Page 20 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

Svedala

I’m back in Svedala early the next morning after a restless sleep by the old quarry. First the sound of the owls, then teenagers

arriving on bikes at dawn (aren’t they all supposed to be nocturnal?). Breakfast was a Red Bull from the camper fridge I really

should make an effort to stock.

The floral shopfront sits on the ground floor of an orange-brick house opposite a small mall housing a library and a GP service.

It’s 9.02, and I’m pretty sure I’m the first person to come through the door today. The doorbell sounds like an iPhone alert,

and I think that’s a neat touch. I woke up in a sweat this morning thinking maybe there’d be someone else working, or worse,

the shop would be closed and I wouldn’t get to see her. But I needn’t have worried because she appears swiftly from the back

room, her phone pressed to her ear, then stops abruptly when she sees me. Nerves. I only need to ask this girl a few questions, yet here I am struggling to compose myself.

She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, and her gaze is on the floor in front of her now. I overhear her saying that she’s

excited to work out the details and that she will email over themes and proposals for the décor. When she puts the phone down,

she does a long exhale and turns her focus to me.

‘Hello there.’

‘Hi. Sophia?’ Let’s pretend I haven’t rehearsed this and googled the Swedish pronunciation of Sophia, which is So-fee-aah.

‘You did say I should pop by some time.’ There is no hint of a smile on her face to put me at ease.

‘Could I steal some of your time?’ I ask.

‘Sure. I sell flowers, not time. You can have that for free, no need to steal it.’

She looks so pleased with her joke I can’t help but smile too.

‘Thank you. I just wanted to ask you some questions.’ Her eyes are blue. And somehow I can’t find anything else to think.

Or say.

She helps me out by breaking the awkward silence.

‘Oh. Would you like a drink? I guess they’re free too. I don’t usually sell them, so I don’t have a price list.’

I nod . Since when does my mind have a life on its own? I clearly haven’t interacted with enough people over the past three years

and shouldn’t have been let out in public. I should leave. Right. That’s it. My second interaction with a Swedish person has swiftly ended after—I look at the digital clock on the wall—exactly five

minutes. She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Apparently it’s my turn to speak.

‘I’m alright, thanks. Do you know much about the history of the shop? Of who might have worked here? Do you know a Sven? This

is all a bit vague and I apologise but he may have lived in this village.’ I blurt all the questions out at once, as if I’m

working against a timer.

‘I inherited it from my uncle. It’s been in the family since his father passed it to him. Funnily enough, his name was Sven.’

I stiffen. Could this be it? I walk into a shop on my second day in Sweden and find the man my mum has been waiting for for three decades?

Is my job here done? That would certainly be welcome since my anxiety is sky-high, I can hardly conduct a normal conversation, and I’ve only just started the search.

‘I’m sorry to be asking all these questions, it might be nothing, but, did your uncle ever live in London?’

‘London?’ She laughs. ‘He would hardly go to Lund. He hated planes. I can’t remember a single time he travelled during my

childhood. I don’t think he even had a passport.’

Well, there goes that dream. It could of course be as simple as my mum having gotten the Sven wrong. She must have found the

same list of Svens and their addresses that I did and tried them all, not knowing where hers had gone. That’s why she sent

a postcard to this shop.

‘Is this to do with your dad search? Listen, Sven is a very common name. I’ve met several of them.’ She doesn’t expand but

begins to fiddle with the hem of her shirt again. She’s unfortunately right. How many Svens would have lived in Svedala over

the years? It’s like looking for a John in Ipswich. Or a Sebastian or Max in an investment bank. I’ve crossed the deceased

Sven from yesterday off my list and am now crossing the shop Sven off it too. Four left: all in different parts of the country.

‘He’s not my dad, this Sven. I’m not even sure who he is exactly but I’m doing my best to find him. To help someone who lost

contact with him years ago.’

‘Oh.’ She gestures for me to come behind the counter where she’s filled a glass with tap water for me. ‘I’m sorry I can’t

help be of more help. And I actually have to start working now. I have a lot of things to pack up.’

I drink some water, although I’m not thirsty, just reluctant to leave. This was the best lead I had and I’m not quite ready

to let it go.

‘Do you have kids?’ I ask her. There is a drawing on the wall behind her.

It shows a man and a little girl and then a woman standing behind them; she’s just as big, though.

Whoever drew them hadn’t learnt perspective yet.

They all wear flower-patterned clothes, and to the left is a square house with curtains and a chimney that exhausts in grey.

‘No. I made this when I was little. With my uncle. We used to have these characters: Miss Grass Flower and Mr Yarrow and Miss

Marigold. We’d draw them in their little house and talk about what they’d be up to.’ Her whole face lights up as she’s telling

me.

‘They look like a lovely family.’

‘I think they were as happy as stick people can be.’

I smile and she returns it sending my eyes everywhere but hers. Looking down I notice the large cardboard boxes in the back

room.

‘Another funeral?’

‘Won’t be telling you in case you decide to crash it.’

‘Honestly. Those days are behind me. Well, a day behind me.’

‘I’m going on tour. Eksj o , Tenhult, Markaryd and J o nk o ping,’ she says listing a string of places and one of them jumps out at me. ‘ If I can squeeze everything I need into my car. It’s a large job, and I sort of said yes without exactly having a clear plan

in place, hoping that I could figure it all out later. But it’s proving to be a rather difficult task carting all these flowers

all around the country.’

‘J o nk o ping. That’s not far from where I’m headed. I’m going to V ? xj o .’

‘It’s actually the town farthest away on my contract. The others are a bit sporadically dotted along the way,’ she adds.

I pause for a moment, know this is going to sound absurd, but before I can stop myself the idea slips out.

‘This is going to sound strange, but I actually have a large mobile home—well, an RV. A camper-van. The rental place at the airport was all out of alternative options, holidays and such, and I needed a way to get around Sweden. To look for this Sven. So I said yes and now I’m driving this large RV around—but it’s massive, see, and it would likely have plenty of space—for all your boxes, flowers, whatever else you need to bring.

And we’re headed to the same location it sounds like.

..’ I trail off as my brain catches up with my mouth.

Did I just...? The urge to be wiped off this earth by, say, a falling hanging flowerpot has never been this strong before. I clearly should

not be allowed out in public. Fucking ever.