Page 13 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
Copenhagen
When I land a week later I do so with a phone full of pictures of old letters, a backpack and a feeling of doom hanging over
Sven who live in Sweden) and one of them happens to have passed away recently and is to be buried this very day, in a village
called Skurup. I decide that’s my first location. Exploring Svedala can wait.
I have no real plan other than turning up, hoping it’s a big funeral so I’ll go unnoticed and finding out who this Sven was.
My online searches told me that he worked as a secondary school teacher, so if anyone questions who I am I will be there in
the capacity of former student. I reread my mum’s rather short letter now.
Svennie,
I have many questions about where you ended up, but just know I wouldn’t change things. I couldn’t. Some things in life you
don’t get to choose, and like my eye colour and aversion for spinach I didn’t choose you. I was programmed to love you.
I stop and think: What nonsense. Traffic lights and the space landings are programmed. Not the heart.
The airport has helpful information desks, fresh cool air despite it being June and hot dog kiosks everywhere. I find the
car hire desk easily thanks to Scandinavian organisation and love of signs. I pull up my reservation number and pass the man
my driver’s licence and credit card as he smiles at me.
‘Work or pleasure?’
Neither, in my case. Where is the ‘Other’ box?
‘That’s not the car I booked.’ I stare at the computer screen and what appears to me to be a camper-van. RV. Mobile home.
What are they even called? I can’t think of a single time when I’ve ever needed to know before. The man, name-tagged Mohamed,
looks as if he’s ready to hand me the Worst Customer of the Year badge.
‘It’s an upgrade from a Fiat 500. Congratulations.’
‘Man, I can’t drive this, whatever it is.’ Never camped and never driven anything that size. I look at the back of my licence
hoping to see the category unticked, but apparently I have once upon a time passed a test which allows me to drive this...
thing .
‘It’s the wrong side of the road. You’re doing the nation a disservice by allowing me out on a road in that vehicle,’ I insist.
You’d think I’d have acquired good negotiating skills since living with Mum, but any argumentative tone leaves me drained,
and if anything that experience has left me avoidant.
‘I do understand, but unfortunately my system shows me this is all we have. We can, however, refund you and you are free to
look at a different company.’
‘Last minute? The prices were already outrageous when I booked. It’s almost the beginning of July. Sweden’s statuary holiday month.’ I’ve read up on this. Swedes must take two weeks of their annual leave in July, making it a busy and buzzy time to visit.
Mohamed throws his hands out and nods at the screen where the white mobile home is still showing, as if to say I’m well aware.
I hear a cough behind me and notice the line of people waiting. Decision, now.
‘Fine. I’ll take it.’
‘Excellent.’
Nothing is excellent about this.
‘You can access the manual by scanning this QR code I see that it fits four people comfortably as the specs say the dining
table can turn into a small bed. How clever.’
Four people? What would I need three additional people for? At least there’s a bed, though, or two. Perhaps I don’t need to
worry about the hostel money I had meticulously counted from our care home savings.
‘Thanks, man,’ I say and head off to deal with this unexpected blow.
Once I finally make it out of the maze that is Copenhagen Airport, pay the toll for the bridge and arrive on Swedish land,
I end up laughing out loud because the situation is so surreal: Here I am driving along the Swedish motorway in a mobile home
on my way to gatecrash a stranger’s funeral.
I make the decision as I’m indicating to leave the highway: I’ll cancel my hotel and sleep in this monstrous vehicle. It makes
sense. I sigh, pat the steering wheel as if it were a loyal pet and say out loud, ‘Welcome to your home for the next two weeks,
Blade.’
Now to find the church.