In Unexpected Places

Rose’s dad had constantly reminded his daughter to hold her head high. ‘Look like you’re proud of yourself, for goodness’ sake,’ he’d say, only just clinging onto his patience. As a child eager to please, Rose had reluctantly raised up her chin. As an indifferent teenager she’d simply ignored him. As a young adult she’d come back at him. ‘Do you really think I’d get from A to B if I looked up as little as you seem to think?’

Of course, Rose did look down quite a lot. Not due to shyness, or shame, or fear. None of those things. It was because of gravity. Because most things that people drop fall to the ground. She was ten when she’d found her first coin, fifteen when she’d found a silver bracelet, and how could she forget the rush of finding a leather wallet on her twenty-second birthday, bursting with cash? Reuniting it with its owner had been the best possible birthday present. ‘It’s what I’d saved to get my daughter a new outfit for her first day at school,’ the young woman had said, standing on the front doorstep of her flat, tears glistening in her eyes. ‘I thought I’d never see it again.’ Naturally, aside from the treasures there had been countless dead baby birds and half-eaten sandwiches, but still…even the different shades of lipstick on some of the cigarette ends intrigued her.

And so it was, kicking her feet lazily along the road between the bus stop and her house on a humid early-summer evening, the stress of the work day evaporating with every step, that Rose saw it laying comfortably in the gutter, as if it had always been there. She glanced furtively around, and once she was sure there was no-one to witness her, she bent down and scooped it up. Holding the small leather-bound book in her trembling hands, she ran her fingers over the smooth burgundy cover. ‘A Thought a Day,’ it said on the front, printed in gold cursive writing. It was just another way of saying ‘Diary’, everyone knew that, only that entries were allowed to be shorter. Who had time these days to chronicle every detail of their lives, when they could get away with just one thought? Truth be told, Rose hadn’t even managed that. The cheap paperback ‘A Thought a Day’ that she’d received in the office Secret Santa the previous Christmas had lain abandoned at the bottom of her handbag ever since, not a single word troubling its gossamer-thin pages.

Almost skipping back to her house, Rose felt like she’d won the lottery. With her thirtieth birthday looming, and with nothing planned and no-one special to share it with, just recently she’d become a bit glass-half-empty. The diary, though, had rekindled her natural optimism.

‘Come on, come on,’ she urged the whistling kettle, before settling herself on her preferred side of the settee with a cup of strong tea. Carefully placing the diary in her lap, Rose merely stared at it at first, her clammy hands fingering the cover like it was a precious artefact from a museum. There was no choice but to open it, she had already decided that much. How else would she find a clue as to whose it was? She flicked through the pages quickly, her conscience not allowing her eyes to dwell too long, but just long enough to see that the pages were full of neat joined-up writing. An avid chronicler, no doubt. Having already established that the first pages held few clues, apart from the name ‘Josh’ written in tiny letters on the inside cover, Rose turned to the very last page and drew a breath. ‘June, The Pandora, 6pm, Charlotte.’ The precise date was blurred, the black ink water-damaged. It was twenty-something, definitely. As for The Pandora, well that was a blast from the past, a grimy pub one bus-stop away from hers that she used to frequent with her friends a few years ago before more desirable venues had sprung up. Rose slammed the diary closed. There was nothing else for it was there? She’d have to go to The Pandora, starting tomorrow, at 6pm, in the hope of tracking down Josh and Charlotte.

Monday the twentieth dawned leaden with grey clouds, but the sun may as well have been shining for Rose as she flew onto the bus that evening after work. She took a seat by the window, wiping the misted-up glass with the sleeve of her jacket. Just as the bus was about to pull away, a young man jumped on, breathless, hair disheveled, arms full, and took the remaining seat next to her. She instinctively shuffled further towards the window. ‘Gosh, sorry,’ he said, as he hastily shoved all the items in his arms into various pockets of his rucksack, his elbow nudging Rose in the process. A pen dropped to the floor and rolled to Rose’s side. Stopping it with her foot before it had a chance to roll further down the bus, she leant down and picked it up. It felt heavy and expensive, a fancy ink pen, not just a standard ball-point. ‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling shyly at her. ‘My mum would’ve killed me if I’d lost that.’ Rose couldn’t help noticing his fingers as he took the pen from her. Slim and long—pianists fingers. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said. He carried on arranging his things as she watched the world whizz by outside, lulled by the whoosh of the bus wheels through the puddles, her mind refocused on the diary that was carefully secreted in a spare pocket of her handbag. ‘Would you excuse me please?’ Rose asked the man. ‘It’s my stop next.’ He pressed the bell for her, then swivelled to the side to let her past. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and smiled at him. ‘And thanks again for saving my pen!’ he said. She laughed and squeezed in front of him, the musky smell of his aftershave and worn-in leather jacket transporting her back to a happy moment in her life that she couldn’t precisely recall.

It was only a two-minute walk to The Pandora, so Rose didn’t bother with her umbrella. It was quarter to six, enough time for her to order a drink and choose a good seat. She paused before entering, second-guessing whether she’d got the right place. Gone were the shabby, multicoloured velour seats and dark-brown tables sticky with beer, the white lampshades that had turned nicotine-yellow, and the ancient pool table that listed ever so slightly to the left. In their place? A bright, open-plan homely space, with comfy sofas and armchairs, sturdy pine tables and a wine list. Normally a lemonade person during the week, Rose felt compelled to order a glass of red, before sinking onto a settee in the far corner where she had a decent view of both the bar and the entrance. It was 5.55, and apart from the barman, The Pandora was empty. Rose unzipped her bag and took out the diary, just in case. Her wine glass trembled in her hand as the clock hit 6 and the door creaked open. Just four men in suits, and then, later, three couples. By seven Rose reasoned that today was not the day for Josh and Charlotte. Still, she’d passed a pleasant hour and had found a pretty hair clip under her table. And all of this mini-adventure, including the stranger on the bus, she’d even jotted down in her creased up ‘A Thought a Day’ book that she’d released from the prison of her bag.

