FOG IN A PLACE OF REST

Even though the company had been boisterous the pub lacked any sort of empathy so after a couple of stiff ultra-dry martinis, probably the worst drink considering my problems, I slipped away with the intention of walking the couple of miles home. Craving the panacea of a few deep lungs full of salty ozone filled air, as usual, I took the scenic route hoping the great view would lift my spirits.  

Climbing the cliff path and struggling for breath I stopped to rest at the highest point on the slats of Garath Dobb’s bench. It had been a while since I’d taken this route so I had no idea who the guy was or anything about him but I did notice the absence of Verdigris on the copper plaque screwed onto the pristine varnish of the back support.  

Maybe a hundred yards offshore the silhouette of the car ferry slowly ploughed through flat waters, barely visible with the sun a mere lighter outline hanging low on the distant horizon. The deep booming moan resonated its warning through the dense air to disturb the peace and to some extent shake me out of my own gloom. As I watched the ship slipped from view.  

I recognised the figure who suddenly emerged from the other direction. Like the ship, just an outline but the stoop was familiar. Old Ben the gardener, fitter than most of those nearing eighty but suffering from a life of bent toil that had fixed his shape. The tap of his walking stick and his laboured breath suggested his time of climbing the cliff was nearing a natural conclusion.  

Next thing the slats sunk as he slumped next to me, breathing out heaving bursts of white vapour that quickly vanished into the damp hanging air. Glancing my way, he gave a nod of recognition and panted, “That’s a hell of a climb.” 

A month ago, I would have returned a smile but locked into thoughts of pending disaster kept that firmly locked up tightly. Instead, the frown I sent his way prompted him to say, “I see I’ve sat next to a bundle of fun. What the hell’s up with you?” 

In reply I rubbed my hand over the copper rectangle and asked, “Who’s Garath Dobbs?” 

“Local man. Loved to walk the cliffs but dropped dead recently on this exact spot.” 

“That’s sad. It says his wife donated the bench.” 

“Yeah, she wanted to create a place for walkers to rest after the toil of climbing the slope. You know, have a chance to recover. She was convinced Garath would have survived his heart attack if there’d been a place to rest. Look at me, all full of puff and a thumping heart. I thought I’d never get up here again so I’m certainly grateful to her. Now I’m sure it’ll be a while before I’ll have to quit.”  

Thoughts swirled inside my head, “Did he know he had a heart problem?” 

“Nope, it was right out of the blue. If he’d known, he wouldn’t be dead, would he? He wouldn’t have climbed all the way up here until he got his doctor’s okay… Oh well, I’d say nice to see you but you appear to have lost your shine. I’m heading back. I came up here for the view but it’s no good today.” 

I watched old Ben wander off then stared out over the water. The ferry suddenly reappeared. A long way off now but it was there, chugging along, still blowing its horn but quite clearly visible. I thought about what old Ben had said and felt a great weight lift. A shift of perspective. Maybe Garath Dobb’s wife had saved my life as well. 

I smiled as I headed down towards home. The fog that had spent the last month stifling my thoughts and convincing me of my demise had cleared. I was lucky, I’d put myself at risk because I hadn’t thought before I made the climb even though I’d had the diagnosis. I’d speak to my doctor. Maybe with care I could still come up here and continue to enjoy the view now that I knew there was a place of rest in exactly the right position.