The Bench - Part 1
The Bench The rain had finally stopped. For most of the previous week, London had seemed permanently wet. Water ran from roofs, gathered along kerbs and left the paths of Postman's Park dark and shining. But on that Monday morning the clouds had broken apart just enough for a weak spring sun to appear. It was still cold. Not the sharp cold of winter, but the lingering chill of a season reluctant to let go. The air smelled of damp earth and wet leaves. Beneath the trees, small green shoots were beginning to push through the soil, and a handful of daffodils had appeared among the greys and browns. Near the centre of the park stood an old wooden bench. There was nothing particularly special about it. The wood had faded after years of rain and sunlight. Some of the slats were slightly warped. Drops of water still clung underneath the seat from yesterday's downpour. Above it, a large plane tree stretched bare branches across the pale morning sky. Most people probably...