The evening of the twenty-first was sunny, and the bus unbearably hot. Rose pressed her forehead against the cool window. ‘Room for one more?’ It was him again, the warmth of his soft voice drawing her out of her reverie. Rose shuffled up. ‘Hi,’ she said, her eyes falling on his tanned arms, slim but strong looking. ‘Nice ring,’ he said, gesturing towards her right hand. ‘I found it in the gutter five years ago,’ she said. ‘It made my day. It…it’s worthless,’ she qualified quickly, ‘…I checked.’ Why did she not want him to think her dishonest? ‘Wow,’ he said, staring at her. Then he started rummaging in his backpack again, emptying one section completely before refilling it. He sighed then pressed the bell. ‘Are you getting off here?’ she asked, standing up. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I pressed it for you. Have a good evening.’ And he smiled, his eyes looking so directly into hers that Rose blushed.

A meeting that ran on too long almost made Rose miss the bus on the twenty-second, a meeting she may as well have been absent from, her thoughts firmly fixed on that evening and her colleagues’ voices sounding echoey and distant. He was on the bus again, same seat but next to the window this time. She perched next to him, leaving room for him to put the things on that he was taking out of his bag. A different pocket this time. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m almost done.’ She watched him pack his things away, his black wavy hair hiding most of his face. ‘Did you find that bracelet in the gutter too?’, he said, smiling, looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. Rose put her head down, then braved a look back at him. ‘Erm, actually yes. Fifteen years ago on Stanhope Road.’ He laughed. ‘Amazing. I was only joking too.’ Then he reached behind her to press the bell, and although his arm made only the slightest of contact with the fabric of her blouse, Rose had to suppress a shudder. She froze momentarily, until a gentle nudge of her shoulder brought her to her senses. ‘It’s your stop,’ he said quietly, leaning ever so slightly towards her.

Rose turned this way and that in the mirror, deciding her long flowered dress and messy bun were a perfect match for the blue sky that was pouring through her bedroom window. The twenty-third of June. Perhaps today would be the day for Josh and Charlotte. A quick spray of perfume and she was off, the thought of catching the bus to The Pandora putting a spring in her step. On her way to the bus stop after work, she came across a discarded pink rose, half open, one shop away from the florist, which she scooped up and stuck through the buttonhole of her jacket. ‘An omen!’ she thought, quickly checking her reflection in the shop window. After a scan of the bus, she saw he wasn’t there, not in the usual seat anyway, and Rose’s spirits sank. ‘I’ll race you to the window seat!’ came a breathless voice from behind her. She laughed and let him go ahead. ‘Is the rose from the gutter?’ he asked with a flick of his eyebrow, rooting through the final pocket of his rucksack. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh,’ he said, his shoulders dropping, ‘I was sort of hoping it was.’ She creased her brow. ‘But I did find it on the pavement.’ He beamed at her, his smile lighting up his whole face, which she studied for a second or so too long, drawn to every detail one after the other. ‘You’re funny,’ he said, zipping up his bag and chuckling to himself. ‘Are you just having a sort out of your rucksack or have you lost something?’ she asked. ‘I think perhaps I have,’ he replied, standing up as she did and pressing the bell. ‘Can’t worry about it just now though,’ he said, rearranging his bold shirt and brushing down his jeans. She looked at him quizzically. ‘I’m getting off at your stop today,’ he said. ‘Ladies first!’ He gestured for her to go in front of him. ‘Until tomorrow then?’ he asked hesitantly. Rose nodded, hoping he hadn’t noticed the flush of her cheeks, and as she alighted he turned the opposite way, disappearing into the newsagents, while she made her way slowly to The Pandora.

It was 5.57, Rose in her customary seat with a tonic water packed with ice in her hand, when the door to The Pandora creaked open. She inhaled sharply, hunkering down into her settee, red-faced. It was him, the man from the bus, with a newspaper tucked under his arm, and she didn’t want him to see her alone, in a pub, with no sane explanation as to why she was there. Luckily he took a seat at the bar, his back to her, and began to read, glancing now and then at his watch and then at the door, shifting uneasily on his stool. The bold sound of the phone behind the bar ringing broke the silence. ‘Are you Josh, mate?’ the barman enquired. Josh’s head flicked up. So did Rose’s, her stomach turning somersaults. ‘That was a call from someone called Charlotte,’ said the barman apologetically. ‘She can’t make it.’ The man shrugged his shoulders and gathered up his things. Rose took a deep breath, coming sharply to her senses just as he put his hand against the door. ‘Josh, wait!’ she called, her voice carrying across the empty space. Josh whipped round, and she made her way over to him. ‘Hi, I’m Rose,’ she said, feeling self-conscious at just announcing herself. He glanced at the flower in her buttonhole. ‘Of course you are’, he said softly. She swallowed. ‘I…erm…I think I have something that belongs to you,’ she said, holding out the diary, her hand briefly touching the smoothness of his. His eyes widened. ‘My word. Where on earth did you find it?’ His deep brown eyes searched hers for answers. ‘It was in the gutter’, she replied, biting her lip. Josh tucked the diary safely into his pocket. ‘Incredible’, he whispered. ‘I’m forever dropping things.’ Despite her heart threatening to burst out of her chest, Rose managed to find her voice. ‘Well, fortunately I’m forever looking down,’ she said. ‘But you’re looking up at me,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘…I am.’