Where it all began
It began with a bench. And two beautiful children.
One night four years ago, as I nursed my six month old in the darkness, a picture of a man sitting on a bench came to me. And, as I conjured up a hundred different reasons as to why he might be sitting there, I realised that it didn’t really matter. It was none of my business. Leave him be.
But human nature is a funny thing. Call it curiosity, call it a desire to understand the world, call it nosiness. I felt the need to investigate and to explain. And so a simple poem emerged. A message to my two children. And, let’s face it, a picture of the loving, caring, trusting characters that I hoped they would become.
This was followed by a desire to create simple art to accompany my simple message. And so began years of exploring the worlds of creative writing, children’s picturebooks, illustration and art.
Before I journey into the unknown, I will take you back to where it all began.
Four Small Eyes by Antoinette Fennell
Just down on Main Street,
Right at the tree,
Ten steps past the postbox,
At a quarter past three.
Sits a man on a bench
Every day the same time.
He waits and he watches
'Til the big hand says nine.
Through a gap in the curtains,
Maeve turns up her nose
And wonders each day
Why he comes and he goes.
Under dark eyebrows,
Joe says it is wrong
For someone to sit
All alone for so long.
But while four small ears
Hear them grumble and groan,
Four small eyes
Just see someone alone.
As Spring turns to Summer
And the swallows soar high,
The man sits on the bench
Smiling up at the sky.
For just half an hour,
Each day the same thing,
He sits and he watches
While birds start to sing.
Teeth gritted, Dee whispers
"Sure, he's not all there.
What is he doing?
And why does he stare?"
Arms crossed in the doorway
Of the shop up the street,
Tom says "He just daydreams
And takes up that seat."
But while four small ears
Hear them judge and condemn,
Four small eyes
Just see someone like them.
As Summer is closing
And Autumn draws near,
The bench it gets colder
But still he comes here.
The swallows are leaving,
The house martins too.
But the man he sits firm
For the whole Autumn through.
Then one day, on a Tuesday,
At a quarter past three,
Four small brave feet
Take a right at the tree.
Ten steps past the postbox,
The bench by their feet
And the man who is sitting there
Says "Take a seat."
Four hands shiver slightly,
Four cheeks are a-flushed.
Four knees swinging gently;
Once brave, now feel pushed.
But the man has been waiting
Patient all year,
For somebody, anyone
To sit with him here.
Four eyes turn to face him,
Four lips shake with fear.
Should they ask for the answer
Four ears wish to hear?
And while four small thumbs
Twiddle nervous with dread,
He calms them with words
From his heart and his head.
"There's such beauty in nature,
Such wonder right here"
As the man spies two squirrels
And smiles ear to ear.
"I come here each day
To remember a time
Where once two small feet
Swung beside mine."
For the rest of the year,
While the villagers groan,
Four small feet come to join him
So he won't be alone.
And while four small ears
Hear them mutter and moan,
Four small eyes
See a king on a throne.