Page 30 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

I very much think that chasing pigeons is a sign of future narcissism. I see it all the time, parents smiling when toddlers

toddle and older kids throw their hands out laughing and running after the birds. Pigeons are at the bottom of the chain in

London.

‘Think about how you treat society’s most vulnerable,’ I say to the group of mothers who have emerged from the doors of the

library and now talk about au pairs not abiding by curfew times, or keeping up with their personal hygiene, or cleaning their

plate of the organic steak that was bought specially, although they are great with the children and finding a new one is so draining.

‘Did you need anything?’ They smile at me. Because that’s what you do with the older citizens. Smile and offer assistance,

politely. But never actually engage.

‘No. But the pigeons need peace.’

I would have gone on, but I am hoping to spot Eliza and grab her for a quick little chat. I have my flask with tea, and I

sit down on the bench by the bus stop, which has just become free as a couple of riders just boarded the bus.

Sven always walked around pigeons, I remember now.

Not because he liked them: he didn’t, he blinked when they flew too close and he watched carefully so he didn’t drop encouragement in the shape of crumbs to them, but he respected them.

That’s how I knew he was a good egg, even though he didn’t exactly look it, a tall and rugged giant that sometimes forgot to smile.

He was waiting for someone else when we first met. I was too, having arrived early for my meeting with the single mothers’

group, Blade asleep in the buggy, covered by a soft muslin blanket, shielded from the world. Sometimes, when I pushed him

along the streets and he was sleeping, I’d forget he was there and even almost forget I was a mother. I would walk a little

taller, as if I had heels on and someone might notice me.

I was early that day and wanted to let him sleep for as long as possible. Sven and I stood next to each other long enough

for it to become awkward.

‘I’m delivering something on behalf of my boss,’ he said finally. He looked straight at me, not first at the sleeping child

and then me, as if he was assessing me as a mother only. Unusual , I thought .

‘I see. And what is it?’

‘Do you know what? I don’t even know. Want to guess?’

‘Sure. How about some crickets?’

‘Seriously? That’s your best guess?’

‘You can likely find a lot of weird things in the mail. It was legal to mail children before 1915. Stamps were cheaper than

train tickets.’

He laughed then. Which made me take a step closer. His laugh always had that effect on me. As if the soundwaves went straight

into my bones, the very frame of who I was.

‘You think my boss sent a child from Malm o to London?’

‘Why don’t you have a look?’

‘Can’t open another person’s mail. I’m a man with principles...’

‘Edith,’ I quickly filled in. Because it seemed like the sort of name a well-built, tanned Swedish man with principles should

know.

‘Edith.’

The crowd of single mothers’ group members began arriving and people smiled and waved at me from all directions.

‘Does every last person here know you? They practically flock toward you.’ He laughed a second time. ‘Hopefully that means

your number will be easy to find, should I want to see you again, Edith.’