Page 35 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘As someone who’s been forced to drive and park a six-metre-long vehicle the past forty-eight hours, I regret to hear that. That’s why you avoid driving? Because of other people?’
‘I don’t like when people are angry at me and I don’t know why. That happens a lot in traffic because I can’t chase them down and ask.’
He smiles. Then the car comes to a stop and I can hear birdsong before I even open the door.
‘Okay. Here we are. Back in our spot.’
I go to sleep that night going over Vincent’s face. Glasses. Age spots. Stubble in three shades of grey.Damn it, this usually works. But now there’s this other face that keeps popping up.And is useless for sleeping, because there aren’t enough imperfections. It’s like I’m unable to see them. I know they’re there, but I keep seeing the brown eyes. Then there’s the problem of wanting to think ofallof that person. Not just the face. I move off target. Because there are arms with tattoos. And a chest. Big hands. Thighs where one hand at a time rests when their owner drives.Sheep, I interrupt myself. Maybe I should finally do what others do and try with actual sheep. There would be enough fields around here that I can do a field trip and memorise their appearance well enough for it to work.Great, I have a plan. I abandon face mapping and close my eyes hard. Waiting in stillness for what feels like an eternity to be tired enough to drift off without any help.
Blade
Växjö
Camping is overrated, I’ve decided after the second night. At least the type that involves a two-person tent and a man of six-one height. Perhaps my codriver has an altogether different experience in her glamping quarter. New bed linen, oat milk and what I’m guessing is silk pyjamas. I unzip my way out of the cocoon and find that it’s a sunny and still day. The light is on in the van so she’ll be up. Don’t want to disturb her. But also need coffee.A lot.
I knock once and the door opens a smudge as if she’s checking I’m not a wild bear.
‘Just me. Who needs coffee.’
‘Two minutes.’
Four minutes later I’m allowed in. Everything is neat, and Sophia’s dressed in a long cotton maxi dress with a simple cardigan on top.
‘Are you ready for today?’ I ask, attempting to make small talk, something she seems reluctant to engage in generally. She shared that the local newspaper is coming to take pictures of the market in full swing and her floral arrangements will feature.
‘Impossible. You can only be ready for something if youknow exactly what will happen and when. Days don’t work like that. They’re unpredictable.’
I think of my own day. Very similar to yesterday, just a different archive in a different location. Obviously we camp where Sophia has to be, which is never the same town that I need to visit, but I am able to make it work with a few hours’ driving each day. No luck yesterday and I doubt I’ll have any today. In the back of my mind, the idea that Sophia’s uncle could be Mum’s Sven lingers, but she’s sure he never went to London. So I’m on to Sven number three.
Twenty minutes later, with my coffee next to me in an at-home mug, I drop Sophia off at the main square and head on my way. Long after she’s hopped out of the passenger seat, I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo drifting up from the back of the cabin.
As predicted, the time in the archives was fruitless. A man with a knitted jumper and thin-framed glasses hovered next to me for nearly an hour before I finally gave in and let him help me. After another hour he offered me a coffee, and after the third he brought out the biscuits. But after the fourth hour we had to conclude that we wouldn’t find anything, and I left to get back in time to collect Sophia. I don’t understand: my mum says Sven went to university in Växjö , but looking through the town’s records there is no sign of him. I know some people stay under the radar, graduate and get on with it. They manage to go without making any marks as they progress. I looked at the university graduation photos: nothing. Mum was sure that’s where he went to study social sciences. I have now exhausted Sven’s university town, and I’m running out of ideas. The man promised to email me should he think of anything, but how often do we get those emails, really?
I have a quick lunch back in Eksjöand call Mum as I eat.
‘How is it going?’ Mum asks with her usual blend of hopeful scepticism.
‘Getting there,’ I say.
‘Getting where?’ she asks.
‘You’re not meant to ask that.’
‘Well, I did. Watch me stir up the English language conventions.’ Her camera is off view and I see the green wallpaper. I clench my teeth.
‘I went to an archive, following up a lead I got from one of your letters. Checking Sven’s graduation history. Whatever there was of it. I still have a list of three Svens to contact, though. Plus the owner of the floral shop.’
‘I found some more letters here. Zara and I have been on quite the search mission since you left. I can have Zara send them over to you.’ She’s clear today. The way the words string together in the right order and she can find each one of them easily. They are words I have heard her use all my life and not new, foreign-sounding ones likechaise longueorDarjeelingwhich make her sound slightly off. I decide to try and find clarity in something that’s been bothering me.
‘Mum, there are no records of him. If you gave me the right details, that is. Birth year, home town and university. Is there anything else? Did you meet him through work?’
Mum has had many jobs. Hotel housekeeping, dinner lady and personal assistant.
‘Not all details are important, Blade,’ she tells me.
But she doesn’t confirm that this one, of how they met, isn’t.
‘How did it go?’ I ask Sophia when she opens the door and jumps in.
