Going home

Going home

It was so kind of them to invite him along, such a nice family; his son’s friend and his partner, or was it his wife, perhaps his second wife. You can’t tell these days. Such a pretty young woman. His son and his son’s friend had asked him to come along. They all went for a weekend to the bach that belonged to his son’s friend. His son was concerned about him. Needlessly, he was fit and well, managing. A day in the bush, he thought, perhaps a couple of days, he would enjoy that. Like old times, like when he and Joy, his wife, or was she his girlfriend then, were at Totara Flats. There was the stream, the open field and the steep hill all around, a couple of pigs coming out at dawn, grazing peacefully. He will have to tell Joy about it, the trip with the Varsity Tramping Club. Or was it his son he told this to? Joy isn’t there anymore. Joy isn’t. She died some time ago. How long ago, he couldn’t remember. She was sick, got sicker every day, faded away, and one day she was gone.

There were a lot of people around at the place of his son’s freind. So many children, so much noise. His son was there, and his friend, his daughter in law, the other girl. They talked, laughed. They were all so loud, cheerful, happy, but he couldn’t follow their conversation, all too fast, too hard to hear, too much laughter. Totara Flats, the pigs, he was thinking. He would just slip out for a few minutes, have a break, get some fresh air. A walk would do him good. He used to go tramping when he was young, when he and Joy were young.

As he walked along the track, he saw the water down below. He clambered down the steep bank. He didn’t want to slip, didn’t want to trip on the roots. The leaves on the ground made the track slippery. He had to be careful not to fall. At his age he could lose his balance, break a bone. Joy had broken her hip.

Once down below he was all right. He just had to find his way. He walked along by the stream, walked for a while and came to a road. He knew then where he was, a country road leading to town. If he walked along that road he would get to town, get on a bus, and go home. A ute stopped and gave him a ride.

‘Where can I drop you off?’ the young man driving the ute asked.

He wasn’t sure.

‘Just drop me off anywhere in town,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch a bus.’

The boy dropped him off in a narrow lane, then turned around the corner and was gone. He remembered to say thank you for the ride. He knew the town. He should have known where he was, but that lane wasn’t familiar, old villas close together, cottage gardens, some well-kept, others neglected. There was no one about. He headed towards a main road at the end of the narrow street. There was a lot of traffic whizzing past. Perhaps this was the outskirts of the town, drivers were heading for the open road. He lived in this town many years ago, taught at the High School. Things had changed. Everything changed. The town had grown. This must be a new part that wasn’t there in his time.

He was getting hungry. He had his shoulder bag. It was a long time since breakfast. Did the girl, his son’s friend’s partner, put a sandwich in his shoulder bag? The bag was empty. He must have eaten his lunch. He couldn’t remember. It was late in the afternoon, perhaps four o’clock. He couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know what happened to his watch. He had to find out where the buses left from. They used to go from the town centre. He had to find his way there. But first he had to eat something. He was getting tired. A dairy was not far. It had a few table and chairs. There was food in a glass cabinet. He went in, stopped, stared at the counter.

‘Can I help you?’ The girl behind the counter said after a while.

‘I am hungry,’ he said.

He searched for his wallet. It was not in his pocket, not in his bag. He must have left it behind somewhere.

‘I will pay later,’ he said.

‘Where are you going,’ the girls said. ‘I’ll get you a coffee. Sit down, have a scone. Can I ring someone for you?’ the girl asked.

‘I’ll be right,’ he said. ‘Just tell me how to get to the bus.’

‘What bus will you catch?’ the girls said.

He hesitated; he couldn’t quite remember.

‘The Newman bus,’ he said.

He used to catch the Newman bus. They were nice, comfortable buses. That was years ago.

‘There is no Newman bus,’ the girls said. ‘Perhaps it is the Inter-city you want.’

Newmans, like everything else, must have been taken over years ago. The girl got him a coffee and a scone. It was getting late in the afternoon. She was wiping down the counter. She was getting ready to close.

‘I am very grateful,’ he said, thanking her for the coffee and the scone. ‘Much obliged.’

A nice old geezer, the girl thought, old worldly manners.

