The Circle Route by Paul Kimm

Jennifer finished the last slice of defrosted quiche she’d bought from the freezer shop on Monday. She switched off the gas fire. In the kitchen she rinsed off the plate under the tap, pastry crumbs, and slotted it on the drying rack. She put on her coat, shoes, unlocked the back door, stepped outside, locked it, and walked the five minutes to the bus stop nearest her house.

The bus arrived after a few minutes; enough time for the wind to spoon pockets of cold air between the buttons of her baggy coat. The bus doorway dropped with a hydraulic puff, and she stepped into the warmth of the bottom deck. At eleven in the morning there were several empty double seats to choose from. Jennifer chose a window seat nearer the back on the pavement side. Within two minutes she was able to undo her coat buttons.

The first stop was at the starting run of shops on the High Street. There were more betting shops and discount stores now. It was further down this road when Bill had first walked into the bakery she worked in. Still a bakery, but one of the chains now. He’d come to buy the Friday ‘snap’ for the other builders on their nearby site. He’d joked she should let him have a pasty or a couple of tarts for free. She’d refused him of course, but the other assistant had told him there might be freebies at the end of the day if they didn’t sell everything. At five to five he was back collecting two unsold sausage rolls, a small loaf, and asking Jennifer if she had a local she went to.

The Rose and Crown was further down the High Street from the bakery. The next stop was exactly where it had been. Now it was the local Iceland, where Jennifer had bought her cheese and onion quiche earlier that week. Above it was flats. He’d insisted he couldn’t live with himself if he’d taken all that free grub without buying her a drink in return. Even now, her cheeks glowed thinking about how he’d opened up that warm smile of his when she told him her drink was halves of lager and lime. It turned out her half pints took the exact same time to finish as his pints of bitter. For the six repeated drinks they had that evening they’d taken each glass’s last sip within seconds of each other.

They met in the Rose and Crown three Fridays on the trot and then went dancing at The Clifton after the fourth. The bus route didn’t go past where The Clifton used to be. She closed her eyes and pushed her toes into the new insoles, and it reminded her of the thick carpet stairs going down to the circular dance floor, with the booths and bar plotted around it. Bill had been a more confident dancer than her, but not fancy or showy, so she was instantly comfy in his arms, mirroring his moves, letting his hands rest around her waist. The Clifton dance floor that night was where he proposed. He’d teased that he couldn’t hear her say yes when the next song came on, cupping his palm behind his ear, asking her to repeat her reply. Her smile, his smile following it, were enough. Four weeks after his walking into Hartford’s Bakery Jennifer Robinson was getting engaged to Bill Thompson.

The circle route was their route. The never needed the full loop. A quarter of it to the pub. Just over halfway to the registry office, with their families, friends, fully suited and dressed up for their wedding day. He’d called it the happiest bus on Earth for that half an hour. The same distance, more nervous another time, took them to bank to get the loan approved for their first, their only house. The house she’d closed the back of this same morning was the one Bill shook hands with the bank manager over back then. A few years later the bus had its chance to be the saddest on earth too. After her third miscarriage they’d sat on the back row of five seats, just them, heading home in silence, thinking about what the doctor had said, knowing it would always just the two of them. Jennifer looked out the left side windows when it went past the hospital on the right. Still there. Where it always was.

Nowadays Jennifer did full loops, sometimes three, or even four on the colder days. Sometimes, like today, bus drivers swapped shifts at the depot and allowed her to stay on for the ten-minute break. The engine on. The full circle was slightly over an hour. She’d first met Bill at a place ten minutes in, got engaged a minute further down, married him at twenty-five minutes along, got their house at a little past half an hour. Never the full loop though, not in one go, not together.

Jennifer got off at half past four, the extra stop from home, to pop into the bakery. On the brightly lit metal shelves were a couple of Cornish pasties and some cheese straws. The assistant asked if she wanted anything and apologised there wasn’t much left. Jennifer leant onto the counter and asked if they’d be throwing out the pasties. They had to do that if no one bought them was the answer. They weren’t allowed to give them away anymore. As she was about to leave the assistant said she could probably let them go for half price if she wanted them, but not to mention it to anyone. Did she want both? Jennifer said she couldn’t eat two to herself. She’d take just the one.

The paper bag, heated pasty inside, resting in Jennifer’s pocket, warmed her left hand on the walk home. Her right hand’s fingers rubbed the back door key. She’d eat it when she got in. While it was still not cold.

Paul Kimm

Image: Pixabay.com – British Bus stop with a post and shelter