Peter

With the leaves dancing playfully around his feet and a cool November wind blowing through the town, Peter sat down on a bench in the park and began to leaf his through his copy of the local paper. It only served to depress him all the more, with its stories of murders and riots, hurricanes and suicides.

The passersby turned up their noses in distaste as they passed Peter’s bench and quickened their pace a bit, not wanting to be associated with him for obvious reasons.

From his oversized, tattered green sweater, worn over a white collared-shirt, to his plain brown trousers and scuffed-up shoes, it was quite apparent Peter was of the lower class. There was even a flannel patch sewn onto the elbow of his sweater, covering up a rather large hole, and on the top of his head sat a gray peaked cap.

He was a rather young man, with bright eyes and a careless, yet seldom seen, smile. Rumpled, light brown hair fell lazily into his eyes and a bit of freckles scattered across his fairly large nose. Peter most certainly wasn’t an unattractive man, but he couldn’t be considered handsome either. He was just, in a word, rather simple.

Lately, he hadn’t been having the best of luck.

His job barely earned him a cent, which meant he was constantly struggling to pay the rent on his miniscule, unfurnished apartment. Jane had threatened to leave him if he didn’t get a raise soon, which seemed somewhat likely. And to top it all off, he had a cold.

Dark, direful clouds floated overhead, threatening to release a downpour of rain at any moment, so the park was void of visitors. Peter sat all by his lonesome self, staring at the newspaper, but not reading a word. He was so completely absorbed in his own unfortunate life and worries that he didn’t notice the little boy who’d wandered over.

“Hello there,” said the boy, “What are you reading?”

Peter didn’t look up, “Hmm? Oh, er . . . the paper.”

The boy scratched his head, a mop of chocolate-brown hair, “Is it very interesting?”

“Very.”

The boy took a seat beside Peter and swung his stubby legs back and forth, “It’s going to rain soon.”

“I know that,” Peter replied curtly.

“Do you have an umbrella?”

“No.”

“Do you have a coat?”

“No.”

“Why aren’t you wearing a coat?” The boy’s head cocked to the side. “It’s November.”

Peter looked up finally, faintly annoyed, “Yes, I know it’s November, but as it just so happens, I’ve forgotten my coat at home.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“Only a little.”

“Next time you should tie a red ribbon around your finger. Then you’ll remember,” the boy suggested.

Peter sighed, “I’ve always thought that a rather foolish thing to do because most of the time the wearer of the ribbon forgets what they wanted to remember,” he paused, “And isn’t your mother looking for you?”

“No. She’s shopping,” the boy replied, “She said I could go feed the ducks in the park if I wanted, as long as I promised to meet her at the gates when I was finished.”

“Then why aren’t you at the pond?”

“I think the ducks are gone. They know it’s going to rain, I’ll bet, and they’ve left.”

“Shouldn’t you go find your mother then?”

“No. She’s looking at teapots,” the boy explained, “It’s very boring.”

Peter nodded and looked back to his paper, hoping to rid of the lad by showing he didn’t have much interest in a conversation. But after a slight silence, the boy spoke again:

“What’s your name, mister?”

“Peter.”

“Do people ever call you Pete?”

“No.”

“What about Petey?”

“No.”

“Oh,” The boy’s head fell for a moment, but he looked back up with his eager brown eyes sparkling and stuck out a hand, “Well, my name’s Charlie.”

Peter sighed again, but shook the extended hand, “Pleasure to meet you Charlie.” It didn’t seem that Charlie was going to be leaving anytime soon, so Peter decided he might as well stop depressing himself with the newspaper and carry on a decent conversation. He set the paper beside him on the bench and asked, “How old are you, mate?”

“Eight,” replied Charlie, “My birthday was in May. How old are you?”

Peter took off his cap and rubbed his head wearily, “Twenty-two,” he gave a short laugh, “Sometimes I feel much older though.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Peter repeated. Although not amused, he gave a small smile, “Well I suppose that a lot of stress and anxiety all piled on at once can do that to a man.”

“Why do you have a lot of stress?”

“Work. And a lack of money. And trying to pay the rent on time so that I’m not thrown out of my apartment. And hoping against hope that Jane will change her mind and decide to stay with me. And . . .”

