Page 26 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

The thing that people forget about dementia, and well, so many other things in life really, is that it all has a beginning,

a middle and an end. They also forget that it’s often impossible to know where you are in the moment. People tend to always

assume they are in the beginning, perhaps in the middle quite reluctantly once they hit older age, but no one ever wakes up

and acknowledges the end. It tends to just happen. My life is no different to other people’s in that sense and it fills me

with some degree of hope.

My new estate agent friend is running late and I wonder if she knows what even a few minutes can mean for a person. For a

life. What if I had been a few minutes late meeting Sven?

To pass the time, I show people the way to the permit section. The town hall seems to exist purely as a reason for the area’s

wealthy to park their Teslas along the street.

As I wait, I’m tremendously cheered up by a large corpulent black dog that licks at my hand and my cheek when I crouch down

to his level. I can’t recall his breed but know they’re known for being gentle and kind. They like treats and always finish

their meals, a bit like Blade as a teenager really.

‘Would you mind holding him for me whilst I pop in and sort out this council tax?’ the dog’s owner asks me and I joyously wrap the lead around my wrist, once, then twice, like you would with a helium balloon, so it won’t fly away.

I resume petting the dog and stroking his soft neck and I think that in a different life I would have had a dog, the life where I wasn’t a single mum, working long hours and being so exhausted when I got home that a walk around the block at nine in the evening would have felt like a half marathon.

I hear a voice above me.

‘That’s a beautiful face right there.’

Even I know I’ve reached the age where I can be certain a comment like that is directed at the dog and not myself.

‘Well, thank you, he says.’ Dogs are always seen as an open invitation for conversation with strangers.

‘Always loved a Labrador. I have a Newfoundland.’

‘Ah yes. Newfoundland . Makes me think that we shouldn’t feel too bad about not always being creative when naming pets and children. Just think

of the man who named the new land he found New-found-land.’

The man laughs.

‘Love your spirit. Would you need some dog food? Deworming? Can’t be easy looking after him under those conditions.’

I ponder the conditions that he’s referencing, which don’t appear bad to me at all. It’s a sunny, mild day, and the owner

should be back in no more than ten minutes.

‘I’m looking after him for a friend,’ I say, finally.

‘Oh, I see. My mistake then. Well nice to meet you and the handsome boy here.’ He ruffles the dog’s fur and walks off.

I’ve just given the dog back to its owner when the estate agent with the weather inappropriate shoes appears around the corner.

It’s fairly hot today, and I imagine her toes clumped together with sweat.

She jumps over a puddle that’s still lingering from a wetter day and narrowly avoids getting her feet soaked.

I wonder if she has something against proper shoes.

There is much to be said for good footwear, I always thought.

She’s been stopping to talk to me the last couple of days now.

I find myself looking forward to it and notice that, for a brief moment, just after two, I’m looking towards the street corner not for Sven but for her.

‘My son used to call puddles “muddy cuddles.” I tell her when she’s next to me. I’m not sure when I last remembered that little

fact, but I’m savouring it now that I seem to remember a lot while sitting here on this bench, next to the rust-coloured brick

building with its low metal railing and tall silhouette. Perhaps soon , I think. Perhaps soon I will remember what I need Blade to know and why I’m here.

‘How are you today?’ she says, squeezing my shoulder. ‘I’m taking a break. Would you like to come and get a hot drink, or

would you rather I bring it back for you?’

I think how I can come to this spot and sit for hours but how, at home, I don’t even remember the way to the kitchen some

days. How do I dare to venture away from here? But going for a coffee with another person is important. Not just another person

either. I think she’s now my friend.

‘I will come with you,’ I say decisively.

I’ve forgotten her name, so I suggest we go to Starbucks. It smells of gingerbread and sweet syrup, and there is pop music

playing.

‘Eliza,’ she says to the barista, and I mouth it in silence. It’s a fabulous practice to write the name on the cup as well.

When I sit opposite her I twist my head to look at it several times. Apart from having spelt Eliza with an s it’s a perfectly formed reminder of her name in black marker.

‘I saw your son pick you up once. Or at least I think it was your son,’ she says as we sip on coffees and I eat a millionaire’s shortbread. ‘He hasn’t been for a while has he? Anyone looking after you? That girl with the pink hair?’

‘Zara. She is very good at it. Because she lets me look after her in return.’

‘Tell me. If I had a choice to go anywhere in this city, I wouldn’t come to this very place every day. Why do you?’

‘Not everything we do is by choice. Some things are for survival. It’s become the one place I’m myself. Where memories don’t

float around, they’re more organised when I’m here, I can hold onto my thoughts better. And it’s the only place I can possibly

hope to find him in.’

‘Oh.’

‘Eliza,’ I say and glance at her cup again, worried the name will once again slip my mind. ‘Would you happen to know how I

can put a phone on Silent mode?’

‘Sure. Would you like vibrations on?’ she asks.

‘Depends on if they’re good vibrations. We all need good vibrations in our life.’

She laughs. I put the rest of the biscuit in my mouth and find it is far too sweet.

‘Keep them on then, I take it.’

I hand my phone over, and she works her magic in seconds.

‘No more loud signals. All fixed.’ It looks the same as a minute ago to me, but I trust her. I know that any more phone calls

in front of Zara will lead to more questions of me or, worse, she’ll ask Blade. I can’t quite remember why I can’t answer

this call, but I somehow know that if I do my world will fall apart.

‘Right. I have to get back to the office. At least it’s Thursday!’ I hadn’t noticed what day it was, but I nod knowingly.

As if I know what regularly happens on a Thursday in Eliza’s life.

‘Please, let me.’ I take the two empty cups and carry them off to the counter where I spot metal trays and a three-bin system for recycling.

‘Bye, Eliza,’ I say when we arrive back to my corner and she retreats back to her office building.

In my bag I touch that the thing I snuck out with me rather than putting it in the bin. I touch it now to know it’s there:

my friend’s empty paper cup, so that I don’t forget her name.

I feel refreshed, like when you’ve come in from a cold walk or stepped out of the shower. Perhaps it’s the realisation that

even the smallest, most rapidly shrinking world can still grow bigger and that there is always space for a new friend.

The walk to the bus stop takes six minutes rather than the usual nine. I think how I diverted from my daily route to include

Starbucks and how that has now made my original route faster. I think that I can’t know if this is my beginning, middle or end. The thought is quite liberating.