Page 1 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

I’m sitting on the kerb of a cobbled pavement, not far from the bus stop, feeling as old as I am: sixty-four. And I have felt

like I was waiting for something my entire life. Even as a child I’d stare out the window, expecting something where there

was nothing other than the cars lined against the road and the black bin bag on the ground, uncollected, because Mother had

gotten the day muddled again. At first I thought it was a sign that things would fall into place and I could simply put my

life on autopilot until they did. Perhaps it was a psychological thing. Lately I’ve come to accept it’s more likely my mind

playing tricks on me. Old age? Some kind of progressive disease? Who knows.

There is a breeze today on Hornton Street.

I’ve counted thirty-one chewing gums on the ground, varying shades of dirt-marbled pink, grey and coal-black.

People come and go, and I try to look for patterns.

I always find patterns in everything, much like some people see the face of Baby Jesus or George Washington in potatoes.

There have been four blonde ladies, so a brown-haired one must come soon.

Or three men have walked past, so a child should be coming next.

I’m trying to figure out after which sequence of passersby the one I’m waiting for will appear.

And what he will say? I have been through it in my mind a hundred, a thousand—more than that—times.

‘Hello,’ he might say. Or, ‘I’ve missed you.’

Maybe, ‘So this is where you are.’

I’d like him to simply say, ‘You came.’

Smile wide. Or perhaps with a serious face.

Of course, I know he won’t say any of these things. People never say what you expect them to.

While I’m thinking, someone does come up to me. It’s a gentleman who works at Whole Foods on Kensington High Street.

‘How are you today?’ He hands me a five-pound note and walks on before I have time to answer the question or object to the

note now nestled in my hand. I’m not broke. I’m broken-hearted.

Only two more hours until home-time now, when I board the bus and head back to the warmth of my house where my son will lecture

me until he decides it’s no use and gives up. I ate the plate of lasagne he’d left me before I headed out this morning (it

was a better breakfast than the lamb stew we had last week), moved my crossword to a new place and left a half-drunk cup of

tea on the living room table. I even pulled off and flushed half a metre of toilet paper down the loo. Extreme? Trust my son

to notice any little trace I leave behind. Like this, for all he knows, I’ve had a productive day at home, eaten my lunch

and had a bowel movement. As long as I’m back before he comes through the door I’ll be fine.

I glance at my watch. It’s 15.14, on 8 June, 2023.

I’ve been waiting twenty-seven years.