“Who’s Jane?” Charlie interrupted, “Is she your wife?”

“My wife?” Peter laughed again. It was a bitter laugh. “No. Not yet, at least. I used to wish that she’d someday agree to be my wife, but I highly doubt that’ll ever happen. Or if it did, it take an awful lot of persuading.”

“Why? Doesn’t she love you?”

“Love me? I don’t know, I . . .”

“And if she loves you, then doesn’t she want to marry you?”

“It’s not always that simple, little man,” Peter sighed, “A marriage can’t be made only of love. There are a lot of other factors involved. According to Jane, this also includes the fact that I probably wouldn’t be able to support her if we ever were to get married. She’s from a wealthy family, you see, and I’m really not even sure how I was able to get her in the first place. Her parents think I’m some sort of vagrant, most certainly not a sufficient suitor for their precious daughter. And Jane herself agrees with them to a point, I believe. She knows that if she ever becomes my wife she’ll have to forget about extravagant social events and designer gowns and weekly shopping sprees.

“Heavens! Now that I think about it, I haven’t even bought myself a new garment in the past five years or so,” he looked down at his worn sweater and oversized trousers, “These used to belong to my brother Simon. Granted, he’s a bit larger than I am so you can’t expect them to fit correctly. But I don’t think I could ever afford to support all of the clothing Jane’s constantly desiring.”

“Then you should just tell her not to go shopping so much,” Charlie suggested.

“It’s not always that easy, mate. You try and tell my Jane that she can’t wear the finest and most expensive clothing in London. I’d rather jump off a cliff myself.”

“I’m not ever going to get married,” Charlie affirmed, “Too much of a bother.”

Peter grinned, “Sounds like a fine life to me.” He lounged back on the bench a bit more and crossed his legs. Scarlet and rust-colored leaves whirled around his feet with the cool wind.

“Where is she now?”

“Who?”

“Jane?”

Peter scratched his head, “Er . . . I’m not really sure. She could be in one of a million places, I suppose. But I’d bet all the money I’ve got sitting in the bank, which isn’t really all that much, that she’s at some shop considering whether to buy to buy the ruby necklace or the emerald ring or perhaps even the diamond earrings. She can never decide. Jane’s terrible at making decisions. She’ll buy them all in the end though. She always does.”

“Perhaps she and my mum have met up and are considering teapots,” said little Charlie.

“Perhaps,” Peter agreed.

“Are you going to be leaving soon?” asked Charlie, glancing up to the clouds.

“I’ve considered it,” said Peter, “I’ve given it a lot of thought, you’ll be glad to know. But I think I’m going to stay a bit longer. I haven’t got anything, or anyone, waiting for me at home, after all.”

“I have.”

“Have what?”

“Someone waiting for me.”

“Who’s waiting for you, Charlie, ol’ boy?”

“George.”

“Who’s George?”

“My friend,” Charlie answered. He swung his feet back and forth and played with a loose thread on the sleeve of his brown tweed jacket, “He’s a bear.”

“A bear?!?” Peter gasped, “My lord! How in the world do you manage that? And however did you convince your parents? I’m very curious to know.”

“They don’t know,” said Charlie, “He lives in my closet. But he’s a very good bear and very easy to manage, you see.”

Peter let out a deep breath, “Well that’s good to know. I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I knew George was a monstrous beast who just so happened to live in my new friend Mr. Charlie’s closet.”

“He likes strawberries,” Charlie said suddenly. He had now removed his scarf, an unwieldy stretch of red plaid, and was beginning to wrap it around his head like a turban.

Peter nodded, “Who doesn’t?”

“But he’s very sad at the moment, you see. Because it’s November. And my mum says weren’t not supposed to eat strawberries in the winter because they’re out of season.”

“How terrible,” Peter sympathized, “Poor George.” He looked up to see little Charlie sitting rather stiffly and wearing his red plaid turban. Peter couldn’t help but smile, “That’s quite fashion statement you’ve got there, mate. If I had a scarf with me, I’d follow your trend, but alas I forgot to bring that as well.”

Charlie didn’t even laugh at his new hat, but said, his voice saturated with empathy, “You forget an awful lot of things, don’t you?”

