An Urban Square in Huntingdon and a Man I Never Knew
A Dialogue with Two Benches
I arrived in Huntingdon in 2019 to be closer to my aging father; I had no personal links with the town and needed to familiarise myself with it, and its people, to figure out how I fitted in. I needed to come to know this place intimately before it could feel like home.
Footpaths
On an April day I set out to explore. A profusion of footpaths emanated from the high street, linking and branching, forming miniature communities. As I walked, I noticed the eclectic mix of architecture, from nineteenth century terraces and converted heritage buildings to between-the-war semi-detached houses and mid-century purpose-built blocks of flats. Eventually I entered a green square surrounded by terraces of honey-coloured brick—a Victorian version of a pocket park.
This hideaway, a refuge, held two wooden benches within its arms.
They sat solitary in the sun and unexpectedly drew me in. One seemed to carry itself with more dignity than its near-twin whose nameplate was missing, bearing the marks of screws like scars—it had lost its status, it was mute.
Life and Death
I stood, in audience. But no, it was more than that. I was a participant in the dialogue between these benches. And despite the deep uncertainties of the Covid-19 pandemic and my recent cancer diagnosis and treatment, I was alive, and I was discovering the existence of a man I never knew.
What was it that had caught my attention? I circled, moving closer, then leaned in to read the inscription on the plaque that glinted in the sun:
IN MEMORY OF PHILIP REGINALD GRIGGS
1950 - 2002
LOVING FATHER, BROTHER AND GRANDFATHER
Among all the deaths in 2002, Philip’s name was saved from the passage of time. Rescued by a few words on a plaque fixed to a bench, fixed perhaps twenty years ago. I felt compelled to unravel what I could of his life from the clues provided.
I formed a mental image of the square’s neighbours sitting on the bench, chatting about their children, swopping recipes for cakes and pies, and tips about the best bargains in town. But how did the bench connect these people to Philip? Had they known him? If they had, then perhaps spending time on the bench would be like visiting an old friend. It would serve as a place to reconnect with the feelings and ideas they had once shared, and they could voice their thoughts about what might have been if Philip had lived a longer life.
Who Was This Man?
I knew that if my diagnosis had been only a matter of three or four weeks later, everything for me and my family would have been different. My cancer was fast-moving, and the hospitals were quickly over-run with Covid-19 cases, so it was highly likely that if my surgery had been delayed, I would have joined Philip in the other world by now. But I reminded myself, I was here, very much in tune with the day and the sun gently warmed my back in confirmation.
This bench, I mused, seemed to hold a weird kind of energy—its shining plaque had given me a gift that morning, it reminded me of my good fortune. But who was this man? I presumed he had also made Huntingdon his home. I loitered, half wishing for an invitation to sit from someone who had known Philip. But, with no such invitation, I continued on with my walk.
A Symphony of Sound
I’d been intimidated by the densely packed houses surrounding the square and, inwardly, I berated myself for my weakness. I would like to have sat on the bench, and should have done so alone; I would like to have meditated to the sounds of the square—to the closing of a back door, to a car engine turning over, to the magpie that settled in a tree, to the shouts of children kicking a ball in an alley. Such a collection of noises creates a unique symphony of sound that identifies place.
Needing to know more about Philip, I was thrilled to discover a notice online. It was posted in The Gazette and it gave an address for him, it was one of the houses in the square. His profession was also mentioned—architectural technician; and his date of death—29th April 2002. These details served to confirm, as well as reassure me, that the bench was indeed installed in a place of great significance for this person, a man I was only just beginning to know.
A Return Visit
More than a year later, in December 2022, I returned to Philip’s bench. We had enjoyed a family Christmas over several days and, before we celebrated the New Year, I decided to shake off some calories. It was a cold wet afternoon and I imagined my body to be a metronome as I made my way with measured even steps.
