‘No, don’t worry, you’re right.’ She picks up the pen, smiling. ‘I came in for some Post-it notes. I had no idea I was going to buy a fountain pen.’
The Runaway Vicar waits patiently as Caramel Toffee Girl chooses between two pens and then selects some ink cartridges. Jo throws in the Post-it notes for free.
After she has called a cheery goodbye from the doorway, the shop falls silent.The silence of a city when it pauses, Jo thinks.
The Runaway Vicar does not look at Jo but lowers her head. She rummages in her bag for her purse to pay for the small notebook she has selected. Jo wonders if she should say something to her. But what?
In the end, the Runaway Vicar silently holds outher debit card towards the machine.
They look at each other for a long moment.
‘Thank you,’ Jo adds, ‘… Ruth.’
‘Aah.’ Ruth lets out a small sigh. Her hand moves briefly to her neck, where Jo presumes there once used to be a clerical collar. And then she smiles at Jo. It is a ghost of the smile she had worn in the newspaper photos. It seems she is about to say something more, but just then there is a light tap on the window.
Walking slowly in front of the shop as if he hasn’t a care in the world is Eric the Viking. He doesn’t look at them, but Jo knows he is watching them out of the corner of his eye. His face looks serious, apart from a slight dimple at the corner of his mouth.
Jo stands back to take him all in. On his head is a metal helmet (well, it might be tin foil) with large horns. Around his shoulders is a type of sheepskin rug. It is the same as the one her mum has in the guest room, and it is held in place across his chest by a bright yellow bulldog clip. When the Viking reaches the far side of the window, he turns his head slowly towards them, face expressionless. He raises his hand briefly in salute. ‘Afternoon,’ he calls, and is gone.
A gurgle of laughter erupts from Reverend Ruth, making her wig shimmy. ‘And that was …?’ she says, between laughter.
Jo is grinning broadly. ‘That would be Eric the Viking.’
‘Of course it is,’ Ruth says and, still chortling, heads for the door. For once the broken bell decides not to sound its tinny farewell.
Jo is still smiling as she pinsDear Gianaand the few lines of Italian to her noticeboard.
Then it comes to her what she should do.
She should write a letter to Lucy.
9
Dear Lucy
The next morning, when Jo wakes, it takes her a moment to remember where she is. A couple of weeks after moving in, she took the decision to move from the small spare bedroom into Uncle Wilbur’s room. The single bed was just too narrow. She bought new bed linen for Uncle Wilbur’s double bed; a duvet cover scattered with tulips. It’s the last design her uncle would choose and, by adding this to the sparse, masculine surroundings, she hoped to imprint something of herself upon the room.
However, she still wakes, startled, some nights, thinking her uncle has walked into the room. Whatever she does with the bedroom, by way of opening windows, adding scented candles and diffusers, the room still smells of the old man. It isn’t an unpleasant or strong fragrance, but it lingers.
For the past few weeks, she has taken to wishing her Uncle Wilbur a ‘good night’ before she switches off the light, and she has found she sleeps more soundly. Since the last video-call with her uncle, she has spoken to his carer, Elaine, and followed her suggestion of sending photos in her letters. She also included some seashells and some sand (stolen from the toddler play park) as she remembered Uncle Wilbur’s comments about not being by the sea. On a call to her mum, she told Jo how pleased Wilbur was to receive this parcel, even if Jo could tell by her mother’s tone that she was worried about her brother.
This morning Jo decides to wish Uncle Wilbur a good morning, because something is troubling her – although as she says the words, she realizes it is nothing to do with her uncle. She recognizes the essence of what is not right, has burrowed for it before. Not James (this time). Not being away from home. Not being in limbo, unsure what to do with her life. Not the yearning for a baby, which is more like a constant ache within her.
Lucy.
When she digs into this feeling of unease, this is what she finds at the root of her sadness. Jo reflects that it is like having a virus you can’t shake; never feeling quite right, off-colour, anxious, unsettled. Could an out-of-step friendship make you feel ill? Now, she thinks it can.
Jo lies there, staring up at the ceiling. What should she write to Lucy?
Instead of answering this, her mind flips back to when James told her that he wanted to move out. It was the same day as the stationery cupboard tears.
‘Did you really have to cry in front of everyone?’
Then later.
‘It isn’t me, it’s you.’
He quickly corrected himself. ‘Sorry, I mean, it isn’t you, it’sme.’
