April 12
Ive lived all my life in the little market town of BrindlebytheFens, a speck of settlement tucked between endless fields. My modest flat occupies the groundfloor of a weatherworn brick terrace that sits right in the heart of the villagethough that heart feels more like a quiet countryside lane than a bustling centre: a handful of cars drifting past, pigeons pecking at the cobbles, and the usual retirees lingering on the stone benches outside the entrance.
I love this place. Every lane, every backgarden, every tiny shop is familiar to me, as if it were an old friend. In my younger days I taught at the village primary school, then married, raised a daughter, and later buried my husband. Clara moved to London years ago; she calls only occasionally, but she still sends a modest sum each month.
Mother, you really ought to buy a new telly, she chides over the phone.
Why bother? I reply, waving her off. The old one still works, I have my newspapers and my books. And if anything important happens, the neighbours will let me know.
My neighbours are indeed my main link to the wider world, especially Arthur Sinclair from the flat above. A retired army sergeant and a widower, he lives by a strict code yet possesses a surprisingly gentle humour. Every evening he steps out into the courtyard for a breath of air and a cigarettethough the doctor would frown and whenever he spots me he makes a point of stopping for a chat.
Another stack of books? he asks, nodding toward my bag, bulging with library tomes.
Of course! Reading is the best pastime.
If thats your idea of a pastime, Arthur shrugs, I prefer something outdoorsfishing, for example.
Fishings fine, I agree, but you have to clean the fish afterwards.
Do you like fish yourself? he probes suddenly.
I do, provided someone else does the cleaning.
We laugh, and the conversation drifts to the weather, shop prices, and the latest council announcements. Occasionally Arthur recounts stories from his servicedistant garrisons, a nearfreeze in the far northwhile I retell school anecdotes, like the time nearly the whole class copied the same spring essay from the top pupil. Our days slip by at a measured, unhurried pace.
Then, unexpectedly, everything shifts.
A travelling circus has rolled into town. Not a glossy, capitalcity troupe, but a genuinely provincial show: battered wagons, a faded canvas big top, a few welltrained dogs, and a lone clown who seems perpetually sour. I glimpsed the poster outside the post office and felt a sudden flutter in my chest.
Arthur! I called out as he emerged into the courtyard that evening. Did you see? The circus is here!
The circus? he repeats, surprised. Its been ages since weve had one.
We must go, I say, a rare spark of enthusiasm bubbling up.
Arthur eyes the poster, then looks back at me.
Alright, if the clown isnt funny enough Ill put on a little show for you later.
We both chuckle.
The next night we sit on the wooden benches beneath the bigtops dome, watching a trainer coax a poodle over a hoop. The audience is tinyabout twenty souls at most. The clown is indeed rather dour, but Arthurs boisterous guffaws at his jokes eventually draw a reluctant smile from me as well.
After the performance we step outside into a warm, starstrewn evening.
So, how was it? Arthur asks.
Delightful, I answer.
Now for my own act.
He straightens up, mimics a military salute, lifts an imaginary cap, and declares in a booming voice, Comrade teacher! Permission to deliver a 1978 army joke!
I smirk, clapping my hands.
Order to laugh! he continues, adopting a stern expression. A soldier comes to his commander: Sir, may I marry? The major says, Go ahead, but make sure your wife doesnt interfere with duty. A month later the soldier returns: Sir, may I divorce? Why? the major asks. Because my wife is getting in the way of my service!
I smile.
Not amused? he frowns. Then listen to the second one. An officer inspects the barracks and finds a soldier perched on a stool, waving his arms. What are you doing? Chasing pigeons, sir! Pigeons? Look up there! The officer lifts his gaze and sees painted pigeons on the ceiling.
I laugh again.
Alright, that one was weak, Arthur admits sheepishly. Now for the trump card! He straightens, adopts a grandiose pose, and begins in a series of voices:
An adjutant comes to the general: Sir, your wife is here! The general corrects, Its not you, its us! The adjutant, without missing a beat, replies, She was with us yesterday.
By then Im in full laughter.
Suddenly, Arthurs expression turns serious.
You see, Eleanor, the circus came, gave us a laugh, and will leave tomorrow. Our jokes, however, stay right here, with us.
I nod thoughtfully.
True enough. Its a pity the circus departs tomorrow.
So what? he replies quickly. Are we any less than the circus? I give you jokes; you give me stories about your pupils. We have a little performance every day.
He lingers at my doorway, his tone softening.
The real point isnt who arrives or departs, but who remains. We remain.
Those simple words carry a warmth that settles deep in my chest. In this quiet, steady life, that is the whole essencenothing flashy, nothing fleeting, just the familiar, enduring comfort of home.
We stay, I whisper.
We walk back to our flats, slow and unhurried, as is fitting for those of us who still have many quiet years ahead.
