8 minute read
Bench of Dreams by Joy Margetts
Bench of Dreams
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by Joy Margetts
I pull back the curtains and breathe in the view again. The wide horizon, clear azure blue skies resting calmly on deep slate blue sea. The lightest of mists shrouds the rows of receding mountains in their ever decreasing layers of blue greyness. Another glorious day, at least from my side of the window glass. The sun feels warm on my face but as I open the window a crack the air is cool. I look at the familiar scene before me. The sea laps on the shore and the seagulls screech and curlews cry plaintively. I can see it - it is still there, on the beach below me, a bench of sorts. It is, I think, what must be the remains of a fallen tree, that the sea has rolled powerfully up the stony incline until a large boulder stopped it in it’s tracks. It has been there for weeks. I suppose the sea will reclaim it at some point, but for now it has become a place where people stop, pause, sit, breathe, and dream.
Well I imagine they dream. Or at least I dream for them. They must be thinking of something as they sit there, and dreaming is good. Not the nightmares that shock you awake and trembling in the dark of night, but hope- filled dreams sparked by the sound of the sea and the warmth of the sun. So I watch them and enjoy their company from the safe distance of my window. I watch the dreamers as they sit on the bench of dreams.
There is the solitary hunched figure in his grey coat and flat cap. He walks along this stretch of shoreline every day. His is a slow and steady pace. The little brown dog, his much more energetic companion, runs in large circles, barking and chasing the seabirds, but always aware of his master. He comes back every so often to check on the man, and when he sits on the bench, the dog comes and sits beside him leaning against his leg. What is that lone figure dreaming of, I imagine? Is he dreaming of the woman who used to walk at his side for all those years, her smile, her laugh, her hand in his? Is he dreaming of the grandchildren he has not seen for too many long months? Is he dreaming of their hugs and sloppy kisses, I wonder? Perhaps he is dreaming of when he can go to his social club again, or even just to the pub to share a pint and a table with another human being? Is he just dreaming of not being alone anymore? I watch as he fondles his dog, and then rises awkwardly to his feet, swaying slightly as he straightens his aged legs to continue his lonely walk.
There are the two youngsters who half walk, half run towards that bench, from opposite directions, meeting each other with an embrace, hesitant at first. They glance around to see if they are being observed before sharing a quick but passionate kiss. I look away, to give them that private moment, and when I look back they are sitting together on the bench, the girl leaning into him, his arm around her shoulders and his head cradling hers. What are those young lovers dreaming of I wonder? Are they dreaming of the day they can be together, in the same place, at the same time, all the time? Are they dreaming of when they can be in each other’s homes without fear of breaking rules, bursting bubbles, risking their loved ones? Perhaps they had wedding plans and their dreams are of the day they can say their vows to one another, with everyone they love all around them, celebrating together? Maybe distance keeps them apart, and this bench meeting is one stolen moment in many months. It feels clandestine somehow, as if they have broken a rule to be together. Perhaps they have. I won’t be telling anyone.
There is the single mum; I’ve seen her more than once. I think she is a mum, because she always has a solitary child with her. Only the child is the size of a grown man. He plays like a child, yells like a child, and she sits and watches him attentively. I watch as he wades into the sea in his bright yellow raincoat and chest high waders. He splashes and laughs as if it is a warm summer day. And she lets him get as wet as he wants, for as long as he wants. She sits, and I can almost see her relax her weight, sighing, onto that solid bench seat. I think she is enjoying the rest. I would never have let my children in the sea fully clothed, or if I had, I would have called them out before I got bored watching them. But she doesn’t seem bored or anxious at all. I think this is her place of refuge maybe, from the incessant need to keep her man-child occupied and happy. I am in awe of her patience. Perhaps she is dreaming of the day she can send him off again each day in that bright green taxi to the school he loves so much? Or maybe she is dreaming of a little holiday, of having someone come and stay in her home to care for her child for a few days - a now distanced relative perhaps? She may even be dreaming of another adult to share the responsibility, share the sorrows and joys, love her, and love her child. She may just be dreaming of an undisturbed night’s sleep! I find myself reaching out my hand towards her as if to pat her on the back, to tell her she is doing an amazing job and to be proud of herself, and of her son. But she doesn’t see me.
Today I saw two women, around my age I would guess. They were walking together but also apart. Keeping the prescribed distance between them, even as they sat down – one at each end of the bench, but turned towards each other. One was fair haired and the other dark with grey roots obvious as she removed her woolly hat and ran her fingers through her tousled hair. I watched as they laughed, and the sound of that laugh reached my open window as the faintest of echoes, stirring my own memories. They sat for some time, just talking, and laughing, and then nodding more seriously. The sun was beginning to set before they moved from that place, reluctant to leave one another, to end their heart to heart. But eventually they stood, somewhat stiffly, and moved away together but still separate. I wondered if they shared the same dreams. Did they dream of the day that conversation could be had around a warm kitchen table with a mug of steaming coffee in their hands? Or extended even to include a meal, a glass or two of wine, their partners and friends joining them? Did they dream of walking together around shops and sharing smiles on unmasked faces; trying on clothes and laughing at the ridiculousness of tiny changing room cubicles? Did they dream of holidays abroad, laying next to one another on sun-warmed loungers by a sparkling clear pool, cocktails in hand? If nothing else they probably dreamt of a visit to the hairdresser, and the luxurious indulgence of a colour, cut and blow dry. I smiled in understanding. The bench of dreams is a wonderful place. I like to think that tired out, washed smooth, chunk of tree, lodged between the stones of the beach below my window, has served a purpose in all these months of uncertainty and fear. I don’t know if the people who stop and sit there do dream, or if they do, what they dream. But my imagination fills in the gaps. Every one of those people has a story, and I may never know the truth of those, but I watch, and I observe, and I dream for them. Because dreams are good. Dreams are for when reality is a struggle. They give us something else to think on, to hope for, to believe it, to work towards, to focus our hearts and minds on. Dreams fill in the monotony of the ordinary, the accepted new norms, and they add colour to the dreariness of the grey that seems to surround us when life is tough. Dreams can become hope. And hope keeps us dreaming.
So do I dream? I look at that bench every day, and yes I dream. I dream that one day I can leave here and walk briskly down to that beach. In my dream, I wander over and take my place on that solid piece of wood, and I sit looking out to sea. I can feel the breeze on my face and I can breathe deeply of that salty air. I listen and welcome the sounds of the seabirds, and the lapping of the waves, and as I turn my face to it’s warmth, I let the sun awaken me to life again.
Joy Margetts has loved writing for as long as she can remember. A retired nurse, mother of two, and a new grandparent, she also has a lifelong interest in history, and loves nothing better than visiting ancient monuments or burying herself in archive material. She was brought up in the South of England but for the last twenty five years has made her home on the beautiful North Wales coast.
Her debut novel 'The Healing', a work of historic fiction, was published by Instant Apostle on 19 March 2021. Joy has also self published a short novella, 'The Beloved' as both
