Fallacy of Intention

Fallacy of Intention

The man, sitting on the bench, gazed across the uniform lawns and regimented flower beds. He felt a spot of rain on his nose a few minutes earlier but the deluge had not yet begun. A sheltered bench overlooked the tennis courts. As was to be expected, the shelter was used more as a urinal than a pleasant bower. That was why he preferred to sit on this bench . He would move to the shelter if the rain started.

The park was deserted. He heard traffic on the road beyond the dense hedges. Blackbirds and wrens sang from within the hedges. He did not have a watch but he thought it was about eleven o'clock.

Near the front, right leg of the bench on the grey, tarmac path, a greasy wrapper tugged at its lump of chips and curry sauce. A magpie was hopping erratically towards, then away from it. The bird was hungry but wary of the man sitting on the bench.

He became aware of a playground hand-bell ringing in the distance. Now, if only he could remember what time playtime was over, he would know what time it was.

He had never seen anyone using the tennis courts. The chicken wire fence, that surrounded the cracked tarmac courts, was rusty and tattered. There were holes, the size of small boys, cut in it. The angle-iron framed gate was rusted in the open position. The bottom corner, furthest from the hinge, rested on crumbling asphalt. The view from the sheltered bench, near the tennis courts, was not as good as the view from the bench on which the man was sitting. He regarded the flaky brickwork and moss-laden roof of a small building peeping out from behind a dark green holly bush. This was where the Council workmen kept their tools and where they sheltered from rain and drank milky, sweet tea. There were no workmen there that day.

The man became aware of a dark figure entering the park through the gate by the notice board. He did not turn to look but he kept the figure in the corner of his eye. It walked with a purposeful stride in the direction of the bench. When he was very close, the man turned and gazed up at the face of a policeman, who nodded and sat down beside him.

"Not much happening today, then?" the policeman opened, conversationally. It was just something to say.

"I'm sure there is. It's just not happening here." answered the man. Was this a hint that the policeman should be elsewhere, looking for things that were happening? The man stood up slowly.

"I'll be off then. Things to do, people to see." he muttered and shoving his hands in the pockets of his grey, woollen overcoat he walked towards the tennis courts. It was a lie. He had not had anything to do or people to see for some time now. What had happened to all his good intentions? Why was he not enjoying the sun on the Costa Del Sol? Tomorrow he would start the ball rolling. For now though, he would go home and watch "Doctors" on the television. The policeman followed him.

"Hang on, Sir. I was wondering if you could give me some advice. "

The man stopped and looked, blearily, at the youngster. "They've asked me if I would take on the community bobby job at Lower Fenton. That was your beat, wasn't it? Before you retired."

"Yes it was. Take it son. Not much happens there. You'll have the life of Riley," said the old man. The policeman looked down and shuffled his feet slightly.

"I was hoping for more responsibility, not less."

"Uh, well then. I can't help you. Never been ambitious myself, son. Never seen the point in it."

As he walked away, the policeman gazed after him. He wondered why the old man was not on the Costa Del Sol, sunning himself. That was what he intended to do when he retired.

Author's note

This could be the beginning of a much longer tale. The retired policemen could find himself thrust into some major criminal incident but that is not my intention for this piece.