The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Richard and Judy and international best-selling author.

A tragic love story spanning three decades, The Bench is Saskia Sarginson's most accomplished and heart-rending novel to date. For fans of One Day and A Star Is Born

We should have a plaque too,' he says. 'What would it say?'

I tilt my head. 'For Cat and Sam, who found each other and lost each other and found each other again,' I suggest.

It begins at the end.

It begins on a bench, on a heath, where a woman waits for a man.

Ten years ago, they made a pact:

On this bench, on this day, they will end a love affair that's spanned three decades, or start again.

They should never have met. They should never have fallen in love.

But they did, until a lie separated them for a lifetime.

Can they fix the mistake, forgive the lie, erase the years in between?

Can what was lost ever truly be found?

Release date: March 19, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

Panting a little from the climb, she reaches the bench and drops onto the wooden slats. She sits with her knees together, back straight, hands linked in her lap. Only her thumbs, moving restlessly across each other, betray her nerves. She closes her eyes, shutting out the view of scrub-covered hills, woods of ancient oaks, ponds filled with the dark waters of the Fleet.

Is he here already? Walking one of the paths, passing joggers and dog-walkers, mothers pushing prams. If she had superpowers, could she discern the scrape of his feet against the gritty surface, dislodging tiny stones? A football match is in mid flow on one of the pitches at the foot of Parliament Hill, and she hears their shouting, and the yell of distant sirens.

She opens her eyes, scared that she might somehow miss him, and runs her hands along the engraved letters on the back of the seat. A long time ago, Cat read the inscription aloud to him, and then each of them made up their own versions, like spells, making the other laugh. But the last time they met on the bench was the last time they saw each other, and by then words had become powerless. Instead, they squeezed as close as they could, his fingers holding her face, silently wiping away tears, salty thumbs grazing her cheeks. Ten years ago.

She places her hand on the wood, almost as if she expects the warmth of his body to have lingered in the grain. Countless people will have found refuge here, eating a sandwich perhaps, reading a newspaper, pleased with themselves to have found such a good spot, alone or in company, holding a child on their lap or stroking a dog at their knee, looking down into the valley.

Will he come? Fear tightens her throat. Maybe he’s forgotten. Maybe he’s found someone else. She spots a man making his way towards her. He’s doll-sized at the moment; as he approaches, she strains to make out details. Even from this distance and angle, she’s sure he’s the right height and build. Wait. No. This man’s hair is grey. But he’s nearly fifty, she reminds herself. He’s coming closer across the meadow. Is it him? She frowns and uses her palm to shield her gaze. Then she sees the child traipsing behind, sees him running to catch the man’s hand. They have a kite, a red triangle of plastic with a fluttering tail. They are laughing, this stranger and his grandson. Disappointment stings her eyes.

She tries to steady herself, thinking of the diary, how it was all written down; the story of them, from the very beginning.

The first time Cat and Sam sat on this bench, they couldn’t stop talking, there was so much to tell each other. The second time she was angry with him. Very angry. The third time they met here, life was a muddle, but not impossible, and the sheer joy of being together eclipsed the rest.

‘A hundred years ago,’ he told her, ‘there would have been cattle grazing here, locals coming to dig up sand, collect wood for their fires. Just think, we could have been a couple with a smoky cottage to go back to, standing out here, feeling the sun on our faces, the scent of the new ponds in the air. Me reaching for your hand, kissing you, your hair, your mouth, and not caring who saw.’

She stayed quiet, imagining them in rustic clothes, living a simple life, no lies or deceit or thoughts of betrayal, just the pure comfort of each other, cows grazing around them, swaying slow and sure. Cat loved the poetry in Sam, how it came out in the lyrics he wrote, the sentences he spoke. How everything became a story, a song. With gleaming eyes, he explained that Guy Fawkes and his gang had planned to watch Parliament blow up from this vantage point; that there was a myth that Boudicca was buried here.

‘Boudicca! Are you making this up?’

He showed her a battered book in his coat pocket. Hampstead Heath: The Walker’s Guide.

‘Very sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll,’ she teased.

He made a lunge then, and Cat slipped out of his grasp to run down the hill, stumbling over tussocks, feet slurping in and out of mud pools, arms flailing for balance, longing for him to catch her, anticipating the first thud of his body against hers, the judder of rib bone against spine, one heart behind the other.

It is his shadow that touches her first, lassoing her inside its darkness, making her look up. He’s breathing heavily. He must have taken the steep slope at a run, sprinted up it like a young man to find her.

His hair is not grey. It’s thick and black, with paler streaks at his temples. He runs a trembling hand through its damp strands, pushing it back. They stare without speaking. She has so much to tell him, but the words have caught in her throat.

