I must have lingered too long at the graveside, for it appears that I’ve missed the four o’clock bus. A woman of my age finds it both difficult, and a little undignified, to run. I sit on the bench by the bus stop and stare at the hordes of badly dressed schoolchildren milling about and shouting. I recognise the green sweatshirts, and the ties that hang down like cords that you might yank to turn on a light switch. Then I realise that I know some of the kids, so I look away and try to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. A doublechinned man, burdened with shopping bags, sits next to me. He was on the bus that brought us out from the village a few hours earlier, and he attempts conversation. “It’s still warm out.” I can’t help him, and so I smile and silently beg his forgiveness. He registers my reluctance and opens a copy of the evening newspaper. I look around and wonder how I ever managed to live in this noisy, filthy town. Mercifully, I now live in Weston, or in the “new development,” which the man next to me has no doubt already guessed. I’m sure that he sits at home at the bottom of the hill, probably by himself, judging by all the shopping bags, and considers me and everybody else in the new development to be interlopers. All of us, disturbing a pattern that has gone on for decade after decade until Stoneleigh came along to make them feel as though their shrinking lives, which were already blighted by closures and unemployment, were even less important than they had hitherto imagined.
It’s a little after five-thirty when the bus rolls slowly into the village. There are those who don’t stir, for they will be alighting at one of the small towns or lonely villages beyond Weston. However, I watch as my bench partner gets to his feet and struggles with his shopping bags, and then two younger women make their way from the back of the bus and join him at the door. I bring up the rear. The driver is a polite young kid who seems to specialise in this route, and he wishes us all, individually mind you, a good night. Strange, I think, as it’s still bright out, but I appreciate the gesture. Usually I would turn to the left and begin the short walk up the hill, but having read some of the back of the man’s evening newspaper it occurs to me that catching up on the news would be a nice way to spend the evening. I wait until the bus has moved off on its way, and then I cross the main road. Carla sees me coming towards her and, at least to start with, she’s a little shocked, as though I were the last person she wanted to see. Then she catches herself and looks somewhat nervously at me.
“Hello, Miss.” She is dressed to go out, with her eyes overly made-up and her hair neatly combed so that it fans down over her shoulders. If I’m not mistaken there’s even a dusting of glitter on her face. I look at her, budding all over, and done up like a promiscuous little so-and-so, but there is nothing that I can say to her by way of admonishment for she is no longer one of my pupils.
“Hello, Carla. I’m sorry I won’t be seeing you again.”
Carla shrugs, not with insolence, but as though to imply there’s nothing that she can do about the situation.
“I’m sorry too, Miss.” She pauses. “Is it true you’ll be going into a home?”
I say nothing, but I’m taken aback.
“It’s just that people are saying you’re ill.”
I stare at Carla who, despite her mother, is not a bad girl. Christ, I’ve taught far worse. In fact, as far as delinquency and bad behaviour go, this girl is practically an angel. I begin to think of what I’d do with her if she were my child. But she’s not my child or, if truth be known, even my friend. She asks this intrusive question because, like all young people today, she feels entitled; entitled to dress, behave, speak, walk, do whatever they please.
“Yes, Carla, I am ill, and it’s a bully of an illness.” The girl looks momentarily alarmed. “But you’re all right. It’s not catching.” Carla smiles weakly.
“What is it, Miss?”
“What is it? What do you think it is?”
Carla shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know, Miss. Your nerves?”
I can see that the blushing girl wishes that she’d never asked the question, so I rescue her.
“I don’t think I’m quite yet ready for a home, Carla, do you?” I throw her a parting smile and move off into the newsagent’s, leaving her to wait for the bus that will no doubt take her into town for her night of teenage antics with her friends.
It’s a bit of a pull up the last stretch of the hill and I begin to tire. It has already been a long day and my hip has started to hurt. Too many years of sitting at the piano in the same position, said my old doctor when I first went in to complain about it. “You need regular exercise” was his solution, but some chance, I thought, looking after Brian, trying to teach all day and taking on more pupils at night to make some extra money. And so the hip just got worse, until it reached the stage where it was difficult for me to walk any distance. That’s when the old doctor gave me the steroid shots and, miraculously enough, they seemed to do the trick. Now that I’m retired I do, of course, have a lot more time to exercise. But what use is it now? Dr. Williams told me not to think like this, but Dr. Williams is a specialist, not a proper GP. I can feel the evening newspaper getting damp in my grip, so I tuck it into my bag. And then, as I enter the cul-de-sac, I see Solomon. As usual, by himself, washing his car, oblivious to everything around him. He has a habit of keeping the car radio on, and a window wound down just a little bit, so that he can listen to light music on Radio 2. I hate this kind of mindless commercial rubbish, but I’ve never told him this for fear of offending him. He puts it on when he drives me, although he makes a point of asking first. I’m always accommodating and I say “fine,” so it’s obviously my own fault. I’m sure he isn’t going to throw a fit or anything if I say, “No, I don’t like it,” but generally I try to be pleasant. As I come up to him I realise that today there’s no music. He’s washing his car in silence.
“Is everything all right?” Solomon asks me this without looking up at me. For a second or so I’m taken aback, but I understand that it’s probably his way of being discreet. He’s allowing me my space. I stop and look at him waxing the bonnet of his car.
“I think everything’s all right,” I say. “I missed the bus coming back, but that’s about the highlight of my day.”
Solomon stares at me.
“You missed the bus? How did that happen?” He seems genuinely concerned, so I try to set his mind at ease.
“No emergency or anything. I just spent too much time with my parents.” He continues to look puzzled. “At the cemetery. Time just flew by.”
“Oh, I see.” He puts down his cloth now. “Miss Jones, it is true that sometimes life can be difficult, yes?” He turns to face me. The dying sun forms a halo around his head and for a moment I find myself more caught up with this image than with his enquiry. Solomon notices that my attention has drifted off, but he simply waits until my mind returns.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I must be tired after the walk up the hill.” He seems confused now, but we both know that his question still hangs in the air between us. “Yes, Solomon, sometimes life can be difficult.” I pause. “And why on earth do you still insist upon calling me Miss Jones.” I laugh now. “For heaven’s sake, I keep telling you to call me Dorothy. I don’t employ you, you know.”
“Yes, Dorothy. I know this. I am just trying to be polite.”
I feel bad now, because I can see that he doesn’t know if I’m mocking him.
“Solomon, you couldn’t be any more polite if you tried. In fact, I sometimes wonder if you shouldn’t be less polite. People will take advantage, you know.”
Solomon says nothing, he just smiles that same enigmatic smile that always seems to be on his face.
“I am sure that your parents were wonderful people.” He isn’t giving up. I set down my bag now, but he continues. “I would like to learn more about your family.”