Page 29 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
Part Two
And you’ll see me waiting for you on the corner of the street.
—The Script
Edith
London
The thing that people forget about dementia, and well, so many other things in life really, is that it all has a beginning, a middle and an end. They also forget that it’s often impossible to know where you are in the moment. People tend to always assume they are in the beginning, perhaps in the middle quite reluctantly once they hit older age, but no one ever wakes up and acknowledges the end. It tends to just happen. My life is no different to other people’s in that sense and it fills me with some degree of hope.
My new estate agent friend is running late and I wonder if she knows what even a few minutes can mean for a person. For a life. What if I had been a few minutes late meeting Sven?
To pass the time, I show people the way to the permit section. The town hall seems to exist purely as a reason for the area’s wealthy to park their Teslas along the street.
As I wait, I’m tremendously cheered up by a large corpulent black dog that licks at my hand and my cheek when I crouch down to his level. I can’t recall his breed but know they’re known for being gentle and kind. They like treats and always finish their meals, a bit like Blade as a teenager really.
‘Would you mind holding him for me whilst I pop in andsort out this council tax?’ the dog’s owner asks me and I joyously wrap the lead around my wrist, once, then twice, like you would with a helium balloon, so it won’t fly away. I resume petting the dog and stroking his soft neck and I think that in a different life I would have had a dog, the life where I wasn’t a single mum, working long hours and being so exhausted when I got home that a walk around the block at nine in the evening would have felt like a half marathon.
I hear a voice above me.
‘That’s a beautiful face right there.’
Even I know I’ve reached the age where I can be certain a comment like that is directed at the dog and not myself.
‘Well, thank you, he says.’ Dogs are always seen as an open invitation for conversation with strangers.
‘Always loved a Labrador. I have a Newfoundland.’
‘Ah yes.Newfoundland. Makes me think that we shouldn’t feel too bad about not always being creative when naming pets and children. Just think of the man who named the new land he found New-found-land.’
The man laughs.
‘Love your spirit. Would you need some dog food? Deworming? Can’t be easy looking after him under those conditions.’
I ponder the conditions that he’s referencing, which don’t appear bad to me at all. It’s a sunny, mild day, and the owner should be back in no more than ten minutes.
‘I’m looking after him for a friend,’ I say, finally.
‘Oh, I see. My mistake then. Well nice to meet you and the handsome boy here.’ He ruffles the dog’s fur and walks off.
I’ve just given the dog back to its owner when the estate agent with the weather inappropriate shoes appears around the corner. It’s fairly hot today, and I imagine her toes clumpedtogether with sweat. She jumps over a puddle that’s still lingering from a wetter day and narrowly avoids getting her feet soaked. I wonder if she has something against proper shoes. There is much to be said for good footwear, I always thought. She’s been stopping to talk to me the last couple of days now. I find myself looking forward to it and notice that, for a brief moment, just after two, I’m looking towards the street corner not for Sven but for her.
‘My son used to call puddles “muddy cuddles.” I tell her when she’s next to me. I’m not sure when I last remembered that little fact, but I’m savouring it now that I seem to remember a lot while sitting here on this bench, next to the rust-coloured brick building with its low metal railing and tall silhouette.Perhaps soon, I think.Perhaps soon I will remember what I need Blade to know and why I’m here.
‘How are you today?’ she says, squeezing my shoulder. ‘I’m taking a break. Would you like to come and get a hot drink, or would you rather I bring it back for you?’
I think how I can come to this spot and sit for hours but how, at home, I don’t even remember the way to the kitchen some days. How do I dare to venture away from here? But going for a coffee with another person is important. Not just another person either. I think she’s now my friend.
‘I will come with you,’ I say decisively.
I’ve forgotten her name, so I suggest we go to Starbucks. It smells of gingerbread and sweet syrup, and there is pop music playing.
‘Eliza,’ she says to the barista, and I mouth it in silence. It’s a fabulous practice to write the name on the cup as well. When I sit opposite her I twist my head to look at it several times. Apart from having spelt Eliza with ansit’s a perfectly formed reminder of her name in black marker.
‘I saw your son pick you up once. Or at least I think it wasyour son,’ she says as we sip on coffees and I eat a millionaire’s shortbread. ‘He hasn’t been for a while has he? Anyone looking after you? That girl with the pink hair?’
‘Zara. She is very good at it. Because she lets me look after her in return.’
