In a sleepy hamlet tucked among endless fields of wheat, Eleanor Smith lived alone. Once a schoolmistress, now retired, she occupied a tiny flat on the ground floor of a weatherworn brick terrace. The terrace stood in the village centre, a centre that felt more like a quiet culdesac than a bustling market square: the occasional car drifting by, pigeons bobbing on the pavement, elderly ladies perched on the stone benches outside the doorway.
Eleanor loved her little world. She could name every lane, every backgarden, every corner shop. How could she not, after a lifetime spent there? In her youth she taught the local children, then married, had a daughter, buried her husband Her daughter, Emily, had long since moved to London, called only now and then, and sent a few quid whenever she could.
Mum, you really ought to buy a new telly! Emily chided over the phone.
Why bother? Eleanor waved her hand. The old one still works, I have my newspapers and books. And the neighbours will tell me if anything important happens.
The neighbours were her only thread to the outside world, especially Arthur Clarke, a widower who lived on the third floor. A former soldier with a strict bearing and a surprisingly tender heart, Arthur stepped out into the courtyard each evening to draw a breath of fresh air and, against his doctors advice, light a cigarette. Whenever he spotted Eleanor, he always paused for a chat.
Books again? he asked, nodding at her bag crammed with library volumes.
Of course! Reading is the best pastime, she replied.
Fine, if thats your idea of a pastime, Arthur muttered, shaking his head. I prefer something outdoorsfishing, for instance.
Fishing is lovely, Eleanor agreed. Except you have to clean the fish afterward.
Do you like fish? Arthur suddenly asked, eyes twinkling.
I do, as long as someone else does the cleaning.
They laughed, then drifted onto other topics: the weather, shop prices, the latest council decisions. Arthur sometimes recounted his service, distant garrisons, the time he nearly froze in the Siberian taiga. Eleanor listened, nodded, and then offered stories of schoolrooms, mischievous pupils, the day an entire class copied a top students essay about spring.
Thus their days slipped bysteady, unhurrieduntil everything changed in a single afternoon.
A circus rolled into town.
Not a sleek, capitalcity spectacle, but a thoroughly provincial troupe: tattered wagons, a faded canvas big top, welltrained terriers, and a solitary clown who wore a perpetual scowl.
Eleanor spotted the poster on the post office wall and felt a sudden, inexplicable flutter in her chest.
Arthur! she called as he emerged into the courtyard that evening. Did you hear? The circus is here!
The circus? he replied, surprised. Its been ages since we had one.
We have to go! she exclaimed, a heat in her voice she had never known before.
Arthur regarded her, then the poster, then her again.
Fine, why not. As long as the clown isnt funnyIll give you a private show afterward, he said with a grin.
They both laughed.
The next night they perched on the wooden benches beneath the big top, watching a trainer make a poodle leap through a hoop. The audience was tinyno more than twenty souls. The clown was indeed dour, but Arthurs boisterous guffaws at his slapstick turned Eleanors hesitant smile into full laughter.
When the performance ended, they stepped out into a warm, starstrewn evening.
So, how was it? Arthur asked.
Marvelous, Eleanor answered, eyes still bright.
Now for my act, Arthur announced, standing upright, hand hovering over an imagined cap, and barked, Comrade teacher! Permission to deliver a 1978 army joke!
Eleanor snorted in amusement.
I command you to laugh! he continued, pulling a mockstern face. A soldier approaches his commander: Sir, may I marry? The major replies, Go ahead, but make sure your wife doesnt interfere with duty. A month later the soldier returns: Sir, may I divorce? What happened? My wifes getting in the way of my service!
Eleanor chuckled.
You didnt find that funny? Arthur frowned. Then listen to the second one. An officer walks into the barracks and sees a soldier perched on a chest, waving his arms. What are you doing? Chasing pigeons, sir! What pigeons? Look up there! The officer lifts his gaze to the ceiling and sees painted pigeons everywhere.
She laughed again.
All right, that ones weak, Arthur admitted, a little embarrassed. Now for the trump card!
He straightened, adopted a solemn demeanor, and launched into a series of voices: An adjutant comes to the general: Sir, your wife is here! The general sharply corrects, To you, not to me! The adjutant, without missing a beat, replies, She came to us yesterday.
Eleanor burst into genuine laughter.
Suddenly Arthurs expression turned serious. You see, Eleanor, the circus came, gave us a laugh, and will be gone tomorrow. Our jokes stay here, right where we are. Just like us.
She nodded, thoughtful. Its a pity it leaves so soon.
What of it? Arthur replied, catching her drift. Are we any worse than a travelling show? I give you jokes; you give me tales of your pupils. We put on a performance every single day.
He paused at her doorway, his tone softening. The point isnt who arrives and departs. Its who remains. We remain.
In those simple words a warmth swelled within Eleanor. She understood at last that lifes meaning was not in bright, fleeting spectacles, but in the steady, familiar comfort of home.
We stay, she whispered.
Together they walked back to their flatslow, unhurried, as befitted two people with many quiet years still ahead.
