Benches & Hedges

Benches & Hedges

Raising my eyes from my paperback to look at the character approaching me, I heard his voice, ‘Are you reading a book?’ I wanted to say that I was flying a kite but the physical appearance of my interrogator suggested that he might not share my appreciation of sarcasm. Tattoos on the knuckles are generally a good indicator that diplomacy might be required, especially when those tattoos spell LIVE and RPOO. Where the hell’s the L? I wondered but didn’t ask.

So I said nothing at all and he already had his second question primed, ‘What are you reading a book for?’

‘I like reading books’ I responded and he stared at me, mystified.

Without invitation he sat down on the bench beside me. A slight breeze blowing from his direction carried the suggestion that his pastimes were more likely to be alcohol and tobacco than literature and personal grooming. He wore a black donkey jacket with the traditional PVC panels on the shoulders to provide protection from all weathers and, long before the advent of shirt sponsorship in sport, the rear panel bore the words Tarmac Construction in big green letters. I wanted to ask him how many donkeys had died in the manufacture of his jacket but the knuckles reminded me to tread carefully. A woolly scarf tied Rupert Bear fashion fitted snugly round his neck. He also had on a woolly hat which might possibly have been a tea cosy operating in diversification mode, his denim jeans that fitted him only where they touched him were splashed with tar and maybe tea or blood, and holes in his working boots thankfully revealed their metal toecaps rather than socks or whatever else lurked beneath.

‘They say you should never judge a book by its cover’ he went on, ‘but I do because I can’t read. But some books are alright. They smell nice. The best one’s the Yellow Pages because the paper’s dead thin so you can tear a bit out to use when you’ve run out of Rizzlas. Have you got a spare ciggy?’

‘No, I don’t smoke’ I told him.

‘You read books in the park and you don’t smoke ciggies! Are you some sort of weirdo or what?’ The ‘or what?’ (with a silent ‘t’) part of his sentence really emphasising his Scouse accent. I didn’t dare tell him I was waiting for my girlfriend who worked in Leeds General Infirmary just across the road from the public garden in which we were sitting. Incidentally, a few years later that garden was dedicated to Nelson Mandela and, many years after that, the great man made a speech there when he became an Honorary Freeman of the City of Leeds.

As a consequence of government underfunding, Britain’s National Health Service in 1981 was in a right old mess and drastically short staffed, so I never knew how late my true love would be in leaving work. To sit amongst the perfectly manicured shrubbery, the multi-coloured floral displays and the discarded cider cans with a good novel (always precisely the same size as my coat pocket, for convenience sake) was the ideal way to pass the incalculable periods of waiting time. Sometimes I’d go there even when I didn’t have anybody to meet.

I’m not a snob, and neither was she (let’s call her Vanessa, because that was her name), but I strongly suspected that my new acquaintance might not fit perfectly into our plans for the evening; unless it turned out that he could talk at length about the history of the Irish Republican movement, Björn Borg’s muscular thighs, the music of Dire Straits or surgical ventricular restoration. And if it turned out that he could then he was welcome to her. Sometimes she wore a donkey jacket too with a CND badge on the lapel.

‘I just like the fresh air and a bit of peace,’ I shouted as the traffic lights behind me changed to green and a fleet of rush hour cars and buses roared by at five miles per hour until they were halted again at the next set of lights 200 yards further up Great George Street. Leaded petrol and high density engine emissions were all the rage back then so I held my breath briefly, unfortunately letting go just as a cloud of smoke from something burning between the old Liverpudlian’s brownest two fingers came my way. It surged up my nostrils like a mini outbreak of biological warfare. ‘What the fuck is that that you’re smoking?’ I demanded to know as I gasped for oxygen only a matter of yards away from the main door of the accident and emergency unit of a very large hospital where my girlfriend happened to work. At least I could take comfort from the fact that I probably wouldn’t die.

‘I only smoke Benches and Hedges,’ was his answer.

‘You mean Benson and Hedges?’

‘No. I mean Benches and Hedges. Well that’s what I call them. I pick up the dog ends that I find under benches and hedges and roll them up in a bit of Yellow Pages and they’re as good as what you’d buy or lift from the shops. Some posh people throw away more of their cig than they smoke. When I see posh people smoking I follow them to see how much they’ll throw away and then I grab it off the deck. I love posh people. These gardens are a great place for a few dog ends because the doctors and nurses from the hospital always come out here for their fag break when they’re doing operations. Do you want to try one? I rolled up four while I was sitting in the solicitor’s waiting room this morning.’

My curiosity spiralled out of control, ‘What were you doing in the solicitor’s waiting room?’

