The Bench Read online

  Chapter 7

  She called her Gran at nine to let her know she was coming. Her Gran usually met her at the station and they went for a croissant together before going back to her place for some gardening or a chat. Sometimes the gardening was replaced with a group read, if her Gran found someone she thought might be a candidate for Jenny. Other times it was just poetry and Pimms on the balcony. Jenny was leaning toward the Pimms and poetry today. She wasn’t sure if she was brave enough to read her initial scribbling to her grandmother, but she had brought them along just in case.

  Jenny came out of the station just as her grandmother rocked to a stop on her bicycle. The bicycle was similar to Jenny’s and had the same wicker basket on the front. She hurried over and gave the tall thin woman a kiss on the cheek. Her skin was very wrinkled and folded but still soft with the faintest of fuzz, like down, drifting along her jaw line.

  “Hi Gran.”

  “Jens, how are you love?”

  “Great just great. Are you up for a croissant?

  “I stopped by and told them we were coming, so they’ve put four aside for us.”

  “Four!”

  “You’re too skinny. You don’t eat enough. If your mother came down from Wyoming she’d be petrified. There’d better be some fattening-up before Thanksgiving.”

  “Which me or the turkey.”

  “One and the same aren’t they.”

  She dug her fingers playfully into the older woman’s ribs. They strolled off arm in arm down the small town street. It was typical of many of the outlying towns with wide boulevards, grand old trees and burgeoning flower baskets.

  ‘Le Petit Garcon’ was always packed, especially on Sundays and the dozen or so small tables were constantly turning over a respectable trade. It was one of those businesses that was just happy to stay small and quality, with aspirations more toward having a quality place in the hearts of the community rather than being a chain store conglomerate. The owner Gerrard greeted her grandmother with a kiss, she was obviously an extremely regular customer. The French, when pressed, knew how to look after their clientele. The fifty-year old Gerrard was an old pro, a maître d’ par excellence.

  “Bon jour Gerrard.”

  “Madame Simmons. And Mademoiselle Jenny.”

  “Hello Gerrard, it’s good to see you again.”

  He grasped Jenny’s hand as if holding a flower. “We did not see you for almost three weeks. I was worried that you had found some lucky man and I would be flushed out of your heart like dishwater.”

  “Don’t worry just yet Gerrard,” her Gran said. “But there does seem to be a flush happening around here, on her cheeks, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, yes Madame you are right. You cannot hide the glow of the heart. I am cast away on the seas. After I bring the croissant I will prepare my life jacket.”

  Jenny laughed at them. “You two are hopeless. Did you plan this line beforehand.”

  “Impossible.” Gerrard declared with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “The glow of the heart is impossible to disguise. It is only ever out shone by, by... what?”

  “The golden glow of your croissants?” Her Gran ventured.

  “So true, so true. Please your table is there.” In a flash he was gone and another handsome young boy of sixteen was instantly at their table to help them with their chairs.”

  “May I get you something to drink?” The young boy asked.

  “Please. A large milky cappuccino with extra chocolate for my grandmother and I’d like an orange juice and a ristretto.”

  “Sorry that was orange juice and ristretto?” he repeated.

  “Yes please.”

  “Right away.” The young boy seemed a bit confused by the unusual combination.

  “What’s that all about then?” her Gran asked.

  ”What’s what about?” Jenny responded innocently.

  “OJ and ristretto, that’s like diet coke and foie gras.”

  “No, Gran, that comparison is totally over the top. I just wanted a strong coffee and then something for the meal.” Her Grandmother didn’t seem satisfied by the explanation and eyed Jenny sternly for a long time. “What Gran?”

  “Well,” her grandmother spoke in a frank and casual manner, “the phone call came as normal so that tells me you were up early enough or home early enough that you didn’t get laid last night?”

  “Gran! What! Quiet, you can’t say things like that.” Jenny was flabbergasted

  “Well did you?”

  “What?”

  “Get laid. Did you get laid last night?”

  “Shh, Christ Gran!” How could she respond? Jenny looked around awkwardly to see if any of the tables had heard the outrageous remark. All seemed safe. She looked at her Gran and quietly said, “no I didn’t.”

  “Pity. Good lay is what you need.”

  “What? What has gotten in to you Gran?” She knew her grandmother could be eccentric but this was a bit much. Gerrard arrived with another waiter who presented the two almond and two regular croissants. Then with a flourish Gerrard produced two warm English scones and a container of clotted cream.

  Jenny’s grandmother reached for him and kissed him. “Thank you Gerrard, you’re fantastic. And clotted cream! Two surprises in one morning.”

  Gerrard looked blankly back, first at Jenny and then at her grandmother. “Sorry I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do.” her grandmother pointed conspiratorially at Jenny. “Look at her Gerrard. You know these things. She’s in love isn’t she?”

  “Grandma!”

  “Don’t call me grandma, sounds like a goat. Gran.” She stared at Jenny. Jenny was flustered because now she sensed three or four of the tables had pricked up their ears. “I’m right, aren’t I Gerrard?”

