Page 22 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

We’ve fallen into quite a little routine, me and Zara. The mornings are spent at home. I rest or putter about whilst she works

in the reception room. Then we have lunch, and Zara shows me young ladies and men on various apps who are potential suitors.

Then we say Right and pack our afternoon biscuits in a little plastic container and leave the house. On the bus, Zara works some more, and

I look out at the familiar roads and houses. Today the route is diverted and we drive down a parallel road. I think how I’ve

never seen these houses and yet they’ve been there all these years, just tucked away off the main road.

By the time we get to Sloane Square, with its flagship boutiques and French brasseries, I’ve scrolled through my photos three

times. I’ve started taking pictures of my days to remember them. So I don’t wear the same clothes three days in a row, that

sort of thing. From yesterday I have Hornton Street, a ham sandwich, my green crew neck sweater, the library sign saying ‘Public

Desks.’ Finally, I have the picture I took of the article. The picture that I now remember that I have to send to Blade. But

I hesitate. Because seeing him there is wrong. I have no explanation. Blade will say: Maybe you got the date wrong? Or could you just have missed each other, Mum? No. I did not get the date wrong. I did not miss him. I will hold on to the photo until I understand it even the slightest.

I won’t share the picture just yet.

When we arrive, Zara reminds me of where she is going to be. This doesn’t stress me, as I know the place so well. She’ll be

at the public desks and will come and find me at four o’clock, which means I have two hours outside the town hall. It isn’t

a long enough session really, but I’ve agreed to the compromise whilst Blade is away. I put my bag down onto the cobbled ground

and make myself comfortable, then pick up a chocolate wrapper and an empty bottle of coke and carry it to the bin.

‘Hello.’

I’m approached by a young man around, Blade’s age, as I sit down to rest against the wall. My knees feel terribly sore. I

wonder if I’ve forgotten to take something (it’s often the case when pain appears) or if this is a new normal now. Which is

also often the case.

‘Hi there, love, how are you? I offer free haircuts to people in need.’

‘What a lovely thing to do.’

‘Would you be interested in one?’

Now, I find this incredibly rude. In need! But hard as I try I can’t remember when I last went for a trim. There is something about a red lollipop in my memories but

that must have been for Blade, which means it was a very, very long time ago. Surely I must have been to the hairdresser since

then? I touch the sides of my face, and my fingers feel the rough strands of hair.

‘This is certainly a new business tactic. Hassling women on the street.’

‘No, no, I assure you it’s free. You can find us here.

’ He produces a card with a pair of scissors on it and points at the address.

I suppose I wouldn’t mind a break from waiting.

And one should always look one’s best when waiting for their love.

I get a flash of memory of hot hair curlers and glossing my lips, then licking them as I waited, not wanting to take my lip-gloss out of the bag and apply more in case he appeared in that exact moment and see my vanity.

‘I have an opening just now,’ I tell the man.

‘Oh, good, I’m so pleased. Just head over, and they’ll take care of you. You’ll be a new woman once they’re done with you!’

‘That, my dear, I very much doubt.’

There is a smell which I know. A strong, synthetic one that I recognise but can’t put the words on. Memories of scrubbing

hard at my hands with it surface. There are two women and a man: Two of them are busy with clients, and the third smiles when

I enter. I look around, taking it all in. I can see why they need to do promotional work and hand out free cuts. The chairs

are mismatched and the lighting flickers. I can spot no drinks and biscuits, and the shelves behind the counter where you

normally have over-priced hair products are empty.

‘What can we do for you today?’ the woman asks, smiling.

‘I have been told I’m in need.’

She laughs and pulls a black cape from the wall hangers.

‘Oh, poor love. Let’s get you sorted,’ she says. ‘I’m Gemma, and I’ll be doing your haircut today.’

I sit down and look at myself in the mirror. Then close my eyes immediately.

‘I can’t imagine what it’s like at—forgive me for saying it—your age. You know, the streets. ’

‘You just have to wear the correct shoes, I find.’

‘Oh, is that so?’ she replies whilst spraying my hair with a wet, fruit-smelling mist. I close my eyes, some of it has already landed on my eyelashes, like dew drops.

‘Definitely. Not all streets posit dangers, though. They’re not all cobbled.’

I walk back to the town hall feeling quite energised and only remember Zara when I, well, see Zara in front of me. On her

phone. Anxious. On my street corner. When she sees me, she runs towards me, arms flailing.

‘Edith!’

‘That would be me.’

‘You and I had a deal. No walking off, under any circumstances.’ Then she mutters, goddamn it to herself. I should remind her of the countless times in the past that I have called up her parents explaining her absence

or failure to be back by the curfew. Telling them she was studying with Blade when they were nowhere to be found. Because

I trusted her. And she needed a break, a bit of freedom.

‘I’m back before our bus leaves.’

‘Is that a bob ?’ she notices my hair do for the first time. ‘Did you go and get a haircut ?’

‘I believe I was part of some modelling gig. Free makeover in exchange for pictures.’ They took three pictures. One from the

back with my chin down, one from the side with my chin raised, and one from the front where I smile.

I hand her the business card I was given.

‘Haircuts4homeless.’ Then she bursts out laughing. ‘Edith, did you just let these people give you a makeover? You’re probably

all over their social media. Oh gosh. ’

I feel the penny drop, so to speak.

‘Please. Please don’t do this again,’ Zara says.

‘No, it will be at least six months until I need another haircut.’

‘I’m serious. Blade will kill me. Heck, Blade may even come home. ’

Oh no. Not that. Blade has stuff to do.

‘Okay. No more haircuts, and I won’t accept drinks from strangers anymore either, for good measure.’

‘People give you free drinks?’ I think that’s admiration in Zara’s voice. ‘Wow, I’ll come find you for tips, if the world

ever gets rough.’

Then my pocket buzzes, and I get my phone out. +46. I know which country code that is, so I press the little button on the

side. Quickly.

‘Do you need help to answer that?’ Zara is too switched-on. Too tense.

‘Just an alarm. Wanted to be back here on time.’ I smile. I press the phone firmly into my pocket and make a mental note to

ask someone—perhaps the nice estate agent with the ballet loafers—how to activate that Silent function I know exists.

It’s not time yet. The call is not for me any longer because I’ve given the task to my son now. I’ve been avoiding it for

so many years already I can keep it up for a while longer. Sweden has been a closed chapter, that was the only way to stay

sane. At the last neurology appointment Blade asked about cognitive functioning training and how to old-lady-proof the house,

essentially, though he used slightly more polite words. When he finally stopped talking I leaned forward in my chair.

‘Secrets,’ I said. ‘Small ones, emotional ones, family ones. Things that happened in the past and impacted our direction.

How do we hold onto them when dementia progresses?’

The red bus comes into view now, slowing down as it approaches the stop, the horde of waiting people all taking a step towards

it at the same time.

‘Right, shall we?’ I take Zara’s hand and lean my head against her shoulder. Sometimes we are able to connect more with those we know less. No shared history, no secrets, no complicated feelings. Just a warm hand and someone to sit next to on a bus and watch the rain with.

‘I will say, your hair looks lovely,’ Zara offers.

‘It’s been ages since I’ve had a trim. Felt it was time.’

‘These things happen to the best of us.’

I nod in agreement, as she is correct.

‘Just remember, not a word, Edith.’

‘Of course.’

I’m still very good at keeping secrets.