He does not look away or even blink. His stare holds her at its centre. Feelings flash across his features, one after the other, like a pack of cards falling from an opened hand. And despite everything, the last one that settles on his long mouth and around the creases on his forehead and inside his black eyes is hope.

To Mom’s eternal disappointment, all the men I meet are dead. But that’s what happens when you work in a funeral home. Even the guys I spot on my days off strolling the boardwalk in their flared pants and open-necked shirts, smirking at girls and eating handfuls of salt-water taffy, look hardly alive. Of course, to be fair, they’re tourists, here for the gambling and the fun of the arcade. They’re in Atlantic City to escape reality.

There are never any tourists around when I get up and head for the beach. It’s not just the early hour, the sky pink with dawn light, it’s because our neighbourhood’s considered out of bounds. Don’t go more than one block from the beach, is the general recommendation. ‘Heavens to Betsy,’ the old ladies in their plaid pants tell each other, ‘be sure not to stray too far.’

But once I’ve crossed the wide strip of Atlantic Avenue, the clapboard houses and vacant lots fall away, and I’m in the area people think of as Atlantic City: big casinos and towering hotels, doormen in uniforms yawning on their patch of red carpet. By now I can smell the briny tang of the ocean, and soon I’m on the long line of the boardwalk itself, the sea murmuring beside me. The weak spring sunshine doesn’t take the chill out of the air, so no one else is fool enough to think of swimming. As I pass shops with Closed signs on the doors, chained-up surfboards rattling in the breeze, it’s just me and the night cleaners, and a few stray cats.

Green wooden benches are positioned all along the front, facing the ocean. Every morning, I stop beside the exact same one, resting my hand on its curved back, touching its little bronze plaque. And down by the shoreline, the sea waits: the comforting hush, hush of the waves, the never-ending stretch of blue on blue. I hold my breath, because I’m hoping for a sight of fins, and I gasp as I spot them: three dolphins ducking in and out of the waves. I know I won’t be able to get close, but the joy of seeing them propels me down the steps and onto the sand. At the surf’s edge, I strip down to the swimsuit I’m wearing underneath my jeans and sweatshirt, and before I can gauge the exact level of biting cold, I plunge straight in.

Nothing else exists except green-blue water and mind-numbing cold. I swim fast, my arms carving a path through the low waves, keeping the shore in sight, counting the empty lifeguard stations in order to know when to turn and swim back. By the time I’m out and towel-dried, clothes pulled on over skin tacky with salt, the early crowds are gathering. I hear the familiar chink and clatter of the arcades opening for business, awnings being winched over shopfronts, racks of postcards and novelty souvenirs wheeled onto the wooden boards.

As I head for home, the scent of coffee wafts from the Beach Shack, reminding me that I’m hungry. In front of me, a tall guy rests his guitar case and a huge rucksack on the ground, then rolls his shoulders and gets a map out of his jeans pocket. He looks to be in his mid twenties, and I like his face. He has a long mouth that seems made for smiling. He bends his head to examine the map, floppy dark hair falling into his eyes. I slow my steps, thinking I could offer him directions, but a couple have already stopped. They hold a camera out to him, gesturing. As I pass, I hear his voice replying politely. He’s English. His voice sounds as I imagine those old-fashioned heroes in my favourite novels might.

Immediately, I have this scene in my head – a kind of mash-up of Pride and Prejudice and Rebecca, Mr Darcy crossed with Mr de Winter: a man with beautiful manners and a stately home. A man with a wide mouth and an easy smile. In my head, I watch him striding off into the distant green of an English countryside to right an injustice, to win the heart of the woman he loves.

I wonder what the tall guy with the guitar would say if he knew that hearing a snatch of his British accent triggered a fantasy in the space of five seconds. But that’s what’s so great about an imagination, the freedom to roam inside your own head. Without it, I’d probably be certified by now.

Dad’s slumped on his chair on the porch, and it’s clear he hasn’t been to bed. He’s been playing blackjack or poker at one of the casinos. Red-eyed and dishevelled, he gives me a weary glance.

I take his hand. ‘Come on, Dad. You need to eat something. You can’t be late for work again.’

‘I was on a roll, Kit-Cat,’ he says in a hoarse voice. ‘It was my lucky night …’

‘… and then it wasn’t,’ I finish.

‘Yeah.’ He pushes a hand through his thinning hair, then fishes a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and attempts to light one with shaking fingers, the flame stuttering out. I crouch beside him and hold his lighter steady. He smells of stale sweat and nicotine. He takes a deep drag.

