Hey guys, 
This is a story I wrote about a year ago, just thought I'd post it here for you lovelies to read :)
Also, some of you may notice it doesn't have a title, as I have "still not found the right words to say.”
I'd love to hear what you think I should call it :)


I stared at the painting, unable to take my eyes away. It was of the old empty bench at the end of the jetty, except that it wasn’t old, and it wasn’t empty. The bright sun shone on the curved bronze arms, the carefully glossed wood missing all the scratches and bumps the ocean had cast upon it over the years. On the bench sat an old man wearing a thick brown coat. His wrinkled face looked out on the sparkling water, the seagulls dancing in the crisp morning wind. There was something about that man, the way he sat, prouder than he had any right to be. It was if he matched the bench. He didn’t belong in this port either. At last I tore my eyes away and turned to Grandpa, who had stepped back to admire his talent.

“Who’s that man?”


“That’s Mr Thomas Garvin, and he is the greatest man I’ve ever known”










Anyway, I noticed this man, or this man’s coat, sitting alone on the bench. So I went and sat next to him, looking for the tell-tale bulge of a wallet in the pockets. But he started to have a conversation with me.


“If you could git on one of them boats” he said, “Where’d you sail to?”


His question caught me off balance, and his gruff voice frightened me. But I was witty, so I decided to play this to my favour.


“Well, I wouldn’t pick one of those boats, they’re too small. How about that vessel over there? I would sail across the entire ocean in that one.”


His head turned to admire the ship, and I quickly slipped my hand into his left-hand pocket, grasping onto the first thing I felt. Did he notice? I couldn’t tell.


I bid him a good day and slipped into one of the back alley streets with his wallet clutched firmly in my hand. As I searched through it, I felt bad. Not only bad, I felt greedy. In the man’s wallet was 25 pence and an ID. Thomas Garvin. That was the man’s name. There were also photos- lots of photos. There were photos of houses, shops, people, items… many of them seemed unnecessary- a pair of glasses, a grey umbrella. One of them caught my eye. It was of a woman with dark hair, and a baby boy sitting on her lap. The boy looked a lot like Mr Garvin. I felt terrible. This old man used to have a family, or maybe he still does. I didn’t touch that wallet again. I left it in that alleyway and tried to forget the whole memory of the old man who sits on the bench.


The next day the wind had picked up and whipped savagely through Port Main. Waves crashed maliciously on the rocks and storm clouds drenched the fishermen as they unpacked their loads. I stayed in my little make-shift shelter, in a dead-end street, trying to eek some warmth into my frozen hands and feet. I wondered if that man was still sitting at that bench. In this weather, it was hardly likely. I walked out of the alleyway, soaked to the bone by the rain. I could only just make out his shape sitting on the bench. Without knowing what I was doing, I battled the raging winds, trudged over to the bench and sat next to Mr Garvin.


“Nice to meet you again” He yelled over the gale. “What is yer name?”


“Oliver Mason, Sir.” Rain pelted my face in torrents.


“My name is Thomas, Thomas Garvin. Aren’t you cold?”


I said no but my blue lips belied me. He pulled me closer to him and wrapped his coat around my trembling shoulders. It smelt of cigar smoke and compost but the warmth was bliss. Unfortunately, my sixth sense took over, and I realised that the inside of his coat had twice as many pockets than the outside, and they were all full. A small pocket over his heart caught my eye. It contained a round, shiny golden object. I desperately wanted to see what it was, but Mr Garvin was talking to me again.


“You were here yesterday. Where are yer parents then?”


“I….I don’t have any Sir.”


“Really?” He surveyed my face carefully. “How old are you, lad?”


“Ten Sir, eleven in a week from Tuesday”


“You can drop the Sir, sonny. You can just call me Tom.”


