Page 17 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

Skurup

I’m unsure where to go, there are no campsites open around here and I need to be back in this village—that has a gift shop

and a pizzeria, which I tried for dinner, and its main attraction, a flower shop with a very mesmerising florist—in the morning.

I pull up Google Maps and look at my surroundings. Woodland, some acres of wet marsh land and what I suspect is an old quarry.

Another Google search tells me the quarry is now filled with freshwater and the locals’ chosen summer spot for swimming. I

decide that will do as my home for the night.

I find it after a quick drive and park as close to the old quarry turned lake as possible. As I start to make the bed and

prepare the cabin for my first night in Sweden I feel homesick, like a little boy. I long for familiar sounds. Mum’s shuffling

on the floor in ten-year-old stolen hotel slippers. The fridge’s low humming. Mum’s soft snores that I can just about hear

through the crack I leave in my doorway.

Zara reports that all is well and under control. She has sent me a selfie of them watching Magpie Murders .

Zara: Mum convinced Netflix is broken because there is no more House of Cards. Told her she watched it all and got her onto a new

show.

Me: Did you put an Instagram filter on my 64-year-old mum?

Zara: We tried the one called Paris but she said she’d rather the one called Marrakech because she’s never been there and would

quite fancy going. So that’s what I gave her. All good.

Zara: Also, she made me buy extra milk, flour, sugar, eggs and tape. Said people might need to borrow some?

Me: Yup, she’s convinced a neighbour will pop by and ask to borrow some milk like the old days.

I’ve tried explaining about next hour delivery, twenty-four-hour supermarkets and Amazon stores. Pointless. She simply doesn’t

accept that neighbours don’t need her to stock emergency baking ingredients any longer. But somehow seeing the extra bottles

huddled together in the fridge, like a group of friends, settles her. So I keep buying them.

Me: Tape?

Zara: She says it’s one of the things you never know you need until you really need it...;)

Me: Any luck finding a picture of Sven yet?

Zara: Nothing. Do you think she got angry when he didn’t show up and threw them away? Burned them?

Me: No idea. Anything’s possible with Mum...

I sit for some time opposite the water until the sun starts to hint at me that today is running out, and the distant voices of a group of teenagers have disappeared on bikes. The water is flat, dark and framed by soft grey cliffs with ledges and pockets to jump off.

I google the woman I met today. Nothing. The only result for her name is a high school theatre production where she stands

at the end of the group looking off-camera. No Facebook, no Instagram, no LinkedIn.

Find two semi-professional hockey players with the same surname, and I find her shop. Pull up the pictures and look at it.

A small florist business with pots overflowing the pavement outside it in a way that health and safety would crack down on

within hours in London. The website tells me it’s a family business and has a picture of a couple with a blonde, almost white-haired

girl between them. Parents? Grandparents? No, too young. There is a link to order flowers for next-day delivery, but that’s

it.

I pull out one of the letters. I’ve read them all but find I turn to them whenever I think of Mum lately. This one is a single

square page with a wisteria illustration on it. I read the short lines.

Svennie,

I keep coming back to our spot. Thinking about what could have been if we’d met there like we planned to.

E.

Then I jump. Was that an owl? The only wildlife I’m used to is rats and city foxes. Yep. Definitely an owl. I throw myself on the bed, which leaves a lot to be desired, and press the pillow over my head, blocking out the nature sounds,

remembering the ones my mum used to have on CD when I was younger. Relaxing dolphin sounds. Bird song. Somehow ‘Over the Top

Owl Hooting’ never made it into the recording studio. The surrealism of it all hits me. How have I been nestled in my mum’s

old love story? And why am I starting to feel like it’s somehow my story too?