Five Names

On a small hill overlooking a tidal estuary in Essex, there’s a wooden bench. It’s not often you see anyone sitting on it as the view is all right, but nothing special, particularly when the tide goes out and there’s just mud stretching towards a thin ribbon of silvery sea.

The path that runs behind it is used by the occasional walker or someone wandering along while their dog explores the grass on either side. If you stop for a moment to look out over the mud flats, or you sit on the bench to eat a squashed sandwich out of your bag, you might notice the plaque on the back of the bench, like you see on so many others that commemorate the memory of a lost loved one, but this stands out because it’s just a blank brass rectangle. Perhaps it’s just been put on, and the council are going to send someone out to engrave it, you think. But then you think, surely it’s easier to engrave them before you fit them, and the plaque looks weathered. Probably forgot, you think, typical council. Hope no one paid to have it done. And you eat your sandwich, and you look at the shining water, and then you move on.

Twice a year, though, on the equinox, if you stop at the bench you’ll notice the plaque has a list of five names on it, finely engraved. When you read the names, they’re all living people. Until the sun sets, anyway.