Page 15 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘Man, I can’t drive this, whatever it is.’ Never camped and never driven anything that size. I look at the back of my licence hoping to see the category unticked, but apparently I have once upon a time passed a test which allows me to drive this...thing.
‘It’s the wrong side of the road. You’re doing the nation a disservice by allowing me out on a road in that vehicle,’ I insist. You’d think I’d have acquired good negotiating skills since living with Mum, but any argumentative tone leaves me drained, and if anything that experience has left me avoidant.
‘I do understand, but unfortunately my system shows me this is all we have. We can, however, refund you and you are free to look at a different company.’
‘Last minute? The prices were already outrageous when Ibooked. It’s almost the beginning of July. Sweden’s statuary holiday month.’ I’ve read up on this. Swedes must take two weeks of their annual leave in July, making it a busy and buzzy time to visit.
Mohamed throws his hands out and nods at the screen where the white mobile home is still showing, as if to sayI’m well aware.
I hear a cough behind me and notice the line of people waiting. Decision, now.
‘Fine. I’ll take it.’
‘Excellent.’
Nothing is excellent about this.
‘You can access the manual by scanning this QR code I see that it fits four people comfortably as the specs say the dining table can turn into a small bed. How clever.’
Four people? What would I need three additional people for? At least there’s a bed, though, or two. Perhaps I don’t need to worry about the hostel money I had meticulously counted from our care home savings.
‘Thanks, man,’ I say and head off to deal with this unexpected blow.
Once I finally make it out of the maze that is Copenhagen Airport, pay the toll for the bridge and arrive on Swedish land, I end up laughing out loud because the situation is so surreal: Here I am driving along the Swedish motorway in a mobile home on my way to gatecrash a stranger’s funeral.
I make the decision as I’m indicating to leave the highway: I’ll cancel my hotel and sleep in this monstrous vehicle. It makes sense. I sigh, pat the steering wheel as if it were a loyal pet and say out loud, ‘Welcome to your home for the next two weeks, Blade.’
Now to find the church.
Sophia
Svedala
My uncle’s friend sounded relieved when I called him a week ago to say that, yes, I’d take the job. Relief is not what I get from my family when I tell them I may need a place to stay for a couple of nights. Like a tedious task that has to be done, they start to divide me up, splitting the burden. Although theylikeme, they pass me off to the next person like an unwanted gift you don’t have any use for. Part of me wishes I didn’t have to tell them at all. But if I don’t ask and they find out I booked a hotel... No one wants me, but if I choose to stay somewhere else they get offended.
You can do two nights at mine,Pontus writes.Pontus is at home a lot and currently has a friend staying with him after a bad break-up. There are football nights and takeaway pizzas and other friends dropping by at all hours, it sounds like. I feel a knot in my stomach. Then Mum writes and it grows bigger, pushing so hard I can swear I look physically bloated. It’s only my mum, I tell the lump.Who is scared of their own mum?
Can’t wait, darling! It’s just that Anita and Ralph are coming to stay on that Friday. We booked an opera in Linköping. If you could get your things packed up by 10am so thecleaner can change the linen before they arrive? Oh, and bring something nice as we have dinner guests on some of the nights you’re staying. Love, Mum.
I shudder. Dinner guests and a check-out time from my own family home. This means I need to increase the nights spent at my brothers’. Mattias is the best option, and the only reason he hasn’t replied yet is that he works nights at the veterinary practice. His house is shared with two pugs and a girlfriend who drinks green tea and does yoga in a corner of the living room and hugs me when I bring her flowers. When the message finally arrives a few hours later, my shoulders relax a little, and I feel like hugging someone. Maybe a tree.
No probs. Let me know when you arrive and I’ll leave the key under the doormat if I’m out. M
I start to pack because I will be working today and have set a target departure time of seven tomorrow morning. The evening will be spent squeezing everything I need into my small car. I still can’t believe I agreed to this, but then, agreeing to bigger contracts appears to be my only chance of raising the money I need in order to keep calling this my home. I’ve made sure the cupboards are stocked with my favourite cereals, and then I leave a note next to the front door for myself saying ‘Welcome back, Sophia.’ Because it’s important to appreciate your roommates and co-workers.
Unpopular opinion: I prefer funerals over weddings. Less drunk uncles, less single-shaming and less expensive. From a florist’s point of view, it’s also more interesting to cater and pinpoint flowers that reflect the tune and soundtrack to awhole human life, rather than finding something pretty that simply makes a bride’s eyes stand out and matches her dress.
Iwalk into the church hall to help move the flowers outside onto the grave, and the blend of voices flood at me like a light being suddenly switched on in a dark room. It takes me a second to adjust, then I hear them all. The three types of funeral guests. The ones that are there for the deceased, the ones that are there for others and the ones that are there for themselves.
‘Hey there!’ An older man in an ill-fitting grey suit pushes his elbow into my side narrowly missing my ribs. ‘Have you tried the pie? Bloody delicious, that is.’
I conclude that this man is here for himself. For the ambience, the chat and, apparently, for the pie. Growing older must be lonely, and if the only party of some sort you’re invited to is a wake, then make the most of it, I suppose. I mean, there will come a day for all of us when birthday, wedding and christening invitations will be replaced by funeral announcements.
‘I will get to it once I finish working,’ I say. Truth is I can’t stand quiches. Pies. Whatever you call them. They seem to go hand in hand with mourning, a practical dish that can be handed over lukewarm and eaten cold.
I make my way to the coffin as discreetly a I can. The crowd of mourners have now gone to the tables with their first serving, the older man included.
I have just finished moving everything that needs moving when I see a man I didn’t notice in the church earlier enter the room then hover in the corner next to the door. He’s about my own age. He has a yellow beanie perched on the top of his head, aging him down immensely.