I didn’t dare look at his face after that. Not after I had taken his wallet. I left shortly afterwards, and returned to my little shelter. Mr Garvin had said that I could call him Tom. He sheltered me from the cold. I stole his wallet. His wallet! I rushed to alleyway where I had left it, hoping it was still there. It lay in a dirty puddle. All the money inside was soaked; his photos were ruined, except for the one of the woman and child. I tucked that one in my pocket and took the wallet back to my little shelter.


The next day, the storm clouds cleared into wispy grey fog and the wind died down, leaving a depressing overcast shadow over Port Main. I was still drenched from the previous night. Mr Thomas Garvin sat on that bench again. I was starting to wonder whether he had a home. I sat next to him.


“Good mornin” he piped, “Nice to see you again.”


“You too, Mr Garvin.”


He laughed. It was a deep gruff laugh, but it made me feel a little better with the fact that I had destroyed his wallet.


“That’s er… very nice coat you have. Very warm”


“Thank you, Mr Mason” He chortled. “I think you saw this yesterday”


 He pulled out the shiny golden item I had seen the day before. It was a pocket watch.


The ornate face of the lid contained a small carving of an oak tree, its branches seemed to leap out of the watch itself. The clock face was decorated with gold, leaf. It had three hands, one moving steadily around the numbers. I counted the hand turn around the clock 4 times before I looked up. Mr Garvin was smiling at me.


“I ‘aven’t had the back engraved yet- "still not found the right words to say.”


I wanted that pocket watch. But there was no way that I could take it from him, not now. He knew me too well, and, I admit it, I liked this old man who is always sits on the bench.


“Mr Garvin, Do you have a home?”


A long silence passed before he replied.


“My ‘ome… is wherever me mind wants it to be.”


Over the next week, I got to know Mr Thomas Garvin, and he got to know me. I told him that I lived on the streets. When he asked me if it was hard for me to cope with the loneliness, I shrugged and said “I’ve never been too sad to cry”. I had a feeling that he knew I was a thief. I just hoped he wouldn’t turn me into the police. Mr Garvin seemed to keep a lot to himself, or that’s what I thought. When I would ask him a question he would frown to himself, as if in a deep thought- most of the times I would never get an answer. One day he gave me a present.


“It’s yer birthday, isn’t it?”


I choked and nodded as I accepted his present. It was the first gift I had ever been given. I lifted back the thin paper to find a long brown coat. It was sturdy and warm, and full of hidden pockets, just like Mr Garvin’s. I slipped it over my shoulders, it felt reassuring to have. I tried to say thank you, but a lump had risen in the back of my throat.


“I would’ve given it earlier”, he said, “But I seemed to have lost me wallet.”


I couldn’t bear it anymore.


“Mr Garvin, you haven’t lost it. I’m so sorry. I stole your wallet… I still have it though. I’ll go and get it right now.”


 I only got a glimpse of his baffled face as I rushed to the alleyway. The wallet was still there, but it was sodden and crusted with dirt. The inside was a mess of running black ink from the photos, which were all stuck in a great lump on the side. I felt terrible as I trudged back to the bench, and handed Mr Garvin his wallet. He took it in his trembling hands, and tried to take out the money, but it crumbled in his fingers. He took out each photo, one by one. None of them were recognisable.


“I’m so sorry”, was all I could say, as he lay out photo after photo. Each one felt like a stab to the heart.  After what seemed an age he looked at me, tears misting in his eyes.


“All of them?” His voice broke. I desperately wanted to make him feel better. So I took out the photo of the woman and child and gave it to him. He cupped it in his hands and stared at their smiling faces. I could do nothing to help him, so I left Mr Garvin sitting alone on the bench.


The next day, when I woke up, I could feel something was wrong. It was only when I walked out to Port Main I realised what it was. The bench was empty.


So I waited…


 I started getting worried. Maybe Mr Garvin had found another home, but he never left that bench. What if he had had an accident? I couldn’t bear the thought of it. I decided to go and look for him.


I started at the nearest hospital. The bleached white walls and desperate moans of wounded patients put shivers down my spine, but I was determined to find Mr Garvin.


