Man on a Park Bench
By Peter Welch
BBC ENGLISH BY RADIO, Short Stories Series
"Police Constable Brown trudged his lonely beat. He had been making the same circuit for more years than he cared to remember, and yet he would miss it when he retired. He regarded himself as the ‘last of the old time coppers’. No patrol car for him. Only his walkie-talkie radio set and his well-worn feet.
Soon he would reach the park gate, where his old friend Charlie Simpson would be about to lock up. Always P.C. Brown timed his last part of his nightly vigil to coincide with Charlie’s gate-closing ceremony. They both had lonely jobs in many respects, although not without incident. Tonight, however, seemed especially quiet, except for the occasional howling in the nearby zoo. Charlie didn’t mind the wolves - kept him company he said, but Brown could find no comfort in this mournful sound.
When he reached the gate, there was the usual badinage with Charlie.
“Evening, Bert,” he said, as P.C. Brown loomed into view, “seen that little man muttering to himself?”
“What little man?” asked Bert, puzzled.
“He’s along there somewhere,” Charlie nodded in the direction of a wooden seat just outside the park railings. “Saw him wandering through when I was on my rounds.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it,” said Bert. “I often have a chat to myself!”
“Ah, but this chap seemed to have something on his mind.”
“All right, Charlie. I’ll keep a look out for him. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Bert.”
A few paces further along, a small figure sat huddled on a wooden bench. Bert Brown could only see a blurred outline in the gathering gloom, so he switched on his torch. A startled face blinked up into the beam.
“Who . . . who’s that?” The little man’s voice was shaky.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked Bert.
“Oh - yes, yes, I’m all right.”
P.C. Brown regarded the forlorn figure, shabbily dressed. The man seemed miserable, homeless perhaps?
“May I have your name, sir?”
“Name? What for?”
“Just routine, sir, checking whether you have means of identification - a place to live.”
“Oh, I’ve got a place to live all right - if you can call it living.”
The policeman glanced at the proffered envelope, and read aloud the name and address written on it. “Mr A. Ottenshawe, Flat 3, 29 Union Street, London, W.I.” H’m, he thought, “that would be one of those small side streets off the main bus route.” The name, however, intrigued him. “Ottenshawe - that’s a North country name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. I came to London, oh, about ten years ago.” The man lapsed into silence for a while, and then he said shyly, “would you mind sitting down and - well - having a talk?”
“Oh dear, “ thought Brown. “It’s going to be one of those cosy chat sessions.” Nevertheless he sat beside Mr Ottenshawe. After all, it was not the first time that he had talked over somebody else’s problems. That was part of a policeman’s job. To be a friend as well as a guardian of the people. But the night was chilly and he wanted to get home after his long spell of duty.
The little man relaxed somewhat, and began to tell of his early married life, when he and his wife were happy together. For a year or two she had shared his interests and hobbies and appeared to be satisfied with the close-knit life of a small Northern town. Then after a time she grew restless and wanted to move to a bigger city where there was more life and excitement. Wishing to please his wife, the man had agreed to come to London with her, although the prospect filled him with dread. Since his birth he had lived in the one small town, but he loved the woman he had married and he had sworn to make her happy.
To show sympathy the policeman told of his own married life, and how the relationship had mellowed from ardent romance to an agreeable peaceful existence. He was well satisfied with his way of life. The children had grown up and left home, and he and Mrs. Brown enjoyed each other’s company.
At the mention of children, Ottenshawe grew pensive and stated the opinion that a child or two might have made a difference in his own marriage.
The policeman nodded in agreement. “Ah yes,” he said, “they can be a nuisance, but it’s worth it really, when you see them develop and take their place in life. Very gratifying.”
“It was the butterflies,” the little man suddenly blurted out.
“I beg you pardon, sir?”
“I kept butterflies. I used to collect them - but I never killed them. I used to keep them alive - in a small hothouse.”
“Butterflies - alive,” pondered the policeman, “but they don’t live long, do they?”
“No, they don’t. It’s sad in a way. I used to watch the whole process - from caterpillar to chrysalis and then - to butterfly. They used to blossom forth in bright and lovely colours and then - just die.”
“You should have kept bees, sir!”
“Ugh! Can’t stand them. Horrible things. All buzzing and stinging. Butterflies are so silent - so gentle - they don’t harm anyone.”
P.C. Brown was bemused. Is that why you are sitting here - alone - worrying about butterflies?”
“Not entirely. That’s something to do with it, but not entirely.”
“Look here sir, it’s getting late. I think if you don’t mind I had better be going off duty. . .”
The little man looked up pleadingly. “Please don’t go - not yet.”
Resignedly the policeman sat down again. “All right sir, if you insist, ‘but make it short.”
Ottenshawe took a deep breath and launched into an account of how his wife’s attitude had changed towards him. How, from a jolly, affectionate person, she had become a harridan, constantly nagging at him to improve himself.
Not without a certain amount of cause. He was not ambitious, and was content with his hobbies, but he did try to please his wife. He had attempted to keep pace with her changing ideas, but it was no use. Nothing he did seemed right in her eyes.
P.C. Brown yawned. He had heard similar tales before. Ideal marriages that had become nightmares. But what could he do about it? Only advise and make soothing comments - for what? For people to listen with apparent attention and then go back to the way they were before - solving nothing. He prepared to depart, when suddenly the man tugged at his sleeve.
“She burned them all, you know.”
“Burned them? What, sir?”
“My butterflies. Smashed the hothouse and burned the chrysalis. . . burned them. . .” The little man buried his head in his hands and sobbed.
Bert Brown hated to see a man cry. It embarrassed him. But he waited until Ottenshawe had regained his composure. He felt sorry for him, and the enormity of what his wife had done made him go cold inside. Eventually he cleared his throat and said: “That’s terrible, sir - terrible. What on earth did you say to her?”
“Say?” the little man seemed surprised. “Why, nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Good Lord! If my wife had done that to me I would have given her a piece of my mind and no mistake!”
There was a pause, then the man said: “I hit her.”
“You - hit her - sir?”
“Yes. With an electric iron. Smashed her head in.”
Gently but very firmly, Police Constable Brown helped the little man to his feet. There was no resistance. Their footsteps echoed away into the night. A wolf howled mournfully ."
ACTIVITY:
Ask your students to listen to the following song by the Arctic Monkeys and ask them to reflect upon the lyrics. Ask them if they find any relationship between the message in the song and the story they've just read.
