On the Number 20

Pedro

pedro.fuente@outlook.com

Patrick felt the train slow for its approach to the station. He rose from his seat and pulled his long black coat from the rack overhead. Although the coat was old, it was still smart — at least until he struggled into it. Alas, he was the one that had lost shape over the years. Patrick had bought the coat forty years ago after he moved to live and work in the city that he was now visiting. Breathing in, he pulled the coat around him and walked to the vestibule, arriving just as the train sighed to a halt.

As he stepped down on to the platform, Patrick looked around, scanning for familiarities and noting changes since his last visit. His visits seemed to be less frequent these past few years.

Memory guided Patrick through the station buildings, across the road and round the corner to the bus stop he wanted. It was for the same route that he had used regularly when he had lived in the city. Today he would go past the road end of where he had had his house. On a previous visit, he had broken his journey to look at the old place and had found it disappointing. They do say you can never go back.

There was a nip in the air and Patrick was glad of his heavy coat, even if it was a bit tight. He was thankful he did not have long to wait before the bus arrived.

As he boarded, Patrick tapped his debit card on the reader to pay his fare — one of the few elements of the electronic economy that he approved of. It was so much easier than having to carry around a pocket full of coins. It still rankled that, more than once, he had had to hand over a note and got no change under the carrier’s ‘exact fare’ policy.

Succumbing to the little boy that still remained within him, Patrick climbed the stairs to take a seat near the front of the top deck. Something about being upstairs made the ride more interesting, whether it was the different view, the exaggerated sway of the bus in response to bumps in the road, or just the other passengers. If it wasn’t busy it always seemed a more private space than the lower deck.

As he was bounced along, Patrick started to muse on his life and the part this bus, or its predecessors, had played in it.

This was the bus he used if he had to go into the city centre for any reason. That included those nervous days when he had had to sit his professional exams in that poorly lit, draughty and echoing hall rented from the Cathedral for the ordeal. But there were times when the ride itself had made memories.

One day, a lad had asked him where the bus was going when this had been clearly displayed on the indicator board. It was only afterwards that Patrick realised that the lad couldn’t read, a question that would have been denied if Patrick had asked. He had looked to be a nice kid. Patrick would have gladly helped him learn. Instead, the incident had brought home to him that Universal Education wasn’t all that universal. In remembering the scene, Patrick was of the opinion that things had not significantly improved over the intervening years.

Then there was another occasion that had made Patrick recognise the invalidity of yet another of the prejudices that he had absorbed as he grew up. Once again he had been sitting on the top deck, but not at the front. As the bus pulled away from one stop he had heard footsteps on the stairs and the soft tones of a young couple in love. They passed him and took the front seats on the other side of the aisle.

Patrick noticed not only that they were both pleasant of face, attire and demeanour, but also that the couple were of mixed races. Patrick had mused on why the white girl could not find herself a white boyfriend as nice as her black boyfriend appeared to be. His question was answered at the next stop when two males clumped up the stairs, sat towards the back of the bus and proceeded to swear about all and sundry and break the by-laws by smoking. About the same age as the two lovers, Patrick concluded the two white yobs would be every parent’s nightmare. If they were the best his race had to offer, then the girl in front could not be faulted for her choice. In his reflection Patrick admitted to himself that he was still finding areas where his preconceptions were challenged all these years later.

The event had happened not long after Patrick had finally overcome those prejudices that applied to himself. He had at last admitted to himself that he was attracted to men more than women and resolved to visit the only pub in the city that he had heard was a meeting place for like-minded folk. Once again this bus was to be the enabler. In fact the stop he needed was the same one as for the railway station.

Known to the general public by a different name, Patrick soon learnt that the pub was referred to by its regulars as ‘The Embassy’ so as to avoid awkward questions when in mixed company. After a few false starts, Patrick found a partner at the Embassy and they soon had many friends amongst the regulars.

Patrick and his partner, Sandy, lived together in the city for several years before they moved to a different part of the country about two hours away. To keep in contact, they visited regularly but, it was not frequent and at first their circumstances were such that one person needed to remain at their new place at all times. With family still in the city, Sandy was usually the one to make the trip.

Of course, various friends had visited from time to time to enjoy the countryside around where Patrick and Sandy now lived. But the same change in circumstances that later allowed the two of them to visit the city together also meant they would have fewer guests at home.

Alas, with passing years there were fewer friends to meet as they succumbed to old age and the ultimate fragility of life, and consequently some of their visits to the city and been to pay last respects. Ten years ago, Patrick was once more made celibate by the shifting sands of fate. It was the occasion of his loss, Sandy being considerably older, that was probably the last time that their friends had made the reverse journey in any number.

Today was another of those occasions where duty called and Patrick was in the city to mourn the passing, and celebrate the life of another old friend. In this case it was Mike who had been the landlord of the Embassy all those years ago and who had been a major character in the group.

During the ceremony Mike’s life was reviewed. Patrick knew that Mike had been a leading light in the gay community in the city. However, he was unaware that on retiring from the pub, Mike had gone on to develop an interest in the use of computers and had founded a website for the publication of quality gay stories. Patrick was even more surprised, given that he had submitted some of his own material to the site and had had no idea of Mike’s involvement. Patrick had taken up writing initially as a catharsis after Sandy’s death.

After the service was over Patrick had a chance to talk with most of his remaining friends before they left for the wake. Patrick had to excuse himself as this was being held in another part of the city; he needed to make tracks if he was to get home and not miss the last train.

Once more he took the bus into the city, reflecting that it might easily be his last visit. He had his own problems associated with old age.

As he walked towards the railway station from where he had alighted from the bus, he was stopped by a youth who bore a canny resemblance to his memory of the boy who couldn’t read.

“Say, mister. Can you tell me which bus I want for the crem, please?”

“No problem. It’s the stop just around that corner.” Patrick pointed in the appropriate direction. “On the left side of the road. You want the number twenty.”