Jo knows exactly what he wants and has a selection of bulldog clips, but this is too much fun. She frowns. ‘No … not really with you …’
The ‘mouths’ are now frantically chomping.
‘Clippy. Not a paper clip.’ Eric the Viking looks frantically around him like he might find them on the walls or in the air.
Jo looks vaguely around as if she might find them there too.
‘Bigger than normal clips. Metal.’ The mouths are now going like castanets.
Jo takes pity on him and pulls out a sheaf of papers she has under the counter, held together with a bright yellow bulldog clip. ‘Like this?’ she asks, simply.
Eric the Viking eyes her suspiciously. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Exactlylike that.’
‘Just the one?’ she asks, innocently.
Eric is still eyeing her. ‘Just the one,’ he says, slowly.
Jo hands the clip to him. ‘That’s on the house.’ She laughs. ‘You earned it.’
‘Hmmm,’ Eric the Viking says, grinning as he takes it from her, before turning to leave.
Jo returns to sweeping the floor, which is what she had been doing before Eric came in. That, and worrying about Uncle Wilbur (it had been so good to see him yesterday), and also trying to marshal her thoughts about James.
The doorbell sounds its tinny welcome and, looking up, Jo sees a figure disappearing down the first aisle. She recognizes that raincoat. There is no doubt about it, the Runaway Vicar is back. It has been two weeks since she was last in the shop buying envelopes and talking about God. Jo has kept an eye out for her, but until today she has seen nothing of her. Malcolm has been in a few times, and it suddenly occurs to her that he is coming in more often than normal. Is he keeping an eye on her since their conversations about friendship and James?
She surreptitiously studies the Reverend Ruth Hamilton’s profile, now part-hidden by a display of padded envelopes. It strikes her that the vicar has done something strange with her hair. It is set in a longish, auburn bobthat stands out from her head. Startled, Jo realizes that the vicar is wearing a wig.
She is about to ask if she can help when the shop door opens and a woman who looks to be in her early thirties, wearing a bright yellow coat, breezes in.
‘Lovely day,’ the woman says cheerfully, nodding sideways at Jo’s sliver of sky, which today is the brightest of blues. ‘I love the autumn,’ she adds.
Jo gazes skyward for a few seconds, and then returns to the front counter. ‘Yes, it’s my favourite season,’ Jo tells the young woman, her mind suddenly filled with memories of pencil cases, crayons and new exercise books.
The girl at the door is now shaking her head to free some curls that appear to have got snagged in her scarf. Her long hair is the colour of caramel toffee. She steps closer to the counter.
‘Oh, are those proper pens?’ she asks, spotting the fountain pens.
Jo feels a mix of pleasure at her interest and anxiety in case the Runaway Vicar leaves without her being able to … well … she’s not sure what.
‘Whoa! I haven’t written with one of those for years.’
‘Would you like to try one?’
‘Can I?’
The girl looks at her as if she is being offered a rare treat. She radiates an open friendliness that sweeps aside Jo’s preoccupation with the Runaway Vicar. With a sense of shock, she fears that this keen warmth is going to puncture something in her. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how lonely she was. With a jolt she thinks that she would like thiswoman, with the smiley, freckly face, to be her friend.
She misses Lucy with a sudden longing.
She busies herself, unnecessarily straightening the pad of paper on the counter so the girl can try a fountain pen. Since Eric the Viking had made his comment about fountain pens liking to be used, she has kept a selection of tester pens out for people to try.
‘Take your pick,’ she says to the woman, relieved that her voice sounds normal, and grateful that the moment has passed.
The caramel toffee curls lean closer. ‘They all look very grown-up.’ She tilts her head to one side. ‘Maybe that one.’ She selects a simple grey pen with a silver band around the centre of the barrel.
Jo thinks this girl is right: they are all very serious-looking pens. The sort of pens her uncle might choose. Perhaps there are other options – more colourful, more modern fountain pens she could sell? She wonders if they even exist. She is surprised that she doesn’t already know. Jo often connects with other people online who love stationery, but fountain pens aren’t even that popular amongstthem. And James had always laughed at her ‘stationery habit’. Conscious of the implication that hers was a childish pleasure, she had tried to put it aside when she was living with him.
‘Why did I do that?’
