Grayling Junction - Chapter Five

A Short History of a Bench

Some minds are capable of astonishing feats of creative reach, others of diverting their imagination into projects designed to benefit the surrounding community. Sometimes, this might be the development of communal seating, seating that in a perfect world would be more than merely functional, but a work of art in itself.

Benches the world over may assume many forms, from ornate, wrought iron vermicelli, to smooth stainless steel efforts, abstract exercises in brushed chrome or ergonomic, reclaimed wood curvatures. In cities they are often nothing more than a brutal experiment of flat stone, hulking blocks of cement that few spend more than a handful of moments trying to get comfortable on before giving up disappointed.

The residents of Grayling Junction have just one bench. Crafted from the remnants of wooden fishing boats no longer in service, frequent use has worn the wood to a smooth and remarkably comfortable condition. To glance upon it is an uncomplicated affair – three wooden boards nailed to seasoned wooden blocks, a rear portion that bows slightly outwards, leaning into an angle designed for reclining, even for afternoon dozing. Whilst it might not look all that special this bench has become the sole preserve of three.

Originally the bench faced northwest toward the sea. In 1957 the town mayor, Walgreen Hunter, decreed that the town warranted not only a passing centenary celebration, but also a lasting monument in the form of a peace park. A generous strip of land between the main road to the east and the docks was grassed over, floral beds and borders administered with the zeal of a convert.
This bench, in addition to others lounging in the sunshine like grazing ungulates, enabled visitors to pass the time of day contemplating the neatly proportioned gardens and gently sloping views of the distant sea.
As time was busy passing, however, an industrial estate pushed in alongside, quickly extending concrete limbs over the fringes of the park. It began as a modest excavation that removed a narrow strip of the park, the three-man spade gang shrugging apologetically as the town watched. Gradually the land became infected with an outbreak of determined bulldozers, metal blades juiced with the blood of flowerbeds. As the green space became a brown the colour of rotting fruit, constructions spreading like crippling mould, only a stubby patch of ground remained. In time this became a dumping ground for the toxic back door waste of industry.

Nowadays the area is a wasteland where nothing grows; even the weeds have upped and left. Oil and diesel seeping from the industrial estate has soaked into the ground and in summer the entire area gives off a humid choke. Worn tyres lie abandoned; vehicles that limped into the town needing repair now rust in the biting sea air. In the summer the relentless heat leaves the metal too hot to remove and flat, welting burns are common. Few bother with this strip of land, those that do use it as somewhere to park when visiting Lalo Morrow, pulling off the main road and sliding to a halt inside a flurry of dust clouds.

No one can recall when the bench was turned round. It now faces the Morrow house on the other side of a fat ogre of tarmac leading east and west. The bench has become a waiting room of sorts, a place where three fine friends, all freed of the inconvenience of work in the traditional sense, can be found to pass the time of day in a cosy area free of walls.