There’s an old man at the bottom of my garden. His name is Sam. He sits on a bench, watching the traffic go by, and people look and sometimes wave as they pass. He doesn’t wave back or acknowledge them in any way. He died two years ago, before I moved in.
Sam lived here with his wife, Elsie. They first moved in not long after the house was built, which was around the fifties or sixties. Apparently they loved the location of the house more than the house itself - a slightly raised corner plot, a long, immaculate lawn running from the front to the boundary where a beautifully trimmed low privet hedge ran around the perimeter, and a white wooden gate painted every year allowing access to a gravel path which crunched underfoot. An apple tree in the middle of the lawn produced a good crop each summer, blossoming in the spring before that, and flower beds behind the hedges and along the edges of the path only visible to those inside the house, or who came to visit. Sam and Elsie loved that front garden - the rear of the house just had a yard - and people who passed by would admire it. They were so proud, saying thank you when nice comments were made, and pausing to explain what they had planted, sometimes offering an apple from the tree if it was harvest time, and saying goodbye with a cheery wave. As they were both retired, they could spend hours in the garden, often sitting on a bench they put at the bottom close to the perimeter, the time passing quickly, and once back inside they would often find themselves looking through the windows across their handiwork.
Everyone said how much they doted on one another. When Sam spoke to people who stopped to talk about the garden Elsie would stand by his side, often hooking her arm into his crooked elbow, and would look up to him, smiling, hanging on his every word. They always held hands when they went out. He would carry the shopping, hold an umbrella over her head in the rain, and insisted on walking between her and the traffic. On the occasions she went out on her own he would walk her to the gate, give her a hug and a kiss, and would wave her off. He seemingly had a sixth sense as whenever she was coming back he would walk to the white painted gate, reaching the latch before her hand had touched the other side.
The area changed. The houses stayed the same, but the roads grew busier, and new businesses sprang up in the surrounding streets. Fewer people walked by, preferring to drive, but plenty still waved from car windows, some sounding their horn as they did so, when they saw Sam and Elsie in the garden, who would of course wave back. The garden remained immaculate, despite Sam and Elsie’s advancing years.
One afternoon, Sam walked Elsie to the gate and waved as she headed down the road. She never came back. A massive stroke in the queue at the bakery, they said - she didn’t stand a chance. Apparently Sam saw the ambulance speed by, wondering where it was heading, hoping that whoever it was going to save would be alright, not knowing it was going for Elsie, or that it was too late. Later, Sam waited by the gate, looking up the road, wondering where Elsie had got to, then wondering why a police car was pulling up outside the house.
People said that Sam would sit on the bench for hours after that, almost as if he was waiting for Elsie to come back, knowing that it was impossible but still hoping. He would still return waves, and speak to those who spoke to him, but most of all he would sit, waiting for Elsie. The garden slowly deteriorated. Wind-fall apples often rotted on the lawn. Weeds sprung up amongst the gravel and in the beds. Without Elsie, Sam started to lose interest in the garden. It had been his pride and joy, but Elsie was always the greatest love of his life.
Sam died within a year of Elsie. They had never felt the urge to start a family, preferring each others’ company, and the loneliness broke his heart. Friends would call round to see him, to check he was alright, but he was fading away before their eyes. He died on the bench one sunny afternoon, sitting in the sun, waiting for Elsie as always. It was only when he didn’t return a wave that a passer-by realised that something was wrong.
I saw the for sale sign and put an offer in straight away. I’d wanted to live in the area for a long time, and as soon as I saw the house on my way to an appointment at the clinic which was located a few streets away I submitted an offer and it was accepted almost immediately. Over time I turned the house into my own, modernising and adding my own touches, but I couldn’t change the garden. I loved it too. I cleared the weeds, tidied the beds, pruned the roses and trimmed the privet, painted the gate white as always, oiling the hinges so it wouldn’t squeak, and varnished the bench where Sam and Elsie loved to sit. It became my home, whilst somehow retaining the essence of theirs.
I started to notice a lot of cars driving past, then back again in the opposite direction, then slowly back again. One day a driver stopped and asked me for help. He was looking for the clinic which was a short way down the road at the side of the house. I pointed the way and the car turned the corner, and I assumed that was the end of the matter. Over time this happened more and more often. A sign was pinned to a lamp post nearby, pointing the way to the clinic, but still people seemed to get lost. Somebody from the clinic came to the house, asking to look at the garden, particularly interested in the bench. I walked them down the lawn and they sat for a while, looking out across the road, before thanking me and leaving once again. A few weeks later a man from the council came and did the same, this time taking photographs and measurements as well.
When I read the letter I gave them a call. “You see, people just seem to be struggling to find their way around the area,” they said. “For years, everyone used the man who lived there before you as a landmark. Turn left at the man who waves, they’d say. Nobody had a problem when he was in the house, but now he’s no longer with us, they're getting lost.”
The truck pulled up a few months later. The old bench was removed - the wood wasn’t strong enough - and a new one made of something, I don’t know what, was lifted in, and then the statue of Sam was placed on top, looking out across the street, one arm raised in a wave. Some people walking by stopped to look, smiles on their faces, lifting their babies to see the sculpture of the friendly old man. Over the next few weeks nobody seemed to get lost, cars easily navigating the turn, and eventually the sign was removed from the lamp post as it was deemed unnecessary clutter. When autumn and winter came along people would come to put decorations around the statue of Sam, fairy lights on the bench at Christmas, and he became something of an attraction. Everybody loved him, just as he’d loved Elsie, and she’d loved him.
One day the man from the council came to check everything was alright with the statue. He promised that there was money in the budget to give him an annual clean, and that LED lighting would be installed around the bench so that people could see him at night, as everyone found him useful as a landmark, especially with more new things opening up nearby. “We don’t want people getting lost,” he said. “Highway maintenance is important.”
I asked him if they’d install a statue of me when I passed away. He looked at me strangely. “Why would we do that?” he asked. “Everyone remembers Sam, not you.”
23rd April 2024
© Peter Lee
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