There’s a small birthmark on my forehead shaped like a star, or it is if you squint and use your imagination. ‘My lucky star,’ Dad likes to say. I don’t ask him how much he lost. He wouldn’t admit the truth anyway. No need to panic, I tell myself, my wages will cover the rent. Just as well, because there’s nothing of value left in our house to sell or pawn. Mom’s piano went months ago. She says it’s easier now, better without the worry of losing it. But sometimes I catch her running her fingers over the kitchen table, sounding notes in her head.

After a quick shower, I’m dressed for work in my uniform of black shirt and trousers. In the kitchen, Mom’s bustling about, a white apron over her sprigged cotton dress, a blue ribbon in her hair like a young girl. She’s cooking grits and eggs for my father. Coffee boils in a pot on the stove. I pour myself a cup.

She gives my steel-capped boots a sorrowful glance. I’ve given up telling her that I wear them for protection. It’s mandatory. She longs to see me in elegant pointed slippers with delicate heels.

I take a sip of scalding liquid. ‘It’s got worse, hasn’t it?’ I lift my eyes to the ceiling. Above our heads, Dad’s heavy footfall creaks across the boards.

She turns, hisses, ‘You think I don’t know?’

‘But Mom—’

‘There’s no point, Catrin. No point talking about it. We manage, don’t we?’ Her words trickle into silence. Neither of us speaks for a moment. ‘He found it hard after little Frank died.’ She flutters her fingers. ‘Then you were so ill … at death’s door. It took a toll. And there were the medical bills. It’s been a struggle ever since. I think that’s it. I think that’s why he does it.’

‘I know he doesn’t want to hurt us …’

Mom grimaces. ‘I have one of my sick heads.’ She touches her temples with the tips of her fingers, rubs in tiny circles. ‘Just do one thing for me,’ she says.

‘Mom?’

She comes close, and I think she’s going to ask me to massage her feet or fetch a damp cloth to cool her brow. ‘Don’t be hasty when it comes to finding a husband,’ she says. ‘Not like me.’ She grips my wrist and squeezes hard. I didn’t realise she had the strength. ‘Make the right choice. Use your head, not your heart. I want you to have a good life. I want you to be secure.’ She lets go of me. ‘Safe.’

‘Safe?’ I repeat. ‘Mom, I’m not going to rely on a man for that.’ I frown, rubbing my wrist. ‘Do you … regret marrying Daddy?’

She looks at me with something like pity. ‘Regret is pointless, Catrin. Best just to make decisions that will save you from the sorrow of it.’

‘But … you did love him, before?’

‘Love?’ She clicks her tongue impatiently. ‘Love’s not real, Catrin. Not romantic love.’ She turns from me, busying herself with putting crockery away.

I spent so long wishing Baby Frank hadn’t died, imagining how he’d have turned out, that the wanting has made him real, real enough that I can conjure him at will: a lanky big brother giving me bear hugs, dishing out advice along with plenty of teasing. He sounds deep and slow, with a hint of the South; not country, but that lovely, lazy stretch to his vowels like Mom’s.

Mom’s fallen out of love with Dad, I tell him. Do you suppose Dad knows?

I imagine Frank wrinkling his eyes in irritation. What’s to love about a man who lies? Dad hasn’t got a clue. Haven’t you been watching? He whispers into my ear. Listen, you can’t fix Mom and Dad. You need to fix yourself, Cat. You need to start living.

I suspect Frank disapproves of my job. Which is ironic, when you think about it. Like Mom, he probably worries that there’s not much of a social life attached; I’m the first to admit that most people I meet aren’t exactly raconteurs. Corpses tend to be on the quiet side.

I get to Greenacres on time, clumping up the steps to the front entrance, past the sign saying: Funeral Home. Est. 1927. Pushing open the door, I’m in the hushed, respectful silence of the foyer, lilies upright in a pale vase.

At the end of every working day, there’s a silky dust on my skin, a grey tinge of something that looks like soot. Human ash gets everywhere, flying free just as soon as the door of the retort is opened, riding on a wave of heat.

‘Oh Catrin,’ Mom said when I first told her about the job. ‘How are you going to find yourself a husband working in that place?’ She shuddered. ‘Never tell a soul you work there.’

‘Isn’t it a sin to tell an untruth?’ I teased her.

‘Well, this is different.’ She gave me a sad, damp look. ‘A gentleman would think it odd.’ She sucked in her cheeks. ‘Anyone would think it odd.’

She can disapprove of my job as much as she likes; truth is, it’s the best-paid option for someone like me, with only a high school education and no qualifications. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to go to college to study English and American literature. ‘Plenty of books in the library,’ was Dad’s helpful take on it.