“Garvin? You wouldn’t be meaning Thomas Garvin would you- the old man with a big brown coat?”


I looked up. A plump middle-aged nurse stood in front of me. Her hair was mussed and she looked clearly exhausted, but she was concerned for me. I suddenly became aware that I probably looked out of place, with my dirt smudged face and long brown coat.


“Yes that’s who I’m looking for. Have you seen him? Is he here?


“Sweetheart I don’t think you’ll find Mr Thomas Garvin in any hospital these days. Try the local cemetery. It’s just down the road.”


“What do you mean?”


“Well, he died 10 years ago.”


I couldn’t believe my ears. Mr Garvin- dead for 10 years?! I had met him just under a month ago!


“He can’t be dead. I saw him a week ago. He gave me this” I showed her my brown coat.


“I’m sorry, dear. How long did you know him?”


“Just under a month, but I would see him every day. He would tell stories, and he remembered my birthday.” I felt so pleased to say those words.


“He remembered YOUR birthday? Now that can’t be right. You see dear, Mr Garvin had Alzheimer’s. It was a miracle if he could remember his own name. Everything else that he needed to remember was kept as a photo in his wallet. All the memory-loss patients here do it.”


It was as if the last piece of a puzzle had been placed into the picture. As I reflected on all that Mr Garvin had done: how he could never remember parts of his past, how he always stayed on the bench as if he didn’t have a home. My mind drifted to the picture I gave him, and how he clung onto it like a lifeline. Then the deepest waves of sadness passed over me. In my own greed I had single-handedly destroyed a man’s recollection of his past, his very own family. And for the first time in my life, a single tear rolled down my cheek. I was crying.


“He lost his family too,” the nurse continued. “His wife and son. It was 40 years before, but it did something to him. I felt bad when I made him keep that photo.”


Tears were running down my face. I wiped them away with the cuff of my sleeve. I had to leave immediately. I asked the nurse for Mr Garvin’s old address. She gave it to me, but she was suspicious. A young dirty boy in a long brown coat hardly fit in at a hospital.It took me over a day to get to Mr Garvin’s old house. By nightfall I had found it. It was a small white cottage. The front door was unlocked, so I crept inside.


The inside of the house was extremely dark but very warm. A fire crackled in the main room, but no one was home. I noticed something slowly disintegrating in the flames. It was Mr Garvin’s wallet! He had been here, and by the look of the fire, not so long ago! The fire hissed, and a small piece of charred paper flicked out of the flames. It was the picture of the woman and child- Mr Garvin’s deceased family- but only the little boy was recognisable.


“You remind me of him.”


I froze. Slowly, Mr Garvin paced over to the fire. I got one glimpse of his haggard face before he turned away. He was still grieving. I threw the photo into the fire again. The flames consumed it in seconds.


Mr Garvin gave a satisfied grunt and paced towards the door. At the last minute he turned back and looked straight into my eyes. I shivered.


“You owe me nothing. I want to thank you. Those few days without my wallet to burden me were the happiest I’ve had in a long time. But I’m never going back to Port Main. I want to travel abroad, while I have the years left. I hope you have a good life, Oliver.”


I watched as his shadow slipped out the front door.


“Goodbye…Tom.”



 


Grandpa’s eyes were dancing with memories of his past. After a long pause he stood up abruptly.


“So I returned to Port Main, got a job on a boat and I never saw Mr Garvin again.”


But I wasn’t satisfied.


“Where is he now? He just forgot all about you?”


“No, he never did. The following year on my twelfth birthday I noticed a package on that bench. It was addressed to me. Inside was this.”


He pulled a shiny gold item out of his pocket. It was the pocket watch. He turned it over and on the back was a tiny message inscribed into the gold surface:


‘To Oliver Mason- who, in only three weeks, made the last years of an old man’s life the ones worth remembering the most.’






-Panda