‘You just go down this street two blocks,’ the girls said, ‘turn right into Blackmore Street, keep going until you get to the Mobil station, turn left, and you are there at the town centre.’

‘I should find my way,’ he said. ‘I lived here once, some years ago. I used to know this place well, though this cafe wasn’t here then.’

He thanked the girl again.

‘You are sure you will be all right,’ the girl said.

‘I’ll be right,’ he said. ‘My wife is waiting for me. I’ll catch the next bus.’

As he walked down the street, he saw a building, black, perhaps four stories tall, a couple of blocks to the right. That must be the High School, he thought. He headed towards it. As he got closer, he saw that it was derelict, burned out. There must have been a fire. A Bunsen burner used carelessly might have set something off. Joy taught chemistry, you always had to be careful with a Bunsen burner. Odd that they let the School get run down. As he neared the building, he realized that he was wrong. This could not be the school, more like a building being demolished, a site being cleared for a new development. The ground, concreted over, was unkempt, weeds sprouting everywhere. This was not the school he thought it was. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t remember what the girl in the cafe said, turn left, turn right. There was no one in the street to ask. Nothing seemed familiar. The best, he thought, was to walk on.

He was getting tired, very tired. He must have walked ten kilometres, perhaps more. He had walked all day. If he just walked straight ahead, he would get to the town centre. All roads lead to Rome, he said. But then, he didn’t want to go to Rome, he just wanted to get to the bus stop and sit down, get on the next bus and go home. Joy would be waiting for him with dinner. She was a good cook. She couldn’t cook at all when they got married. He knew more about cooking than she did, but she read all those cookbooks. She was a chemistry teacher. She cooked like a chemist, measuring out the ingredients exactly as it was in the recipe. He was just an ordinary simple bachelor cook, a handful of this, a pinch of that, and hoped that the meal would turn out all right. He learned to fend for himself since she died. He managed OK.

He realised that he was lost, he had no idea of where he was. It was getting dark. The shops were closing. There was hardly anyone in the street. The cars had their headlights on. If only he could sit down, gather his thoughts get on the Newman bus and go home.

He took the wrong turning somewhere; he would explain to Joy. Everything had changed since they had lived in this town. They both taught at the High School. She taught chemistry, he taught Latin. Now no one learns Latin anymore. And Joy is no more. He coached athletics. Legs, they called him behind his back, or long legs. They imitated the way he walked. They meant no harm.

If he just walked to the next traffic light, he would find his way.

As he reached the traffic light, he saw the town centre, and there on the other side was the bus stop with a bus just pulling out. He would have to catch the next one. No matter, he was in no hurry, as long as he could sit down. It had been a long day.

There was a covered bus shelter. He sat down on the seat, happy to get the weight off his feet. He nodded off briefly. Lately he had been drifting off a little. It was dark. There was hardly any traffic in the street. He could wait.

He jerked awake. Someone was talking to him.

‘Are you all right?’ old man?

‘I am just waiting for the bus.’

‘Where are you going?’ the man asked.

I am going home, he said.

Of course I am going home. Where else could I go at this hour of the night, he thought, but didn’t say it.

‘You will have a long wait,’ the man said, ‘the last bus left a while ago. You’d better find somewhere to stay for the night.’

‘What time is the next bus?’ he said.

‘Not till six o’clock tomorrow morning. That’s when the first bus leaves for Wellington. Is that where you are heading?’

‘I am heading home,’ he said. ‘My wife has dinner ready.’

‘Well, have a good night,’ the man said and walked on.

The bus shelter was quite comfortable. It was not too cold. It was sheltered from the wind. He could well spend the night there. Next day, in the morning, he would catch the first bus.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

A policeman in a patrol car found him sleeping in the bus shelter.

‘ Are you all right?’ said the policeman as he woke him.

Thanks, he said. I am just waiting for my bus.

‘Your son is worried about you’ the policeman said. ‘Hop in the car and we will take you back.

His son, this lumbering big man, used to giving orders, used to having his way, gave him a real ticking off when he got back to the house.

‘How could you? he said. ‘How could you just wander off without telling anyone? What were you thinking of?’