Mom’s right, of course. I never will meet a man at a funeral parlour. But her Southern upbringing has made her believe a woman isn’t complete, or even capable, without a man at her elbow, protecting her virtue, paying her bills. Only I wasn’t brought up in the Deep South. I was brought up on the road, fending for myself at new school after new school, never settling in one place long enough to make real friends or finish my studies. More than acquiring a man, I’d like to acquire a talent.

At Greenacres, I’m often the last in this world to touch a person, and it’s as if their spirit haunts my fingers. I have to find a way to release them through writing. After work, I go home and scribble out ideas for stories, writing those lost souls back into existence as brand-new characters. Maybe that’s it – maybe that’s my talent. I want to believe it.

A sea breeze salts the morning air, tugging at his hair. Sam wishes it would blow away the clatter and beep of slot machines. There’s a smell of coffee coming from somewhere, making him realise he hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. People around him all seem to be chewing bagels, or munching salt-water taffy out of paper bags. His mouth waters. He puts his guitar down carefully, unhitches the rucksack from his shoulders, letting it drop onto the boardwalk with a grunt. The weight has got lighter with each week he’s been travelling, but it’s still vertebra-crushingly heavy. According to his guidebook, there’s a hostel not far away. He takes the map from his pocket and presses it flat with his palm; the place is within walking distance.

He’s calculating just how much he has left to spend on food when a couple stop to ask if he’ll take a snap of them; they pose beside a neon casino advert shaped like a huge dollar sign. He aims the camera at their shiny smiles, directing them to stand closer.

After they’ve gone, he hoists his rucksack up, adjusting the angle of his body to balance out the familiar weight.

He’s lucky, one bed left. A bottom bunk. He asks the woman at the front desk of the hostel what the local attractions are, and where he should go to get a flavour of the city. His stomach rumbles as he says the word ‘flavour’. She admires her painted fingernails. ‘Just stick to the boardwalk,’ she says in a bored voice. ‘Don’t go past Atlantic Avenue. Not if you wanna keep your watch and your billfold.’

The dormitory is empty apart from a young man in Y-fronts doing press-ups in the middle of the room. Sam puts his guitar case on his bed. Sleeping in communal rooms is a bit like going back to his boarding school days, long over. Waking to find himself in a tiny bunk with someone else snoring close by came as a shock after the privacy of his airy flat in Barnsbury, the comfort of his and Lucinda’s double bed with its Egyptian cotton sheets. But he’s got used to travelling on a tight budget; he’s even come to like it, because it means he appreciates luxury all the more on the odd occasions he has it, and because having limited means forces him to use his imagination.

The young man doing press-ups gets to his feet with a grunt. He glances at Sam. ‘One hundred, every day.’ He smiles a little self-consciously, inclining his head in greeting, ‘Levi Hansma.’

‘Sam,’ Sam says, craning his neck to look up. ‘Sam Sage.’

‘Sam Sage,’ Levi repeats, exaggerating the hissing sounds. ‘Nice name, buddy.’

‘Your English is good. You’re German?’

‘Dutch. Are you here for the gambling?’

‘No. Just passing through,’ Sam says. ‘Leaving tomorrow. Planning on visiting Miami, then New Orleans.’

Levi pulls on a pair of jeans, shrugging his head through a checked shirt without undoing the buttons. ‘We’re here for the casinos. There’s three of us. You want to join us tonight?’

Sam is tempted. He likes Levi’s big, open face, his straightforward friendliness. He imagines Levi’s companions will be similar amiable blonde giants. He’s missed male camaraderie, his friend Ben and his constant banter, taking the mickey out of everything. But he shakes his head. ‘I’ve got no money left. Nearly at the end of my visa. Just three weeks left.’ He sits on his bunk. ‘I’ve been in the wilderness. Haven’t slept in a bed for a while.’

‘You’re a musician?’ Levi nods at the guitar.

Sam pauses. ‘Yeah,’ he says. He sits up straighter. ‘I am.’ He opens the case and puts his hand on his acoustic instrument, pats it affectionately.

‘Cool. We were in a bar last night. The music was good,’ Levi says. ‘It was on Pacific Avenue.’ He frowns. ‘What was the name …’ He holds up a finger. ‘Ally’s. That was it. Not far from here. It was like, um, rock music? Live. It was good.’

‘If it’s free entry, I might give it a try,’ Sam says. Then he sniffs his underarms and rolls his eyes. ‘Think I’d better take a shower before I eat something. I’ve gone feral the last few weeks.’

‘Feral?’ Levi raises his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know this word.’

Sam grins. ‘Wild.’

