Page 37 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘More than sunshine?’
‘Oh yes. I don’t like sunshine. It gives me a headache. It’s too bright, too loud. Can you hear brightness? I swear I can.’
‘So what’s your preferred weather forecast?’ I ask.
‘Overcast, sixteen degrees,’ she replies in a heartbeat.
‘Here, take my sweater.’ I offer her my black hoodie and she pulls it down over her head so only her mouth, nose and blue eyes are visible. She takes it off again as quickly as she put it on.
‘Sorry, I can feel the tag. I don’t do well with scratchy things.’
‘Here, give me.’ I take it from her. With my teeth I rip the tag off and hand it back to her.
‘That may well be the most thoughtful thing someone has done for me in a long time.’
Only when it starts pouring more heavily do we grab the tableware and fold up the chairs, running towards the van cabin to store them away.
‘Thank you for dinner,’ she says as I grab a towel from the cupboard and prepare to make a run for the tent.
‘Goodnight,’ I say. Then, desperate to talk more, if only just for another minute, I add, ‘Would you like a gum?’ I stretch the pack out towards her.
‘No, thanks. I don’t like mi—’ She smiles. ‘Oh. These aren’t mint. You bought new ones.’ She takes two, weighing them in the middle of her palm.
‘No, they’re strawberry.’
Edith
London
I very much think that chasing pigeons is a sign of future narcissism. I see it all the time, parents smiling when toddlers toddle and older kids throw their hands out laughing and running after the birds. Pigeons are at the bottom of the chain in London.
‘Think about how you treat society’s most vulnerable,’ I say to the group of mothers who have emerged from the doors of the library and now talk about au pairs not abiding by curfew times, or keeping up with their personal hygiene, or cleaning their plate of the organic steak that was bought specially, although they are great with the children and finding a new one issodraining.
‘Did you need anything?’ They smile at me. Because that’s what you do with the older citizens. Smile and offer assistance, politely. But never actually engage.
‘No. But the pigeons need peace.’
I would have gone on, but I am hoping to spot Eliza and grab her for a quick little chat. I have my flask with tea, and I sit down on the bench by the bus stop, which has just become free as a couple of riders just boarded the bus.
Sven always walked around pigeons, I remember now. Not because he liked them: he didn’t, he blinked when they flew too close and he watched carefully so he didn’t drop encouragement in the shape of crumbs to them, but he respected them. That’s how I knew he was a good egg, even though he didn’t exactly look it, a tall and rugged giant that sometimes forgot to smile.
He was waiting for someone else when we first met. I was too, having arrived early for my meeting with the single mothers’ group, Blade asleep in the buggy, covered by a soft muslin blanket, shielded from the world. Sometimes, when I pushed him along the streets and he was sleeping, I’d forget he was there and even almost forget I was a mother. I would walk a little taller, as if I had heels on and someone might notice me.
I was early that day and wanted to let him sleep for as long as possible. Sven and I stood next to each other long enough for it to become awkward.
‘I’m delivering something on behalf of my boss,’ he said finally. He looked straight at me, not first at the sleeping child andthenme, as if he was assessing me as a mother only.Unusual, I thought.
‘I see. And what is it?’
‘Do you know what? I don’t even know. Want to guess?’
‘Sure. How about some crickets?’
‘Seriously? That’s your best guess?’
‘You can likely find a lot of weird things in the mail. It was legal to mail children before 1915. Stamps were cheaper than train tickets.’
He laughed then. Which made me take a step closer. His laugh always had that effect on me. As if the soundwaves went straight into my bones, the very frame of who I was.