‘I told you! I was rolling ciggies. I had to go in there because it was raining and nobody in their right mind would ever want a damp roll up. Do you like John Lennon?’

This was a strange twist as an interesting if not surreal conversation seemed to be unfolding. So I answered him, ‘I loved John Lennon, when he was alive, and I loved the Beatles. They were the best band in the world.’

‘Ah, well I’m his brother, Bobby Lennon, you know. I could have been in the Beatles with him but Paul said that one Lennon was enough so I went and worked on building the M62 instead. Motorways are just as important as songs. All You Need is Love is all wrong because you’d never get nowhere without the M62. And when they used to say ‘the weekend starts here’ on Ready Steady Go, well that was bollocks too because for me and a few other fellas the weekend usually started at Hartshead Moor Services… eastbound.’

As he began telling his life story, three building worker sort of people walked by, one of them shouting ‘Hey Bobby, could you spare us a few coppers from your sick pay so I can get something from the shop for my tea?’

Bobby jumped from his seat, climbed up to stand on the bench and waving two clenched fists he bellowed, ‘Leave the lads alone!’ With a look of extreme menace on his weather beaten face he repeated this six or eight times until the men, who I guessed were former workmates, had disappeared round a corner, laughing as they went.

‘Twats!’ he said as he sat down again and muttered a couple more ‘Leave the lads alone!’ commands before continuing with ‘The M62 goes all the way from Liverpool to Leeds, so when we got here I thought I’d stay. It was a good place to escape all the pressure and the fame.’

‘The pressure and the fame that came with being John Lennon’s brother?’ I enquired, trying not to laugh.

‘No. The Beatles were finished by then and I didn’t fancy singing anyway. These ciggies do nothing for your voice you know. Our John knew I was a world class footballer so he had a word on the sly with Bill Shankly who was manager of Liverpool at the time and one of his best mates. Them two and Cilla Black were always out on the piss together. But Shankly said he couldn’t fit me in the team because they already had Tommy Smith playing in my best position. Now I knew Tommy. I was engaged to his sister for a while until she got pregnant and decided to marry the bairn’s dad. Tommy was an ace footballer but they should have signed me up because I was a lot harder than him.’

‘You were harder than Tommy Smith?’ this time I was laughing.

‘Yes, I was. And I still am. Do you want me to show you?’

The driver of a passing van beeped his horn. I’d no idea why but it obviously upset Bobby as he was back up on the bench yelling ‘Leave the lads alone!’ at each of the next half dozen vehicles that went by.

‘You couldn’t spare us half a quid, could you lad?’ he asked, returning to his seat. ‘You see I’m off work on the sick at the moment with my nerves and I’ve got nowt for my tea and Yoko got all the money from our John’s will.’

If I’d said no he would surely have stayed to continue our conversation and then the him, me and lovely Vanessa rendezvous would have cropped up and no doubt been a problem. But by giving him 50p I knew he’d be straight off to the Merrion Centre to get something nice for his tea in Thresher’s.

I didn’t have 50p so I had to give him a pound note, which was probably enough to not just meet his immediate needs but to blast him far away into oblivion. His eyes lit up. I imagined that for the next day or so after his shopping expedition they wouldn’t even be slightly open. ‘God bless you son. You’re one of the lads. I’ll tell our John about you next time I see him, rest his soul. All you need is love!’ he said as he shook my hand for a bit too long and affectionately squeezed my shoulder. I was worried he was going to kiss me, partly because he had a not insignificant hygiene issue going on and partly because Vanessa could arrive at any minute and I didn’t want her to witness the scene and be jealous, even though Bobby could never be considered girlfriend material.

I watched him meander away through the gardens to the exit, stopping every few yards to hoist his trousers up but not stopping when he reached the busy road. In response to long blasts on horns from several irate car drivers he stood on the central traffic island with one clenched fist held aloft and his other hand waving his pound note as he shouted ‘Leave the lads alone!’  

More than four decades later, whilst enjoying a pint of Guinness in the sunny beer garden of the Towers Bar in Westport in County Mayo, an old fella who looked like he was struggling a bit with the modern world sat down opposite me and introduced himself as John Lennon’s brother.

With a broad smile and a raised clenched fist, I said ‘Leave the lads alone!’

With a look of bewilderment, he said ‘What lads?’

So I bought him a pint and we had a good natter about beer garden botany and the history of the Irish Republican movement. It turned out he was also Brendan Behan’s brother. It was then that I decided I might try pulling the same stunt myself sometime if I found I was a bit short of cash. It seemed that there must have been at least three brothers in the Lennon family, so who would dispute a fourth?

Image: My own photograph of Madiba’s plaque in the Mandela Garden in Leeds.