  “Well. Women and their hearts are a puzzle to all men, we are idiots. But I will say this Madame Simmons, if she is, he is a very lucky man.”

  “I’m not! I tell you I’m not definitely not.”

  Her grandmother looked at Gerrard. He smiled at Jenny. “Even the French know of Lady Macbeth. Me thinks…” He walked away chuckling.

  “Gran you’re incorrigible.”

  “Well?”

  “No damn it.”

  “Then what? Not laid, not in love, are you pregnant?”

  “For God’s sake Gran!” Jenny smiled limply around at the neighboring tables.

  “What? I’ll find out.” There was a pause and her grandmother became very serious. “Have you started writing at last?”

  Jenny whispered back, “Just a little poetry.”

  Her grandmother was on her feet calling across the small restaurant to Gerrard. “She’s writing, she’s writing Gerrard, at last.” Jenny buried her head in her hands. She wanted to vanish. Her grandmother kissed the top of her head and then sat back down opposite her.

  “There, there, now it’s not that bad. Now that you have said it you can begin to live it.”

  “You said it Gran.”

  “Well close enough. Come on no more embarrassments let’s enjoy our brunch.” Jenny looked up and shook her head at the eccentric old girl. It was easy to understand how she had got into the world of children’s books - she still was one.

  “Come on let’s not talk about it, that’ll spoil it. Let’s talk about something utterly foul. How about your firm’s new poet, the Californian, I can’t believe you published it.

  “I was totally against it. I’m surprised you got hold of a copy.”

  “I still have a few connections even in the high brow literary worlds. They’ve been slow to realize it, but more mom’s buy books than academic dinosaurs do.”

  Lunch with Gran was always like this she thought. The original outburst was unusual but conversation inevitably turned to some literary discussion. She was still very sharp for a seventy-two year old and always aired her caustic opinions. Sometimes Jenny wondered if the other
tables didn’t wait to sit near them on these Sunday brunches just to get an earful from one of the queens of the children’s book world.

  They devoured the brunch and the Californian poet’s work in the process. They both agreed the croissants were infinitely more nourishing. Having paid the bill, they left Gerrard feigning heartbreak at the doorway. He was such a French ham, but a tickle for her Gran.

  The little suburb was having a flea market and Jenny and her Gran strolled through with Gran barging a channel with her front bicycle tire. It was extremely busy for such a small town and most of the stalls were local designers or cottage industries. Her Gran found some homemade marmalade and bought four.

  “How will you possibly get through four jars of jam?”

  “Marmalade. Very different.”

  “But it’s still four.”

  “No two. You’re taking two, one to send to your mom and the other to put on your bones.”

  “Thanks - for the marmalade.”

  “Ooh sensitive about the bones are we? You could use a little more meat. Men don’t want to reach over and squeeze a rib, they want a boob.”

  “Gran! What has gotten in to you?”

  “I’m not that old, you know, just a little crusty. Look at those two.” She pointed at two young girls about fifteen with crop tops on. “There is more skin on show than at a sumo fight. Their flabby little boobs and bellies are hanging out all over. Both they and their mothers should be arrested.”

  “It’s a fashion.” Jenny countered.

  “Have you got a crop top?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? If it’s a fashion you should be showing the wares girlie.”

  “Gran.”

  “Come on you’re what a full B cup? Let’s go find some sexy lingerie.”

  “I am not going anywhere like that with you, especially if you’re in this bizarre mood.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s take a look at those necklaces.” They crossed over to a small table where a young guy and girl were selling and making necklaces. The girl was busy doing some intricate beadwork and the young guy was supposed to be doing the sales, but seemed pretty useless. They poked around the trays of jewelry.

  “What about that one Jenny?”

  “I think it is a bit too flash for me.”

  “Hi.” They both looked up to see the young girl. She had put her beadwork down and glared at her boyfriend. “You think it’s too flash. Then try a bigger bead but only in one color. You get just as bold a statement but not as busy.” She turned away and rummaged in a beaten old leather suitcase. She turned back to them. “I’ve got this in lemon yellow, green and red. I wear big ones like this because my neck isn’t exactly pretty, kind of flabby, but they hide it. You’ve got a lovely neck, people will really stare at it with this.” She clipped it around Jenny’s neck. The beads were enormous almost golf ball size in the middle and smaller to the sides. It was kind of fun funky fifties retro. It was also the exact color for the outfit she picked up from the spiky haired girl. Jenny loved it but would she wear it? Her Grandmother saw the excitement as she looked in the hand held mirror.

  Her grandmother made up Jenny’s mind for her. “She’ll take it. How much?”

  The young girl almost apologized when she said the price to the older woman. “I sell them for twenty-five dollars.”

  “Fine. Sounds kind of low to me. Young lady never sell yourself cheap,” then her grandmother flicked her head at the dazed boyfriend, “to anyone.” She paid the girl and they moved off through the market.

