At The Bus Stop by Val Bonsall

It’s funny how chatting to a stranger can make you see things more clearly . . .

IT’S a while since I’ve caught this particular bus. It has an odd route, but it’s what I need today. It’s one every half an hour and, in case the timetable’s changed, I ask the woman who’s already at the stop if she’s waiting for it, too.

“Yes,” she says. “It won’t be long.”

We get talking and she tells me she’s been to the warehouse round the corner that’s now a shopping mall with a leaning towards the hand-crafted.

“There’s a jeweller in there,” she tells me, “and I bought a brooch for my sister. I liked it so much I’ve gone back today and got one for myself. Not exactly the same, but similar.”

She retrieves it from her bag. It’s very pretty, and Celtic in style.

“I’m wondering now, though, if I should have bought it,” she says as she puts the brooch back. “It was rather expensive.” She smiles. “I feel quite guilty.”

“You shouldn’t.” I smile back at her. “It’s good to treat yourself.”

“My sister’s had a lot of worry recently,” she continues. “I thought the present would cheer her up. Her daughter Chloe has split up from her husband.

“My sister thinks they can sort it out and has said to me that they’re behaving like spoilt children. But it’s still a worry for her.”

“Do they have any children, your niece and her husband?”

“Yes. Fortunately they live near me so I’m there to help her with them. I’d already taken early retirement because of other commitments so I’ve got the time and –”

She breaks off as her phone announces the arrival of a text message.

“It’s from a walking group,” she explains to me when she’s read it. “They meet every other Saturday. I joined when I stopped work. It would be an opportunity to develop new interests, I thought.”

She gives me another of her nice smiles and then continues.

“I loved it, too, getting out in the hills, and they’re all lovely people. I never go now, though. I take the kids off Chloe’s hands on Saturdays to give her a break. They see their dad on Sundays.”

A younger woman comes walking past and stops in front of us to cross the road. She has a child in a pushchair.

The child has a book with a picture of an elf-like creature on the front, sprinkling something that looks like stardust about.

I’m reminded of a story I enjoyed as a child. That, too, was about a cute elf-type creature who had a store of magic that he distributed generously to all who asked. Then one day the elf himself needed its special properties, but there was none left.

So not only was he unable to help himself, he couldn’t help anyone else, either.

“I think you should start going on the walks again,” I say. “We all want to do things for those we care about, and that’s how it should be, but you can’t forget yourself. You have to be kind to yourself, too.”

The woman looks at me as though I’ve said something terrible. I guess she’s thinking I’m a selfish so-and-so.

“Of course we all do it,” I add quickly. “It’s like when I’m making breakfast – if one of the eggs goes wrong, I always take that one!”

I laugh, wanting to lighten the situation. She doesn’t laugh back.

The bus comes. The woman says a formal “Pleased to have met you” as we get on and takes the single seat on its own at the front.

I go about halfway down, still feeling awkward.

Her situation – her priorities – are nothing to do with me. I should have kept my mouth shut.

As I’m standing waiting to get off a few minutes later, she reaches out and touches my arm.

“I’ve sent a text back to say I’ll go on the walk this Saturday,” she says. “I think I’ve got in the habit of putting everyone else’s needs first, but it’s right what you said – you have to be kind to yourself, too.”

“I thought,” I began, smiling with relief, “you might have thought I was just selfish.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t think of yourself first all the time, but you shouldn’t always put yourself last, either.

“On Saturday I’m going out on the hills to recharge my batteries.” She laughs. “And it’ll look funny pinned on an anorak, but I’m wearing the brooch!”

I’m laughing, too, as I get off the bus, pleased now that I spoke up.

“And while you’re in the mood,” I say to myself, “there’s someone else you need to say the same to.”

I give some thought to the best tone of voice to use and decide on understanding but firm.

“Caitlin,” I say, “you really need to speak to your daughter. I know