‘I’m sorry?’ Caramel Toffee Girl asks, bewildered.
Jo hadn’t realized she had muttered the words aloud. ‘Sorry. No, nothing.’
‘What shall I write?’ the girl asks, doubtfully.
‘Anything you like.’
As the girl stares into space, considering, Jo’s eyes flick towards the back of the shop where the Runaway Vicar is still browsing.
The curly head leans over the counter, yellow spotty fingerless mittens abandoned by the rack of fountain pens. ‘Oh, this takes me back,’ she murmurs over the paper. When she stands up straight, Jo sees the words,Dear Giana,and then two lines written in a foreign language. The girl’s writing has loops and rounded curls, rather like her hair.
‘Are you Italian?’ Jo asks, making a guess.
‘No, but I used to have an Italian pen pal and we wrote to each other for years. I still have all her letters in a drawer under my bed.’ She strokes the top of her finger over her pen pal’s name.
‘Oh, I’ve smudged it!’ She sounds crushed, like a disappointed child.
Jo rushes to reassure her.
‘Do you still write to her?’ Jo asks.
‘No,’ she says, gazing down at the smudged name. ‘We text sometimes.’ She adds, softly, ‘I used to love getting Giana’s letters.’
‘You should write to her again.’
It is not Jo who says this. It is the short, bright-eyed woman in a wig who has stepped up to the young woman’s side. Jo has the fleeting impression of a wren coming to settle by the counter.
The girl in the yellow coat glances at her, smiling. ‘I suppose I could.’
‘I think it’s rather lovely when we tell our friends that they are dear to us,’ the Runaway Vicar says, gently touching the paper just above the smudged words,Dear Giana. Jo notices her hand is delicate and fine-boned. ‘That is the lovely thing about a letter. It is probably one of the few times we call our friends “dear”.’ She looks up at Jo. ‘May I?’ she asks, pointing at the fountain pen that is now lying on the counter. Jo notices for the first time that her accent is softly Scottish, as though it has been a long time since she lived there.
‘Of course,’ Jo says, and the Runaway Vicar gives her a slow, steady look. Her eyes are the colour of chocolate, flecked with gold – and Jo gets the impression the woman is trying to communicate something.
Now it is the auburn wig that is bent over the paper. The Runaway Vicar does not pause to consider what to write.
‘Oh, that is lovely,’ the younger woman says, reading it first. She turns the pad of paper around so Jo can see it.
The writing is even and regular. Only the S’s twist and sweep, as if trying to escape the formality of the rest of the writing.
I have known the silence of the stars, and of the sea.
And the silence of the city when it pauses.
Jo doesn’t say anything. Is she being told something? Stay silent? Say nothing?
Caramel Toffee Girl asks, ‘Is that from a poem?’
‘Yes, I forget who wrote it, but it seemed to fit. Itfeels like, here in this shop, the city pauses. Life pauses.’
Jo has no idea what to say; it is like this woman sees her here suspended in time. Caught in her limbo. ‘Do you write with a fountain pen?’ she asks, unable to think of anything else.
‘I do. I used to sign documents that would need to last for hundreds of years. We used a special ink that would darken over time. I rather like that idea; the names, not fading with age, but growing stronger. Living on.’
‘What, like legal documents?’ Caramel Toffee Girl asks.
Registers of marriage, signed by a vicar, Jo thinks, not saying anything.
‘Yes.’ She turns towards the young woman beside her. ‘You should buy that pen.’ Then, looking self-conscious and less sure of herself, adds, ‘I’m sorry – that sounded very bossy. I just think that Giana might like to receive a letter from you.’
