“Haven’t seen you in a while, Mrs Stevens!”

Gothic lettering scrolls around the driver’s neck from his unbuttoned collar. Should she know his name? All young men look alike nowadays, tattoos no longer a distinguishing mark.

“September. Ben’s back at school.” Catherine doesn’t think he’s flirting with her, but it does no harm to remind him of her responsibilities. “Almost thirteen. And Gerald’s at work. A chance to run errands.”

The lad nods briefly, glancing over her shoulder. Perhaps a queue is forming.

“Connaught Street, please.”

An engine-hiss has no sooner announced their imminent departure than a jolt signals inevitable delay. The doors clatter and a tall man in a red scarf hauls himself onto the bus, his physique evidently not in keeping with the speed at which he has just run. Fifty perhaps. He nods his gratitude, then makes his way along the aisle, steadying himself on the headrests.

She’s not aware that she’s watching him until he beams a smile in her direction. She responds by shaking her head – a man of his age really should be more organised – then terminates the exchange by turning to the window.

Small puffs mosaic the blue above the trees. Mackerel sky, her mother would say. Not long wet and not long dry. She pats the brolly in her bag. She’s prepared for everything.

***

She stares at Woolworths. Which is not Woolworths. The building is unmistakeable, yet those etched bay windows, once crammed with crockery and cushions are now promoting 3 for 2 on vitamins. When did that happen? Catherine has a soft spot for Boots, but doubts that she’ll succeed in finding pick ’n’ mix for Ben. Still, it’s a good offer. No harm in making the most of it.

It's just as she emerges back out onto the street that the handle of her favourite Asda avocado tote gives way. Sixty-six multivitamin-tubes tumble in every possible direction across the pavement. She swallows a curse and is bending for the nearest escapee when a hand steadies her.

It’s the scarf-man from the bus.

“Here.” He proffers her bag, neatly repacked. Yet not her bag – the empty shell is still hanging limply on her arm.

“You have the avocado one too?” Ridiculous thing to say. Embarrassment talking.

“Always carry one. Never know when you might need it. My mother taught me that.” He coughs. “I’m taking a coffee to the beach. Want to join me?”

Going for coffee with strange middle-aged men who talk about their mothers is not normally something to which Catherine would agree. But this one looks decent enough. Handsome, at a pinch. A bit like Gerald, now she comes to think of it. Which reminds her.

She waggles her ring-finger. “You know I’m married?”

His smile softens. “I know. It’s just coffee.”

***

“You know, this is my favourite bench.” She wicks warmth from the paper cup as the wind whips at her coat, tipping the knobbly shopping-bag sideways. The clouds have morphed into lumbering monsters and on the horizon, a dark vertical band sucks at the canopy, uniting cloud and sea. Rain on the way.

“Mine too. Best view of the beach.”

He’s right. She used to picnic just here with Ben, before the bench arrived. Sitting on the grass bank meant avoiding sand in their lunch. Her son, who just wanted to get on with his sandcastles, disapproved.

“But they’re sandwiches. They’re meant to have sand in them.”

How old was he then? Five? Six? Years ago, but she sees him with startling clarity – curls peppered with sand, improbably long lashes, sun-burnished freckles across his cheeks. When turrets, moats and her approval were everything. Whereas now – what mattered to Ben now? Bikes? Football? Surely she must remember. She’s his mother, for goodness’ sake.

“Are you OK?”

A man is sitting beside her. The breeze ices the dampness on her cheek and she brushes it roughly, sitting a little straighter. What must he think of her?

“Fine, thank you. Just the wind in my eyes.” His gaze is kind, his scarf strangely familiar. “I’d best be off to catch my bus. Looks like rain.”

On cue, a huge droplet erupts onto her bag. She slips the clasp, extracts an umbrella, hesitates, then holds it out to her neighbour. “Always carry a spare. Never know when you might need it.”

To her surprise, he accepts. “Thanks. I’m heading that way too.”

She nods to the oddly-shaped bag between them. “Don’t forget your shopping.”

It’s then she notices the plaque on the back-rest.

In memory of Gerald Stevens who loved this view.

“Well, what a coincidence! That’s my surname too.”

The scarf-man pauses, strokes his hand over the brass and smiles. “Let’s go, Mrs Stevens.”

***

The light is fading as they make their way from the bus-stop to Willow Haven. A woman greets them at the doorway.

“Well, Catherine, you had us worried. Let’s get you a cup of tea.” She raises her eyebrows at the scarf-man. “Coming in?”

Fifteen minutes later in Wisteria Room, Catherine stirs her cup.

“It’s kind of you to walk me back, dear. I’m so sorry – I never asked your name.”

He sets down his tea, leans forward and places his hand over hers.

“I’m Ben. Mum, it’s me.”

She snatches away. But there’s something about his eyes. She stares, then raises a hand to trace his curls peppered with grey, his lashes magnified through glasses, his freckles beneath stubble.

“Ben.” Barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He presses her hand against his cheek. “I thought you might not remember. Might get upset. I didn’t want to spoil your day.”

“My darling boy, how could I ever forget you?”

They sit in this moment – seconds, minutes or hours. Neither of them keeps count. Only when the oversized clock on the mantlepiece strikes seven does Ben rise. At the door, he turns to watch his mother stirring her empty teacup.

“Thanks, Mum,” he says softly.  “See you tomorrow.”