In a sleepy English village tucked between rolling fields, lived Elsie Whitaker. Once a schoolmistress, now a pensioner, she occupied a tidy flat on the ground floor of a redbrick terrace. The terrace stood smack in the village centre, though that centre felt more like a quiet hamlet: a handful of cars, pigeons bobbing on the pavement, and the usual pair of old ladies perched on a bench outside the lift shaft.
Elsie adored her little place. She knew every lane, every courtyard, every corner shop. How could she not, having spent her whole life there? In her youth she taught at the local primary, then married, had a daughter, and later buried her husband. The daughter had long since moved to London, calling only now and then, and sending a few quid when she could.
Ma, you really ought to buy a new telly! her daughter would chide.
Why bother? Elsie would wave away. The old one still works, Ive got my papers and books. And the neighbours will fill me in if anything important happens.
Neighbours, thats the crux of her link to the outside world. Chief among them was Arthur Penfold, a widowed exserviceman who lived on the third floor. A man of strict routine and surprisingly soft heart, he liked to step out into the back garden each evening for a breath of fresh air and a clandestine cigarette (despite the doctors orders). Whenever he spotted Elsie, he made a point of stopping for a chat.
Off with another stack of books again? he asked, nodding toward her bag, bulging with library tomes.
Of course! Reading is the best pastime.
If thats your idea of a pastime Arthur shook his head. I prefer something outdoors. Fishing, for example.
Fishings fine, Elsie agreed. Except you have to clean the fish afterwards.
Do you like fish? Arthur asked, eyes twinkling.
I do, if someone else does the cleaning.
They laughed, and the conversation drifted to weather, shop prices, council news. Occasionally Arthur recounted tales from his serviceremote garrisons, a nearfreeze in the Siberian taigawhile Elsie chimed in with school anecdotes, like the time an entire class turned in identical spring essays because theyd copied the top pupil.
Thus their days passedsteady, unhurried.
Then, one day, everything changed.
A circus rolled into town.
Not some glittering metropolitan troupe, but a downhome provincial show: battered wagons, a faded big top, a few trained puppies and a lone clown who seemed permanently stuck in a sour mood.
Elsie spotted the poster at the post office and felt a sudden flutter.
Arthur! she called as he stepped out into the garden that evening. Did you see? The circus is here!
The circus? he replied, surprised. Havent had one for ages.
We must go! Elsie exclaimed, unusually eager.
Arthur looked at her, then at the poster, then back at her.
Fine, why not. As long as the clown isnt funnyI’ll give you a show of my own afterwards.
They both chuckled.
The next night they perched on wooden benches beneath the big top, watching a trainer coax a poodle to leap through hoops. The audience was tinyabout twenty souls. The clown was indeed rather gloomy, but Arthur laughed so loudly at his feeble jokes that Elsie eventually joined in.
After the performance they strolled out into the warm, starstrewn evening.
So, how was it? Arthur asked.
Brilliant, Elsie replied.
Now, my turn, he announced, standing up straight, pretending to salute, and thrust an invisible hat forward.
Comrade teacher! Permission to report a 1978 army joke! he declared, pulling a mockserious face.
Elsie clapped her hands together, amused.
Right, here it goes: A soldier asks his commander, Sir, may I get married? The major says, Sure, but make sure the wife doesnt interfere with your duties. A month later the soldier returns, Sir, may I get a divorce? Why? Because the wife is interfering with my duties!
Elsie smiled.
Not funny enough? Arthur frowned. Then listen to the second one. An officer checks the barracks and finds a soldier perched on a stool waving his arms. What are you doing? Chasing pigeons, sir! What pigeons? Look up! The officer looks up and sees painted pigeons on the ceiling.
Elsie laughed again.
Alright, that ones weak, Arthur admitted, but now for the grand finale!
He straightened, adopted a grave tone, and shifted through voices:
A aide approaches the general: Sir, your wife has arrived! The general huffs, To you, not to me! The aide, without missing a beat, replies, She came to see us yesterday.
At this, Elsie burst out laughing.
Arthur then softened his expression.
You see, Elsie, the circus came, gave us a laugh, and will be off again tomorrow. Our jokes stay here, just like us.
Elsie nodded thoughtfully.
True a pity the circus leaves tomorrow.
So what? Arthur replied, quick as ever. Are we any worse? I tell you jokes, you tell me about your pupils. Weve got a little performance every day.
He lingered by her front door, his tone gentler now.
What matters isnt who arrives and departs, but who stays. Were the ones who remain.
In those simple words Elsie felt a warm glow. She realised that it wasnt the bright, fleeting spectacles that mattered, but the quiet, sturdy familiarity of home.
Well stay, she whispered.
And they shuffled back inside, at a leisurely pace, just as people with plenty of time ahead should.
