Page 42 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
I find a pot, decide against boiling the water in the kettle in case of injury and instead fill it from the tap. It’s heavy in my hands, and I hesitate at the hob, not knowing which burner to use. My hands seem to have some sort of muscle memory, and I stretch to the right. Then I set the alarm. TheiPad is upstairs, and I know that if I leave the kitchen now I’ll forget. So the egg clock will need to do. I also set my phone.Six minutes.Then I leave the room and sit in the lounge. Zara sees me from the glass door and gives me a wave. When my phone beeps I don’t remember why, but when I hear the egg clock I do. I know there is another step, but I can’t figure it out, so I find a large spoon with little holes and scoop the egg into a bowl. I find the salt and pepper. As I sit at the kitchen table and eat this I think:I cooked this! I did it!A sense of achievement I haven’t felt in a long time fills me. I eat every last piece of the white and yellow egg until my stomach signals fullness.
‘Edith.’ Zara comes in the kitchen. ‘Did you... I didn’t prepare dinner yet?. Did you cook this?’
I nod proudly. I am—what is the right word?—happy.
‘Well done. But remember—any time you need me, I’m here.’
‘Oh, I do know.’
I take my friend’s hand then and squeeze it hard, hard, hard.
I am just about to retire to my bedroom when there’s a knock at the door. Zara is there first, but I follow after her, the sound of the knock so unfamiliar and out of place that I have to take a look to ensure it’s not an auditory hallucination. The woman on our doorstep has long black hair and balances a baby on her hip. They both smile at me as if on cue. The mum apologetically.
‘Sorry to bother you, I know it’s late and all, but I was wondering... would you have any flour?’ She clarifies: ‘Bake sale. For the summer fair. Except I haven’t baked anything because the leaflet got lost, and there’s a class app, but you need a bloody password and I can’t remember mine. WhatI mean to say is that I need to bake something by tomorrow morning.’ I notice the older child behind her now. Short black hair and a superhero figurine in his hands.
‘I’ve been told there are one-hour deliveries these days,’ I say. ‘That there is no need for neighbours and favours.’
‘Oh, right. Sorry to have bothered you...’
‘No, no, wait here. I’ll be back.’ I hesitate in the kitchen, not sure where I keep my flour, but Zara grabs it as if she’s lived here all her life and pushes it firmly into my arms. Two packs.
At the door I hand it to the woman and receive a shower of thank yous. They fall on me like golden confetti.
‘You don’t happen to need any tape?’ I ask her.
‘Not today,’ she says. ‘But I know where to find you if I do.’ And she is genuine.
The following afternoon there is a silver foiled box of cakes waiting for me on my doorstep with a note sayingFrom your neighbour, Pushba.
Blade
Norrlösa
I’m onto Sven number three, having discounted the Sven whose funeral I attended and Sophia’s uncle. The first thing I see when I arrive at the Norrlösa retirement home is the row of neatly parked mobility scooters. I’m shown into a communal living room where I nod to two ladies on a sofa. The smell of coffee and wool is comforting. I try to imagine my mum in a similar room, her address book in hand, organising and planning for things that may or may not happen. There would be a book circle, surely. And some sort of residents’ association to get involved with. I haven’t dared look into places yet, but maybe Zara is right, maybe just the fact that I came here will be enough for her, and we can start to think about our options when I’m back.
The man I’m here to meet isn’t Sven, I already know that, but I’m hoping he can give me some clues. This is a man who was listed at the same address as the Sven I’ve singled out as the most likely match. Born the right year, lived in the town Mum remembers Sven being from. I couldn’t find any photos of him online, but I’m hoping his friend might have one.
‘Good afternoon,’ Thomas greets me, reaching out a hand.
‘Would you prefer to sit here or in my apartment?’ he asks,and I choose the latter. The apartment is a small, neat studio, and I pick the only armchair there is leaving him the sofa.
‘So you’re related to Sven?’
‘It’s a complicated story. I’m trying to find him on behalf of my mother who’s lost contact. She would very much like to know what happened to him. Her name is Edith.’ A flicker of recognition passes through his face.
‘And she was English?’
‘Did you know her?’
‘I knew he met someone. This would have been years ago. But our contact was sporadic at that point.’
‘How come?’
‘We didn’t exactly fall out with one another, but I kept my distance. There were rumours going around, and I’m not one to listen to them. I’d say I know a good person when I see one, but in the end I had a baby and a wife and wanted no involvement with those types of crowds.’
‘Those types of crowds?’
‘The types that are up to no good, you know, who run kebab shops and laundrettes as a front for the real business, if you know what I mean?’