Peter nodded, “I do. I do. It’s a terrible thing.”

“Do you come to the park often?”

“When I have the time, yes.”

“I’m coming back tomorrow, you know. My nanny brings me here every Thursday so that I can feed the ducks,” Charlie turned around to look at the pond and bit his plump lip, “I do hope they’re back by tomorrow though. If not, I’m sure they’ll get awfully hungry. I’m the only one who comes to see them on Thursdays.”

“Perhaps you might send it to them then.”

“Send what?”

“The bread, or whatever it is you like to feed them.”

“I don’t think the postman knows where they live,” said Charlie, rather doubtful, “And besides, do they even have a postbox?”

“Why of course they do!” Peter replied, as though it were a very silly thing to say, “Why wouldn’t they?”

Charlie’s head cocked to the side, “I don’t know.”

Peter held out his hands and waited until a drop of rain had fallen onto his palm, “It’s started to rain.”

Charlie frowned, “Are you leaving then?”

Peter knew he really should be getting back, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the poor boy, “Not yet. I think I’ll stay a bit longer. The rain’s never been one to frighten me away, you see.”

Charlie smiled.

“Do you think your mother will come looking for you soon?” asked Peter.

“I suppose so,” Charlie said sadly.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to be off soon as well. Can’t stay here forever.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments longer. Peter folded up his newspaper and slapped his cap back onto his head while Charlie held out his little white hands and watched as they were slowly filled with raindrops.

A figure appeared in the distance and Charlie watched it approach; Peter was oblivious. The young woman paced along fairly quickly, her handbag swinging back and forth and her nose held high in the air. Thick, caramel-colored ringlets lay on her shoulders and bounced as she walked along. She wore a lavish, hound’s-tooth peacoat that fit her thin frame perfectly as well as a black cashmere scarf. Although it had barely begun to rain, her perfectly manicured hand held a large black umbrella.

When she reached the bench on which Peter and Charlie sat, she frowned and looked at the little boy disdainfully. Then she turned to Peter and without bothering to greet him, stated simply, “I knew I’d find you here.”

Peter looked up and gave a feeble smile, “Pleasure to see you too, Jane. How are you on this wonderful afternoon?”

Jane rolled her eyes, “Very well, thank you. But haven’t you forgotten that you were supposed to meet me at the coffee shop forty-five minutes ago?”

“Oh yes,” said Peter, scratching his head, “Sorry, love.” He turned to Charlie, “I told you I’m always forgetting things.”

Jane ignored him, “You’re always wandering around with your head in the clouds, aren’t you Peter? I used to be able to ignore the silly habit, but I’m afraid it’s gone a bit too far now. I wasted my entire afternoon waiting for you and you don’t even care! You’re just sitting here with some foolish little boy.”

“Well for one thing, forty-five minutes is most certainly not the entire afternoon,” said Peter, “Far from it actually. Especially when you include the fact that you probably weren’t on time either, Jane- fashionably late, as you like to call it. And for another thing, this ‘foolish little boy,’ as you call him, is actually quite amiable. His name is Charlie.”

Jane glanced at Charlie and grunted, “Pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you too,” said Charlie.

Jane placed her free hand, the one not holding the umbrella, on her hip, “What in the world is that ridiculous thing on your head, little boy?”

Peter had forgotten all about the red plaid turban so when he glanced over and saw it he burst into laughter. Charlie smiled as well, but he was a bit embarrassed and unwrapped the scarf, setting it on his lap instead.

“We have to go now, Peter,” said Jane, ignoring Charlie once more, “It’s practically time for supper already.”

“Right, right.”

Peter stood up and folded his newspaper beneath his arm. He turned back and kneeled down beside Charlie to say a quick goodbye.

“Tell George I said hello,” he said, “And remember to send a loaf of bread to the ducks if they don’t show up tomorrow.”

Charlie nodded and grinned, “I’ll remember.”

Jane rolled her eyes once more and began walking off towards the park’s exit, lazily calling for Peter to follow.

“I’ve got to go. So long, mate,” Peter said quickly with a wave of his hand.

“G’bye, mister,” Charlie returned.

