Jo looks up in surprise. Standing in front of her is the Runaway Vicar – minus the wig. Her mouse-coloured hair, looking freshly washed, is curling in a short bob around her ears. Today she is not wearing the overlong raincoat, and once more Jo is reminded of a small bird.
‘Ruth,’ she says – as much to herself as to the person in front of her; a reprimand to stop thinking of this woman as a tabloid headline.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Ruth says, as if amused and waiting for more.
Jo reaches out her hand. ‘I’m Jo.’
Ruth pauses for a moment before holding out her own slim hand and grasping Jo’s.
The physical contact shocks Jo. Ruth has been existing predominantly in her head: she has researched her; mulled over the reasons she might have run away; invented a few scenarios for what might have happened. Now the small hand she holds is warm and solid, and she experiences the substantive humanity of it with a jolt.
‘Pleased to meet you, Jo,’ Ruth says, releasing her hand. ‘Italian?’ she repeats, nodding towards the box Jo is unpacking on the counter.
‘No, I think the company is American, but I know what you mean. This reminds me of a paper shop I once visited in Florence.’ She holds out the pack for Ruth to examine. The clear-lidded box contains correspondence cards – pale cream in colour with a design at the top in red and purple, reminiscent of seashells. A thin gold line runs around the edge of the cards.
Unnerved by the handshake, Jo keeps on talking, pulling more cards from the brown cardboard box. ‘I thought I would get some new stock in, try some different things. My uncle—’
For an instant, Jo is reluctant to talk about her uncle’s private affairs, and then she remembers that this is a vicar in front of her. Flotsam from Sunday School bobs to the surface of her mind.You should always tell the truth to a vicar.So, she says, honestly, ‘This is my Uncle Wilbur’s shop. He started to trip and fall and at first we thought he just needed to recover from those. But then it became clear that other things weren’t right. He’s struggling with dementia.’
Ruth nods. ‘My mother went the same way. It is hard. So, what’s going to happen to the shop?’ Ruth asks.
And Jo is relieved at the lack of pretence that all will be well.
Instead of answering, she asks her own question. ‘Did your mother end up in a home?’
‘Yes, in the end,’ Ruth says, picking up another pack of cards and turning them over slowly in her hands. These are the palest duck-egg blue, with bumble bees along the top and three pastel-coloured beehives pictured at the bottom. ‘So pretty,’ she says, under her breath.
‘Uncle Wilbur is in a home near to my parents in North Yorkshire. But at some point we’re going to have to think about what to do with the shop. Just at the moment, my mum …’
Ruth glances up at her. ‘Not got her head round it yet?’
As Jo grimaces, Ruth nods in understanding, and Jo realizes she hasn’t spoken like this to anyone for months. Really talked about what is going on in her life.
‘Your uncle’s had this shop for quite a while then?’ Ruth remarks, looking around.
‘Over fifty years. I used to come and stay here as a child.’
‘He lives above the shop?’ Ruth asks, glancing upwards.
‘Yes. That’s where I’m staying now.’
‘Quite a lot to sort out then,’ Ruth comments. ‘I wonder if it will still feel like this when the shop eventually changes hands. Unless you think you might stay?’
‘No, no, I want to go back up North.’
‘Ah, so it will be sold.’
‘I expect so. Do you ever want to go back to Scotland? It is Scotland you’re from?’
‘Yes, Glasgow. And no. Never,’ Ruth says, with such finality that it makes Jo wonder about her childhood.
Ruth has gone back to perusingthe shop. ‘You can tell that this shop has history.’ She smiles. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you suit it, somehow.’
‘My dad always calls me an old soul,’ Jo says, mirroring her smile.
‘Perhaps that’s why I find it so …’ Ruth doesn’t finish. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling in,’ she says, looking directly at Jo. ‘I find it helps—’
The shop door suddenly crashes back on its hinges, and as the metal handle hits the wall, Jo braces herself for the sound of breaking glass. There is the scrunch of metal burying itself into plaster but, despite rattling ominously, the glass stays in place.
