five thirty.’

  ‘Great,’ he repeats. He can compose rhymes on the spot, but this girl has reduced him to monosyllables. Before she can turn away, he says quickly, ‘You never told me your name.’

  She looks wary, as if it’s another trick question, and then nods. ‘Catrin Goforth.’ She pushes her hair behind her ear. ‘Some people call me Cat.’

  He waits, watching her disappear into the shadows. Above him, the screams and clatter of the boardwalk are like noises from a nightmare; flashing lights illuminate slices of sand and then cast them into blackness. He doesn’t like the idea of her walking alone under the pier. But she must know what she’s doing, he reassures himself. She’s nearly as tall as him, and moves with long, firm strides. Remembering her words, the way she faced him with her chin up, ready for confrontation, even though she was scared, implied she was confident. It was just something in her face that made him think she was vulnerable – a bit wary; as if she was hiding a hurt.

  Catrin Goforth. Like the name of a heroine in a play, something historical and witty. An Oscar Wilde, maybe. Some people call me Cat, she said. People. It strikes him as odd now that she didn’t say friends, or family. There’s nothing feline about her. She doesn’t have a button nose or slanting eyes. She has strong, straight features, a wide mouth with white American teeth, just the gap between the front two lending a little necessary imperfection, and that steady blue-yellow gaze, unnerving in its openness.

  As he turns back to the boardwalk, the simple joy of getting her to agree to meet him is dissipating. He shouldn’t have pursued her. He’s not in a position to begin any kind of relationship – not when he’s got a girlfriend at home. He can’t cancel; he doesn’t have her telephone number. He’ll have to meet her on the beach. A vague arrangement, it occurs to him now; perhaps she won’t turn up. If she does, they can have a coffee and go their separate ways, no big deal.

  Except the thing is, it feels like a big deal. Over the last months, despite his intention to avoid meeting anyone, out of necessity he’s come across a lot of strangers on the road, good people who gave him advice or directions, people who shared their life stories, who gave him lifts, even donated their lunches; but he hasn’t met one person that made him feel like this. He tries to work out what ‘this’ is, and decides that the nearest he can describe is an unexplained familiarity and at the same time an exhilarating sense of standing at the top of a mountain looking down into a spinning abyss.

  He thinks of her response when he offered to walk her home, as if he’d insulted her; perhaps he came across as controlling, too macho. Whereas of course he was just trying to do the right thing. Walking a girl home safely to her front door is one of many rules instilled in him by his upbringing. But the world that taught him those rules lies in ruins. He hears his father’s voice in his head urging him to be a man, to do the right thing, to behave with honour. ‘Fuck off, Dad,’ he hisses under his breath.

  Sometimes a whiff of scent will send him back, quickly and unexpectedly, as if he’s fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. Even all these years later. Whoosh. Straight to hell. There are several components to that particular perfume. Chalk. Silver polish. The stink of hormones leaking from armpits, skin raging with acne, sweating palms. Fear. He’d never realised before that fear had a smell, but his first day at boarding school, he understood.

  It had been his father’s school before him. His father had been head boy. His name was inscribed on the honours board. Holder of the Fairly Cup. Captain of the cricket and rugby first teams. His record for the 400 metres never beaten. A couple of the masters were old enough to have taught them both, and when they realised the connection, they looked down their noses through smeary glasses and said, ‘So, you’re his son? Well, well.’ And he felt that he’d missed the mark. A disappointment, as he was at home.

  He was a late developer, small for his age. It was a huge disadvantage when most of his peers seemed to grow inches overnight, were busy sprouting hair, calves and forearms thickening with new muscle. He was dropped from even the third teams, his gym shoes flung into the topmost branches of a tree.

  The beatings happened almost daily. Fag Master Salt with a belt in his hands. Seven of the best. The reasons were many: daydreaming, smiling, burning toast, not properly polishing Salt’s CCF buttons. And then again, for resisting when a hand slipped into his trousers, for flinching at the groping and rubbing. So he ran away. It took him six hours, terrifying hours of walking through the dark and the rain, falling to his knees in ditches, hitching lifts on a blustery motorway. When he reached home, wet and exhausted, and explained why he’d done it, his father beat him for being a dirty little sneak. And then he was returned, like a parcel. Shame consumed him, shame for his weakness, for the fact that he could never be like his father.

