He stood and watched his sixteen-year-old self walking across a buzzing road to the park, with adverts for Guinness and Corn Flakes recently painted in bright colours on the sides of the buildings behind him. He was walking to Charlie’s house. He had a spring in his step because of the new Saturday job.
A homeless man with a shaggy beard and frayed suit was sat on a bench.
‘Hey up, Wilbur, lad. How goes you?’
‘Hey there! I’m well, thanks. You?’
‘Can’t complain. The sun shines down on me. That’s all we can ask for, isn’t it?’
He saw Victor a lot around town, and always chatted to him. Victor Willows. He had fought in the war two decades before and when he came back he had nothing. His house was bombed and he had lost his family. He held out a tin of coins and gave it a rattle. ‘Don’t suppose you have a copper or two for a cheeky old beggar?’
‘Actually, Victor,’ said Wilbur with an amicable smile, ‘today you are in luck.’
He liked to give him money when he could. And today he could. He dug deep in his pockets and gave him all he had. Which amounted to three shillings.
‘Ta, Wilbur, laddo, and not just for the coins.’
‘What for, then?’
He tapped a finger just under his right eye. ‘Seeing. Thing is,Wilbur, this world is full of folk who look but never see. I am looked at a hundred times a day. But not many see. Thanks for seeing, lad. Keep that, lad. Stay seeing …’
‘I will,’ said Wilbur.
‘You liar,’ muttered his ghost.
The Bench
The Ghost watched his young self walking through the trees.
He walked behind Wilbur at a similar pace now. He was out into the clearing. And that was when he saw Maggie. She was sat on a bench, overlooking the pond and the small rocky waterfall, with a sketch-pad on her knee.
She was so studiously paying attention to her drawing that Wilbur decided to leave her to it and walked right past. There had been an internal debate between his extrovert and introvert side, and the introvert had won. She had looked so lost in the process of drawing he doubted she would want the interference.
‘Ignoring me now, are we?’
Unlike Wilbur himself, his ghost could see the smirk on her face as she said it, leaning over her sketch-pad.
‘No,’ said Wilbur, nervously, as he stopped. ‘Not at all.’ He turned to see her. It was like facing the sun. She made him feel warm. ‘Hello, Maggie.’
‘Oh. So you didn’t recognise me? Even though I said hello a few weeks ago at the library. I’m that forgettable.’
The Ghost watched his naive sixteen-year-old face turn a shade of crimson.
‘You’re not forgettable.’
Maggie couldn’t contain her laughter. ‘I’m just joshing with you. Don’t look so scared. It’s my twisted sense of humour.’
‘Oh. No. It’s fine.’
‘How have you been?’
‘Good. Grand, actually. I’ve just got a job. At the bookshop.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ she beamed.
‘Aye. Bagdale’s. Yeah. Selling books beats Hawke Street Steel Works.’
‘I can imagine.’ She covered her sketch-pad. Embarrassed of her drawing. ‘I like drawing but I’m not very good at it.’
