Page 44 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘I think they just assumed I would run it into the ground. Have a go of it then sell once it hit the fan and cash out. Go back to school. They never expected me to still be going five years in.’
‘You took it over when you were twenty-one? That’s incredible.’
‘It was the best option. I mean it. I loved the shop, and my uncle, a lot. He was easy for me to talk to, and he understood, he slowed down for me. And I understood flowers. Besides, school was never a good fit for me. I liked the school part, not so much the other kids. I’d have to hold my bladder all day because the minute I’d make my way to a bathroom, people would crowd in and climb on the door and look and laugh at me. Hard to want to keep going with school when that’s the reality of it.’
‘Where were the teachers?’ Who can blame her for wanting to leave school, when you’re that bullied?
‘My uncle used to sayWhen there’s a will, there’s a way. He was referring to growing orchids in shady conditions but the boys in school were successfully applying it to torment me.’
I clear my throat, which feels strangely clogged.
‘Tell me more about your uncle.’ I’ve finally managed to ask the question, but find I haven’t done it for the reason I thought I would. I don’t see how he could be my mum’s Sven, but he seemed to have been a good man, a good uncle to Sophia. And all I want it some sort of proof that she was okay.
Blade
Jönköping
Two days have passed since we arrived in Jönköping, and we’ve both grown fond of this spot. It features a narrow leaf-covered path down to the smallest lake I’ve ever seen. Once you wade past the algae the water is clear and cool. I’ve just gotten back from a run and I go over my schedule as I stretch too briefly. Today I’m meeting Sven number four, who lives a two-hour drive away. For those keeping score at home: number one was happily married for fifty years, number two never left the country and number three went missing in 1996. Only two more Svens to go, and I’m feeling less than hopeful.
I’m just about to open the cabin and start the coffee machine when Sophia comes around the corner, water dripping from her black fitted swimsuit. Which stops me in my tracks. I stand with the door open, a foot on the step.
‘You’re letting mosquitos in,’ she says, using her two hands to squeeze water out of her hair. I follow the drops as they travel vertically across her skin. I almost turn around because I feel I shouldn’t be looking then remember that I’m an adult, and she’s wearing a swimsuit. Appropriate clothing for a lake swim.
‘Hey,’ I manage.
‘You should get in. ‘You never regret a green vegetable, a pension fund or a freshwater swim’ is what my dad always says.’
‘I’d like to disagree, as someone who’s once attempted a triathlon in February and who is allergic to avocado.’
‘Just get in. I’ll go grab you a towel.’
‘Good idea.’ I can’t stop following her body’s contours, and I think she’s right, I do desperately need a bucket, or a whole lake, of cold water over my head right about now. But above all, I have lost all power to say anything other than yes to this girl. I take my shirt off and throw it on the big rock where we hang our clothes to dry, that faces the afternoon sun. With her present, I feel suddenly and oddly self-conscious.
‘Are you coming with me?’ I ask, and she is looking at me intently, like she wants to say something.
‘I just went for one, didn’t I? I’ll make the coffee.’
Right.
‘Catch,’ she says as she throws me a towel which I miss and have to bend down and pick up off the ground.
‘Enjoy.’
I trod off towards the lake, eyes firmly on the path ahead, looking out for fast adders or a forest snail in front of my feet, fighting the urge to look back the whole way.
Edith
London
I wake up with a funny feeling in my stomach, and at first I’m not sure why. Lying in bed, I go over the possibilities, ranging from food poisoning to nerves, when it hits me. Today is my birthday. I don’t particularly care for birthdays anymore. I’m older now and the day usually brings nothing other than a roast lunch in a pub and a book voucher from Waterstones. Both very nice things but not deserving of the butterflies in the stomach. It’s a feeling I won’t be able to shake, I fear. A feeling cultivated by my parents over the years, one of excitement and anticipation that this was, indeed,special.
That is why I never treated Blade in this way. I downplayed it to feel like every other day.I guess it’s your birthday today, I would say when he was as young as four.It so happens that this is the day you were born on.Then we would go to the park and have waffles with chocolate sauce and pick something from the toy shop. A day for specialness, not necessarily a special day.
When he got older I started throwing his birthday party on a different date. I didn’t want my son to spend his entire life waking up every February 2 with butterflies in his stomach, just to be greeted with a simple roast lunch. Priming opens up thepotential for hurt. Set expectations can lead to disappointment. Waiting for someone inherently means they might not come.
I look around for my phone, knowing that it should be next to my bed, but somehow I’m not able to see it today. I have trouble looking for things. I can’t visualise the item I’m missing so I can’t see what it is I’m trying to find. In that moment the phone I’m looking for could be any model or colour on the entire global phone market. It’s disappeared. But I can see Sven. I would recognise him anywhere. I think that today is a very important day to spend at Hornton Street, so I decide to get ready as soon as I can. Once I finally find my phone I reply to Blade.
Call me when you want. Have a great day, Mum,he has written.
