In memory of...

Don't know if it was the weather or what; the change of season from Summer to Autumn (or Fall as the Americans call it), but the air felt heavy. Irrespective of the time of year, hordes of disgruntled commuters were negotiating the tube system that Monday morning, making their way to work, same as they always did.

But not Robert. There was no work for him to go to. He'd been laid off from the paper months ago, the shock of which left him on the sick. He still went through the motions though, would get up, shower, breakfast, and head out the door punctually at 7.55, just like he always used to. Having walked to the park, he'd settle on a bench in the far corner – the one beneath the ash tree. The one with the best view. Taking out his thermos, he'd pour himself a coffee and wait. Sit and wait for the world to go by. Sitting, waiting for things to happen.

On this particular morning, as he absent-mindedly swept some stray leaves from the bench, he noticed a name carved into the green paintwork – deep, jagged letter gashes exposing the pale wood below the surface. Angular and angry-looking, they made Robert feel cross.

* * *

Whatever possessed her to get a dog? I mean, she lived in the city, in a tiny flat, and Zill was huge. A grotesque caricature of a dog with what looked like Bloodhound, and possibly Alsatian, lurking within his genetic depths. An animal that devoured sack loads of dog biscuits, and can after can of Meaty-bite Pal. The mere act of forking the sludgy contents into Zill's over-sized bowl made Connie retch – and she, a vegetarian. As if she didn't have enough to be doing already, without having to take the bloody thing out for walks all the time.

Flies, attracted by the smell of death-in-a-bowl, meandered in through a window, left open to allow Summer's balmy breezes to waft in. Connie, briefly stuck her head outside to gauge the day – would she need a hat? a light cardi maybe? (or 'sweater' as they'd say in Friends) – before retrieving Zill's lead, a heavy harness of a contraption, and slipping it over his bull of a neck. In the split second that followed, she prepared herself for the dislocating wrench to come, when he'd launch himself, frantically, towards the front door.

* * *

The reporter noted the details of the deceased, and the circumstances surrounding his death, as a mere formality. He had a job to do, so he did it, but he wasn't really interested. Wasn't bothered by the fact that a tramp, sleeping rough, had succumbed to hypothermia and frozen to death.

If he'd taken the trouble to walk the three blocks over to the park, he could've seen where it had happened; could've stood underneath the stark, silvery tree limbs, that seemed to disappear into the grey skyscape behind. He might have felt something then. Might have considered the tragedy of an unknown man, dying for the wrong reasons. Dying because life hadn't turned out right; because somehow, things had gotten kind of messy; because it was winter.

Instead, Robert simply jotted down the particulars as related in the coroner's report, snapped his brief case shut, and left the office thinking only of the train he needed to catch.

* * *

He was woken up even earlier than usual, and not by an irate gardener for a change. Above him, hidden within the green of Spring's new growth, a songbird warbled a dawn chorus of sorts. It wasn't especially beautiful, or tuneful, but Harvey made a mental note of how it sounded, and tried to catch a glimpse of it. Lying there, aching and stiff, with two parallel grooves etched deep into his back, he thought he'd visit the library – try to find out what bird it was exactly. It would give him something to do for the day, he supposed. A purpose; fill a small part of the yawning gap between sun-up and nightfall.

* * *

It was an impulse really. She'd been looking in the 'For Sale' column for a second-hand telly, as hers had packed in, and she was missing her sitcoms, when she'd come across the ad. She hadn't thought it through; didn't stop to question as to whether it was a good idea or not. The next thing Connie knew, she was driving home with a mass of brown and black fur, all liquid eyes, sat on a blanket on the back seat.

As a kid, she'd always wanted a puppy; could remember pleading with her parents for one every birthday, and at every Christmas. Ok, so it was April now, and her birthday had been back in January, but she didn't need a reason. She could do whatever she liked, especially since her bust-up with Robert. Funny, he'd always liked dogs, had talked about them getting one once. But the timing wasn't right. They'd had plans, big plans – wanted to travel America together; had considered maybe getting hitched at Niagara Falls.

* * *

She was new. He couldn't recall ever having seen this one before. Harvey prided himself on taking note of all the people that came and went; had chosen this particular bench because it was higher up, had a better view. He'd watch, and observe; sometimes writing down descriptions of people later in the library. He liked being able to re-visit them; making up stories, and imagining who they might be. Harvey knew it was a poor substitute for real interactions, but was moving further, and further away from all that; didn't have much to do with anybody – not even the other hobos. They just called him 'the Yank', and left him well alone.

She was young, in her mid-twenties, pretty in a wide-eyed kind of a way. Wearing flowery purple boots, and a bright red fleece, she struggled to keep up with the exuberant puppy straining at the leash. A desperate tug reined it back in, but in doing so, the puppy changed tack – darting in and around her feet, hopelessly entangling itself, and sending the unfortunate young woman toppling to the ground.

He almost went over to assist her. Almost. He'd nearly forgotten who, and what he was. But then the foreknowledge that she would flinch from his extended hand, kept him rooted to the bench.

* * *

It was too nice a day to be cooped up indoors. Grabbing a Starbucks along the way, Robert walked the three short blocks to the park, intent on taking a well earned break. Not for the first time, he thought about Connie, and how things had messed up. He still missed her; missed her off-key singing, the way she always burnt the toast, her bad dress sense – he even missed those god awful American sitcoms she insisted on watching.

Maybe he should think about getting that dog now? Now that he was single again. It wasn't that far to the park; the exercise would do him good, and besides, he had plenty of time to fill. Lord knows, he could do with the company.

As he turned the corner to walk up to his favourite bench, he saw that it was already taken. Some street bum, some low life, was sitting there, scribbling some nonsense or other on some old papers.

* * *

The next time he saw her, the frantic puppy still dragging her along behind, he bit down hard on his self-loathing. If only he could just get up off the bench, wander over and say, 'Howdy ma'am, mighty fine pup you got yourself there. Need a hand?' But he couldn't. He desperately wanted to make himself known; to be remembered. To somehow carve out a niche for himself in this life. To finally be somebody.

Taking his treasured Opinal, the one his gramp gave him back in '55, from his trouser pants pocket, he savagely hacked out the letters H.A.R.V.E.Y.