Page 75 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

A good chanterelle spot

The retired Rent-a-Safe manager and his wife have brought a Thermos flask and sandwiches. It’s chanterelles season and he’s

looking forward to an afternoon of telling his wife where to find the best mushrooms and which direction to go.

He’s always liked the forest. England has its Premier League and France has its baguettes, but do they have the fresh pine

air and endless space that Sweden does? No, he didn’t think so. He stops abruptly. There’s a bloody racket! Who would bring

a bloody racket to the forest when the retired manager knows that silence is what makes mushrooms reveal themselves? Shy things

they are.

‘Leave this to me,’ the manager tells his wife, pressing the basket into her arms.

‘Of course.’ The manager’s wife tends to always leave things to him; the bin, paying the bills, figuring out why she’s sleeping

in the guest room most nights.

He pushes through the shrubbery toward where the noise is coming from, appearing the other side of the trees covered in pine

needles as if he’s attempted to camouflage.

He coughs. The air is bloody polluted . Ashes!

In a forest! When the manager is about to collect his chanterelles!

He is about to storm up and give the culprits a piece of his mind—there is a lot of it to give, since it’s been resting and dormant since his retirement one month ago—when he stops in his tracks.

What a funny-looking group. Not at all a group of teenagers frying sausages over an open fire risking the wildlife the retired manager holds dear.

No—there’s an older lady on crutches, surrounded by young people, and then there’s a dog.

It’s on its lead, so no opportunity for him to complain there, he notes with disappointment.

The ashes have cleared, but perhaps he got a fragment in his left eye because it’s watering.

Or perhaps it’s the right one. It might be both eyes, come to think of it.

The laughter of the group cuts through the silence, and the retired manager finds himself turning around, his feet sinking into soggy moss.

When he gets back to his wife he smiles at her. His face feels funny and distorted but when she smiles back at him he finds

himself widening it nevertheless. He takes the basket from her, pointing also at the backpack carrying their picnic hanging

off her shoulders.

‘Here, let me carry that for you. Which direction shall we go?’