  *

  Back at the hostel, Sam crawls into his bunk and pulls the covers over his head. The Dutch posse are still out. He hears the rustle of a body moving on the mattress above, and a muffled snore. He won’t think about his father. Outside, there is a roar of traffic. The hostel is near the freeway. He wishes he could hear the low moan of the sea, but all outside sounds are funnelled into the hiss of rubber on asphalt and engine roar. The city is an unexplored mystery to him. Somewhere in one of the unknown streets will be the girl. Cat. Hopefully safely arrived at her destination. She must be in her own bed by now, in her own room, dreaming perhaps. The thought of her is oddly comforting. He wishes he’d touched that untidy loop of hair, felt the texture of it between his fingers.

  SEVEN

  Cat, March 1983

  I couldn’t sleep when I got home. Meeting that guy on the beach – it was almost as if he’d been looking for me, as if I’d been the only reason he was there in the dark and cold. But that can’t be true – can it? Meeting him has put me in a state of shock. It feels as though I’ve been hit with a pancake block. I’m scrabbling around for a way to get back into play. Sure, I want to see him again. But I’m disbelieving. Who wouldn’t be? I was relying on Frank’s voice popping into my ear to tell me that yes, this is really happening, and dammit, Cat, you deserve it. Only he’s remaining stubbornly quiet.

  Girls fall over themselves to sleep with men like Sam Sage – I heard those comments in the john. I should forget I ever met him. Walk away before it’s too late. He’ll be arrogant, superficial; he’s bound to be, looking like that, sounding like that. I don’t need a man in my life. I’m not like Mom.

  *

  Ray sucks air through his teeth and shakes his head in disapproval when I bring the wrong body out of the reefer for the second time. ‘What’s up with you today, girl?’ He sends me off to do a makeover on a middle-aged woman whose relatives are insisting on saying goodbye to her face-to-face. She’s been dead three days, and without the help of embalming, she’s not looking her best. Lime-green fungus blooms across her cheeks. She’s on the cuddly side, and I’ve found that larger ladies decompose quicker.

  I settle myself at her side and snap open the large make-up bag. It’s full of the tricks of the trade: mouth formers, needle injectors, and eye caps with tiny spikes to keep eyelids closed. Plus an array of commercial cosmetics: bottles of foundation, tubes of lipstick, even mascara. It’s going to take a lot of work to disguise the decay. Her name was Cindy, I see from her toe tag. ‘Okay, then. Let’s do this, Cindy.’ I lean closer. ‘I don’t have a magic wand,’ I tell
her, ‘but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. I’m gonna send you to the ball looking your best.’ And I begin the task of closing her mouth, setting her lips into a winsome half-smile.

  As I work, I’m imagining a story where she’s alive and centre stage, the main character in a plot where she gets her heart’s desire, like a modern Cinderella.

  I get off the jitney with the holidaymakers in their brightly coloured leisure pants, shiny windbreakers and mirrored sunglasses, and pause by my bench looking down onto the beach. There he is, gazing out at the rolling breakers of the Atlantic. I recognise the back of his head immediately, the same untidy dark hair, now blowing about in the sea breeze.

  Frank whispers, This could be the one.

  Fairy tales aren’t real, I remind him, as I go down the steps onto the beach, my heart smashing into my ribcage. And it’s common knowledge that any Prince Charming comes with a massive ego. My reinforced shoes crunch over the sand. As I get closer, I’m trying to think of something clever to say, something witty.

  Sam Sage turns before I reach him. ‘Hello,’ he says in his English accent, all the sounds standing upright. ‘You came.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I manage to croak. ‘I did.’

  ‘So …’ He gestures towards the city. ‘Where are you going to take me?’

  Take him? I haven’t given it a thought. Not allowing myself to get further than this moment. ‘Um. Let’s sit on my bench awhile,’ I say quickly. ‘Then … I can tell you what’s worth visiting. The best attractions and stuff. And … you can choose.’

  ‘Passing the buck,’ he says with half-closed eyes.

  When I take him to the bench, he pauses a moment to read the inscription to himself. Sitting together, with the sound of the ocean breathing and seagulls shrieking overhead, my nerves retreat. He seems pretty relaxed. I guess this kind of thing is all in a day’s work for a guy like him. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, and I notice a tattoo of musical notes curving across his forearm.