I approached the two benches from the rear. The ‘nameless’ one had become quite dilapidated. Each piece of timber was visibly loose from its joint; I anticipated its collapse in the next gale. Even from the back, though, I could see there was beauty in its decay. It was mossed. Small plants had seeded into its crevices and were growing with vigour. Its physical strength was being diminished, eaten away by a host of minuscule munching mandibles. Fissures were filled with frass and windblown sand, soil, and seeds. Nature was re-claiming the perishing wood, repossessing its timber. It seemed to me that this bench’s purpose—to embrace humans—had vanished and, instead, its structure was becoming an entire eco-system. I walked around to the front of the bench and was shocked at what I saw. The bench had been re-assigned:
IN LOVING MEMORY
TRACY, HAZEL & ROBIN
A new rectangular brass-coloured plate had been fixed to the bench and, being smaller than whatever was there previously, it did not fully cover the scar. I had never seen a memorial bench re-appropriated in this way. The friends or relatives of Tracy, Hazel, and Robin had apparently adopted it for their own commemorative needs. Or, rather than signifying an ‘adoption’, the bench may have always belonged to these three individuals and the new smaller piece of metal was simply a replacement, a reaffirmation. I would probably never know the truth of the matter.
Turning my attention to Philip’s bench, I checked for any dramatic or even minor changes that might have taken place in the months of my absence, but there were none I could intuit. Contented, I lowered myself on to the seat and scanned for spectators. Many of the surrounding windows gleamed with Christmas tinsel and brightly coloured decorations.
Musical Notes
I focussed on sounds. Bass notes came from a music player, they seeped through a bedroom wall and travelled towards me. They fell below a distant and constant buzz of traffic—mid-notes on the main road. Percussion, which sounded like children clapping, came from hundreds of loose hard-baked leaves that rolled around the tarmac before being lodged on winter-damp grass. A dull thud of plastic dustbin lids punctuated the harmony, and top notes were provided by a few noisy crows that hopped among the chimney pots. The ensemble was interrupted by the revving of a motorcycle engine, an emergency siren, and animated voices muffled by fences. Once they subsided, I could hear the wind whistling through an alley and the metallic push of a train in the distance as it moved along the tracks.
As the musical masterpiece in the square continued to play, I thought about how much the everyday visual and aural landscape influences our emotions. Many of us walk past memorial benches every day and perhaps never stop to look, to reflect, to imagine the person they commemorate. Surely there is much we might learn about death, but about life too—during this precious chance we have to live—by paying more attention.
Resting in Place
Sitting in the enclosed private-public space of the square, which had also become in this moment a place of remembering, I found myself mesmerised, captivated by the tangible world in front of me, my reverie only broken by some swaggering raucous crows.
My leisurely stay on Philip’s bench had been restorative, but it was time to return home to a meal of festive leftovers. I stood, seeing this square anew. In the watching and listening on Philip’s bench I had laid down new memories, personal memories, that were fixed in time.
In the taking notice and being sensitive to the conversation of place, I had been prompted to investigate, and consequently learned new things about the environment I inhabited and the ghosts it embraced. In the urbanised zone where this bench is located, I could appreciate the precise nature of its public-ness, being dependent on its exact position. And I could appreciate its private-ness, being owned by the people who live in the square.
Philip’s friends, neighbours, and family have endured over twenty years of being without him; they re-encounter his existence and re-evaluate their relationship with him every time they see the bench, when crossing the square to a neighbour or popping out to the shops. They think of him whenever they come home.
Is there a memorial bench near you? What do you know about it?
As ever, I look forward to chatting with you in the comments.
Credits, Notes and Links
Image is my own.
See this link for Philip’s entry in the Gazette
For more bench stories and my reasons for researching and writing about them, take a look here:
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I love this idea of memorial benches. How they feel like something of pastime, when people used to promenade through parks or use their time leisurely or feed the squirrels and pigeons, but also with reflection. Might the time they spent there have been and loneliness or with connection.
What a joy to have been able to do research, to find a person. For a (rebewed) period of time, to give their existence some meaning.
Gorgeous writing, Yasmin, as always. Such an intimate, sensory piece, I leant right into it.
I have a thing for memorial benches (and gravestones as you know) and finding out what I can, but drinking in what’s around me in those moments too. Therefore your piece resonates so.
Thank you. 🙏