Page 34 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

It’s one of those soft, blurry evenings where I can’t remember much of the day, but I keep thinking of eggs and how they can

go to waste and rot if you forget about them. How you have to hold onto a good egg when you see one. There’s no one downstairs

when I make my way there. I hear Zara’s voice in the garden, but I don’t want to bother her. I don’t need her to worry. Again.

I’m hungry and not sure when I last ate. I look at the dishes by the sink, but it’s empty and offers no clues. Zara uses the

dishwasher, whereas Blade does the washing up by hand. There is a salad bowl in the fridge with my name on it, but when I

open the cupboard to find the vinaigrette I instead find the pasta and rice shelf. I haven’t cooked for a long time, and something

stirs inside me. An egg. I can do this. Somehow I know that eggs have a cooking time of four minutes, and that’s about as much as I am brave enough

to attempt.

I find a pot, decide against boiling the water in the kettle in case of injury and instead fill it from the tap.

It’s heavy in my hands, and I hesitate at the hob, not knowing which burner to use.

My hands seem to have some sort of muscle memory, and I stretch to the right.

Then I set the alarm. The iPad is upstairs, and I know that if I leave the kitchen now I’ll forget.

So the egg clock will need to do. I also set my phone.

Six minutes. Then I leave the room and sit in the lounge.

Zara sees me from the glass door and gives me a wave. When my phone beeps I

don’t remember why, but when I hear the egg clock I do. I know there is another step, but I can’t figure it out, so I find

a large spoon with little holes and scoop the egg into a bowl. I find the salt and pepper. As I sit at the kitchen table and

eat this I think: I cooked this! I did it! A sense of achievement I haven’t felt in a long time fills me. I eat every last piece of the white and yellow egg until my

stomach signals fullness.

‘Edith.’ Zara comes in the kitchen. ‘Did you... I didn’t prepare dinner yet?. Did you cook this?’

I nod proudly. I am—what is the right word?— happy.

‘Well done. But remember—any time you need me, I’m here.’

‘Oh, I do know.’

I take my friend’s hand then and squeeze it hard, hard, hard.

I am just about to retire to my bedroom when there’s a knock at the door. Zara is there first, but I follow after her, the

sound of the knock so unfamiliar and out of place that I have to take a look to ensure it’s not an auditory hallucination.

The woman on our doorstep has long black hair and balances a baby on her hip. They both smile at me as if on cue. The mum

apologetically.

‘Sorry to bother you, I know it’s late and all, but I was wondering.

.. would you have any flour?’ She clarifies: ‘Bake sale. For the summer fair. Except I haven’t baked anything because the leaflet got lost, and there’s a class app, but you need a bloody password and I can’t remember mine.

What I mean to say is that I need to bake something by tomorrow morning.

’ I notice the older child behind her now.

Short black hair and a superhero figurine in his hands.

‘I’ve been told there are one-hour deliveries these days,’ I say. ‘That there is no need for neighbours and favours.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry to have bothered you...’

‘No, no, wait here. I’ll be back.’ I hesitate in the kitchen, not sure where I keep my flour, but Zara grabs it as if she’s

lived here all her life and pushes it firmly into my arms. Two packs.

At the door I hand it to the woman and receive a shower of thank yous. They fall on me like golden confetti.

‘You don’t happen to need any tape?’ I ask her.

‘Not today,’ she says. ‘But I know where to find you if I do.’ And she is genuine.

The following afternoon there is a silver foiled box of cakes waiting for me on my doorstep with a note saying From your neighbour, Pushba.