  The market continued for another two or three hundred yards but it was mostly either second hand clothes of no specific era or just crap. The crap stores with poor quality but trendy prints seemed to be doing great trade. The two girls they had seen earlier in the tarty clothes had somehow got in front of them again. They were smoking and turned suddenly. One of them brushed her grandmothers trouser leg with her cigarette.

  “Ow! Holy Christ!” Her grandmother screamed.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, sorry.” The young tart was profusely apologetic, she fussed over her grandmother and continued to apologize. Her grandmother mother grabbed the young girl’s shoulder and straightened her up. The girl thought she was going to be slapped. All the slutty bravado was gone and below the cake of heavy make up her face trembled with honest apology.

  “Are you a buyer or a seller here?” Her grandmother asked.

  “Pardon?” The girl whispered politely.

  “I have never been so politely treated by an angel dressed as a slut.” She sneered at the fifteen-year-old’s push up bra and cleavage. “Seller. Too bad it has all been bought before. Nothing new there.”

  “What! You old bag.” Barked the teenager. The previous polite charm had evaporated in an instant.

  Jenny turned her grandmother and pushed her away from the irate teenagers. When Jenny looked back sure enough the angel was gone and the glowering painted face thrust out her tongue and held up a finger at them.

  “Not as sweet as they first didn’t appear, eh?” The old woman chuckled.

  “Gran you’re terrible. She just wanted to apologize.”

  “Of course, it was an accident, but a little girl like that dressed as a slut?”

  “It’s just kids trying to find their boundaries. You know, pushing the limits.”

  “Pushing the limits? Those little boobs in the skimpy top were pushing the limits. How are women supposed to be revered, romanced if tarts like that are dragging their wares around the streets like recycled newspapers. Everyone has read the story, it’s tatty and-”

  “I’ll get you home for a cup of tea.” She urged her down the tree-lined boulevard.

  “Don’t treat me like I’m in danger of becoming some mad, cranky, old fart. I am one already!” She laughed and so did Jenny. “But I’m right and you know it.”

  “In a way. It’s all about gratification and explicit details. Where is the mystery?” Jenny trailed off thinking about the poetry. She stopped realizing she was walking alone. The older woman had stopped a few paces back. Her grandmother was watching her. “Don’t start.” Her grandmother smiled back.

  “So it’s serious. How far has it gone?” The old woman asked softly.

  “No details. Nothing. There is nothing.”

  “That was not ‘nothing’. I shall be on the phone to your mother.”

  “No, God! Gran don’t do that.”

  “Well is it a good piece of work?”

  Jenny hesitated, what could she possibly say. “I think so.”

  “Is that your personal opinion or you don’t know?” Gran was puzzled.

  “Well it’s early days,” she paused hoping her grandmother would drop the conversation. The old woman just stared at her with her all knowing, unforgiving eyes. You could never lie to those eyes, they saw through you. “I haven’t really had a good look as such. I’m still in the process of... I mean-”

  “Enough,” she held her hand up imperiously. “Tell me more when there is more juice to squeeze from the orange.”

  They arrived at the small gate in the hedge that led into her small front garden. She could hear Fred on the other side of the front door. He was getting very old and portly. His weight gain was no doubt because her grandmother spoiled him hopelessly. He used to come down in her bicycle basket for the brunch and Gerrard never seemed to mind. Now the weight of the Jack Russell, whose belligerent attitude had also grown, could topple her mother when she was riding, so it was safer if he stayed at home. Even at the age of fourteen and double his normal weight he still half bounced at their feet for a greeting.

  Jenny bent down and played with his ears, “I’d like a dog one day.”

  “Get a man instead,” her grandmother commanded. “They’re not as easy to train, and you still have to pick up their crap, but at least they can rub your shoulders if you get tired from writing.” She pause
d lost in thought. “I think that’s the only advantage.”

  “Well whatever. I think I want a big dog.”

  “There is only one big dog.”

  “Oh yeah?” She was sure her grandmother was going into one of her eccentric pronouncements.

  “Great Dane. The rest are wannabees.”

  Jenny waited for more of the story but there was nothing else forthcoming. “That’s it, nothing else to add.”

  “Nope. I still think there is something else beyond the poetry, but I can wait ‘til you’re ready.” Her grandmother looked at her. The old woman, a widow for almost thirty years and author of more than fifteen children’s books seemed thinner and tired. “Jenny, I’m a little pooped. Think I’ll lay down for a while.”

  “Yeah sure I should get back, I’ll see you next week.” Jenny kissed her grandmother’s cheek as she sat down in her favorite chair. She knew she wasn’t going to sleep. She had ideas and wanted to jot them down. She was just being polite. The old girl could be so sweet and so rude.

  She had hoped to write on the train but found herself trying to imagine the poet. Two days ago Seattle’s face had popped up with his long flowing hair and green eyes, but now on the ride home, the poet had no face. She tried to imagine him. She tried to impose a shape, clothes, features on him but it just came up blank.