Page 20 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘Hello,’ she says, as always, when she spots her at the bus stop. But this time she doesn’t say it as she’s walking past in a rush, but after she’s stopped in front of the woman. Her whole person is still and there in the moment, as if she’s about to stretch out her arm and touch her shoulder.
I can’t believe I’ve walked past this person almost every day, someone that’s been a constant in my afternoon routine, without ever saying hi,she thinks.What sort of a person am I?
‘My latte and you are the two staples of my day,’ she tells the woman. Her brown trousers are too big on her hips and her lipstick sits outside of her upper lip, as if she’s applied it without a mirror. Eliza is not shy, not really, just unsure what you say to someone you’ve walked past and smiled to for almost a year yet haven’t taken the time to get to know.
The woman struggles to hold her gaze; she seems agitated. Eliza puts her hand on her arm, hoping it’s not too cold through the thin fabric of her top.
‘This place must mean a lot to you,’ she adds. Eliza thinks about places, about the property she sells, and how in the citycentre, houses have lost their human value. They’re investments and opportunities and prime locations now. They’re a landing place until the family moves away for more space, or someone gets a lucrative work contract and relocates to a new world capital. Do places have meaning anymore? She’s not sure. She’s suddenly desperate to hear what this place, the street where she works every day, means to this woman.
‘It meant something to me. And to Sven. It’s where we first met.’
‘Is he your husband?’
‘He would have been, if he had turned up.’
‘Oh.’ Elizahatespeople who don’t turn up. Who arrange a viewing to which she treks through the neighbourhood to, making sure she arrives early enough to open up the curtains, turn on the lights, make the property look awake. Then she waits and waits until she gets a message sayingSorry, can’t make it.Or if not that, until she calls and gets a voicemail and is forced to accept she’s been stood up.
‘I’m Eliza,’ she offers.
‘Edith.’ Edith puts the cup on the ground, maybe it’s still too hot to drink, and twirls her hands, as if washing them with soap.
‘I have to go to work now but I’ll see you around?’ She doesn’t reach out her hand to her because she has a feeling her touch would stress Edith. ‘It’s nice to finally meet you,’ she says instead.
Blade
Svedala
I’m back in Svedala early the next morning after a restless sleep by the old quarry. First the sound of the owls, then teenagers arriving on bikes at dawn (aren’t they all supposed to be nocturnal?). Breakfast was a Red Bull from the camper fridge I really should make an effort to stock.
The floral shopfront sits on the ground floor of an orange-brick house opposite a small mall housing a library and a GP service. It’s 9.02, and I’m pretty sure I’m the first person to come through the door today. The doorbell sounds like an iPhone alert, and I think that’s a neat touch. I woke up in a sweat this morning thinking maybe there’d be someone else working, or worse, the shop would be closed and I wouldn’t get to see her. But I needn’t have worried because she appears swiftly from the back room, her phone pressed to her ear, then stops abruptly when she sees me.Nerves.I only need to ask this girl a few questions, yet here I am struggling to compose myself.
She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, and her gaze is on the floor in front of her now. I overhear her saying that she’s excited to work out the details and that she will email over themes and proposals for the décor. When she puts the phone down, she does a long exhale and turns her focus to me.
‘Hello there.’
‘Hi. Sophia?’ Let’s pretend I haven’t rehearsed this and googled the Swedish pronunciation of Sophia, which is So-fee-aah.
‘You did say I should pop by some time.’ There is no hint of a smile on her face to put me at ease.
‘Could I steal some of your time?’ I ask.
‘Sure. I sell flowers, not time. You can have that for free, no need to steal it.’
She looks so pleased with her joke I can’t help but smile too.
‘Thank you. I just wanted to ask you some questions.’ Her eyes are blue. And somehow I can’t find anything else to think. Or say.
She helps me out by breaking the awkward silence.
‘Oh. Would you like a drink? I guess they’re free too. I don’t usually sell them, so I don’t have a price list.’
I nod.Since when does my mind have a life on its own? I clearly haven’t interacted with enough people over the past three years and shouldn’t have been let out in public. I should leave.Right. That’s it.My second interaction with a Swedish person has swiftly ended after—I look at the digital clock on the wall—exactly five minutes. She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Apparently it’s my turn to speak.
‘I’m alright, thanks. Do you know much about the history of the shop? Of who might have worked here? Do you know a Sven? This is all a bit vague and I apologise but he may have lived in this village.’ I blurt all the questions out at once, as if I’m working against a timer.
‘I inherited it from my uncle. It’s been in the family since his father passed it to him. Funnily enough, his namewasSven.’
I stiffen. Could this be it? I walk into a shop on my second day in Sweden and find the man my mum has been waiting for for three decades? Is my job here done? That would certainly be welcome since my anxiety is sky-high, I can hardlyconduct a normal conversation, and I’ve only just started the search.