Levi opens his mouth in an ‘ah’ of understanding. ‘Communal showers down the corridor. Hot-dog stand on the corner of the street.’ He gives Sam a thumbs-up. ‘See you later.’

The shower room is deserted. There’s a public swimming pool smell of feet and disinfectant, and the drip of a leaky shower head. Sam steps out of his well-worn jeans, dropping his black sweatshirt onto the tiled floor, kicking off his trainers.
He stands under the stream of water, letting it hit his scalp, his sore shoulders, the base of his neck.

He looks down at the scum of water running down his skin, his gaze falling on his new tattoo. He grimaces. Lucinda will hate it. The thought gives him a familiar twist of guilt; he needs to find a phone booth. He promised he’d be in touch every week. He knows each time he rings that she’s hoping he’s ready to return to their life together. Ever since they started to date in their last year at Oxford, Lucinda always had grand plans – for going to London and applying for their first jobs, for moving in together, for decorating their new flat, and now for him to rise to partner in the law firm he works for. He’s tried to explain that he doesn’t want that. But she won’t listen. He dreads their stilted conversation, pauses magnified through the crackle of the long-distance wire.

I’m still a rookie at the funeral business. The young ones are especially hard. ‘No sense in taking on their grief, isn’t room enough in your heart for it all,’ Ray tells me. But unlike him, I haven’t spent forty years adjusting to the matter-of-factness of death.

After work, I take the jitney to Maryland Avenue, heading for my favourite bench on the boardwalk. I like to spend a few minutes sitting there, looking out at the ocean. It makes me feel better.

Get out in the evenings, Frank keeps telling me. You got to live a little. I want to do exactly that: find a drink in a bar, loud music, the rowdy press of other living humans at my elbows. I long for the casual touch of someone’s hand on my shoulder, to share a joke or two. The only people I know here are Ray and my boss, Eunice. Neither of them is going to be my drinking companion. And much as I know Frank would love to oblige, circumstances mean he can’t.

I walk down the steps onto the beach. At the edge of the surf, I slip off my shoes and sit on the cold sand, wiggling my toes so that my feet are half submerged.

‘Wanna get a drink with me?’ I ask a nearby seagull, and he fixes me with a sceptical eye, flaps his great wings and takes off over the blue. ‘Well, I was only asking,’ I murmur, wrapping my arms around my knees.

Behind me, people scream on the big dipper, the arcade machines ring and the crowd on the boardwalk chatter and whoop. The wind has got up, blowing gusts of grit into my eyes, scraps of rubbish from the boardwalk. As I head for home, a piece of paper slaps against my ankle, sticking there. I bend down to peel it off. It’s a flyer for a club: Ally’s on Pacific Avenue. Free entry. A live band. I go to screw it up to throw in the trash. Then blink at the words again.

Go on, urges Frank’s voice. This is a sign, right? Take a little risk. Who cares if you go to a bar alone? This is the eighties, kid. You might meet someone, make a friend.

I crumple the paper.

I dare you, his voice insists.

I don’t remember when I first invented my brother’s voice; I must have been pretty small, I guess. Now he’s a character all of his own. He’s been with me for years, giving me strength each time I crouched in some dark place, listening to Mom sobbing in another room, with Dad promising her he was gonna stop, that this was absolutely the very last time, hand on heart, that he was gonna see the inside of any goddam casino. Dad’s lies taught me not to trust, but Frank has never let me down. He was with me on every midnight flit we made from rental places, whispering comforting words as I struggled to keep up with Mom and Dad, hurrying through the night, Dad loaded down with cases. I worked out early that I couldn’t hang on to anything precious; even my old plushie, a torn dog with one ear called Titch, got left behind in one of those houses we abandoned, in a city we never revisited. Anything of financial value could disappear into Dad’s pockets, and anything I loved could be lost at any moment. Nothing was safe. But Frank couldn’t disappear, because his voice was inside my head.

I look down at the crumpled paper in my hands. Frank knows I’m not going to wimp out of a dare. All right, I tell him. You win. You’re a goddam bully. But I’ll go to this club.

The hostel bed proves too tempting to resist. After his shower, and a hot dog eaten too fast, he rolls into the bunk and closes his eyes. Just a couple of hours, he thinks.

When he wakes, bleary-eyed, with a taste of onions in his mouth, mustard dried to a crust on his cheek, it’s early evening. He fumbles for his trainers and finds a piece of paper tucked into one of them: See you at Ally’s tonight! Levi.

He calculates that he’s got a little time to explore, find somewhere to eat, see what this place has to offer before he meets Levi and his friends. He puts his guidebook in his pocket.

He walks the boardwalk for a while, checking out the arcades, craning his neck . . .