From his bench, he watched as Jane and Peter left the park. Just before they reached the gates, Peter turned back for one last look at Charlie. He grinned and waved again and the young boy returned the gesture.

A loud crack of thunder sounded overhead and in an instant, the clouds released an incredible downpour of rain upon the town. Charlie wrapped the red plaid scarf around his head again like a turban before finally standing up and skipping out of the park, making sure to step in every puddle on the way as he did so.

The next afternoon the dark clouds were replaced by a clear blue sky, and Peter found himself heading towards the park once more. His feet crunched through autumn’s last leaves as he walked along the pathway leading to the pond.

Two children were present, but Peter instantly recognized that neither of them were Charlie. He didn’t know why, but he found himself rather disappointed by this fact. Also, he noticed that the ducks were still gone.

With his hands in his pockets, Peter headed back towards the bench he’d been sitting on yesterday. He was about to sit down when a small brown parcel caught his eye.

It was tied up with string and read in scribbled, almost illegible, penmanship:

To: the Ducks in the Park

From: Mr. Charlie Nicholas Watson

Peter smiled and peeked inside the wrapping to find a few slices of wheat bread. But, he thought, it would never reach the intended receiver if it just sat here in the park.

So Peter walked back out the gates, with the parcel at hand, and walked along the lane till he reached the post office. There, he dropped the package into one of the postboxes and grinned with satisfaction when he imagined a confused postman finding it.

From there, he made his way down the street, stopping every so often to glance into a shop window.

Around his finger a red ribbon was tied, and for once, he remembered why he had put it there. He was supposed to meet Jane and several of her unpleasant girlfriends for a bite to eat in just ten minutes. With a sigh, he began walking towards the agreed restaurant, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be forced to embarrass himself by admitting that, once again, he didn’t have enough to pay for the extravagant check at the end of their meal.

At that moment though, his mind was drawn away as he saw a rather amusing sight. Across the way, a red plaid scarf was hanging in a shop window, looking remarkably similar to the one Charlie had worn the day before.

Without thinking, Peter ran across the street and into the store. Only a few moments later, he emerged with the scarf hanging loosely about his neck.

Grinning broadly, he made his way to the restaurant. And when he stood only a few steps away, a sudden thought occurred to him. With a sparkle in his eye, he removed the scarf and proceeded to wrap it around his head, ignoring the peculiar glances he received from passersby, so that he now wore a plaid turban, just like Charlie’s.

“Peter!” came a muffled, yet obviously angry, voice, “Peter Crewe!”

Peter turned to see Jane and her girlfriends sitting inside the restaurant, waiting for him. Their table was beside a window and they’d all been watching as he put the scarf on his head. Their jaws dropped and several of the girls began to giggle, embarrassed that their Jane had to associate herself with such a fool. But Jane was not at all amused. Her eyes were alit with a blazing fire and she glared at Peter menacingly.

“Peter! What in the world do you think you’re doing?” she yelled, but the glass separating their table from the street suppressed her voice.

Peter didn’t respond; he didn’t know what to say.

“Stop being such a fool and get in here! You’re late enough already as it is!” Jane continued, “And stop acting like such a child!”

The corners of Peter’s lips turned up as he gave a small smile. Then, he bent down and bowed.

Jane was raging by this point, “Peter! If you don’t take that ridiculous thing off your head and get in here this instant, I’m leaving you once and for all! I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense!”

Peter continued to grin and then, without speaking, he gave her a salute and walked off down the street, still wearing the red plaid turban.

(A/N) This is just a little short story that I wrote, and it won't have any more chapters or anything. It's finished. I've never actually written a short story before now and I'm not sure if this is any good. I actually just got the idea to write it after reading the short stories my fellow students had written for our school's "litery magazine" last were absolutely terrible, to be quite frank, and I knew I could do better, so I sat down and wrote this. I'm not sure if I'm even going to submit it to this year's magazine, because I'd be really embarrassed, but I'm still considering it. I'd really appreciate any comments/reviews you have, because I'm not sure if the story makes any sense at all or if it's even mildly entertaining, and I don't want to submit it to the magazine if it's horrible and I should be ashamed of it or something. Well, that's about it. Thanks for reading!

-Renee