Finn comes to town
Dear Lucy,
Since you liked the story of the police officer, let me tell you about another of my customers. He’s a boy of about thirteen who sometimes comes into the shop on his way home from school. He’s always on his own and at first he seemed too shy to admit to his passion for fountain pens. But over a few visits, he’s started to talk a little bit more to me. He told me he has a collection of fourteen pens.
We had a bit of a breakthrough when two of Uncle Wilbur’s chess club mates were also in the shop. With a chance comment from one of them, it emerged that Ranbir likes chess almost as much as he likes fountain pens. But the thing is, he doesn’t have any friends to play with. Well, he muttered, he didn’t have many friends, full stop.
The two old men and Ranbir then started discussing the Sicilian Defence and the Ruy Lopéz Opening. The upshot was, the two men recruitedRanbir for their Thursday evening’s chess club.
That was a week ago. Ranbir has just come in to tell me all about it and has brought his selection of fountain pens for me to look at. He stores them in a beautiful silk kind of roll-up cover that his mum made for him. He looked so much happier that I wanted to cry.
With love from,
Jo x
Writing to Lucy is all that Jo can think to do. Since the text about Finn, she has felt the weight of guilt like a solid mass between them. Not for the first time, writing a letter feels like a secret act of atonement. And she is revisited by the thought that the list of things she hasn’t told Lucy is becoming quite long.
It is three days since her outing with Lando and Eric the Viking, and Jo is back in her normal spot in the shop. The woman in front of her has not stopped talking for the last five minutes.
‘… that was when I found out he had spent three hundred thousand pounds on a stripper in Madeira.’
Jo is less surprised that this woman is telling her every intimate detail about her life than that there are strippers in Madeira, a place she associates with her ageing godparents, who always visit the island in the spring.
‘We’ve had one of those on-off relationships – you know how it is,’ the woman says earnestly, staring at Jo, as if willing her to understand.
Before Jo can think of an answer, the womancontinues, ‘And the funny thing is, I had decided this was the last time, and I’d stopped calling him. Now I think he realizes what we had and he keeps texting. Maybe I should give him another chance. It’s his birthday on Friday. Do you think he would like a fountain pen? It seems like it would be his sort of thing.’
What can Jo say in reply to this? She pictures herself leaning over, taking the pen the woman is testing from her hand, and writing,What are you doing buying this idiot a present?
‘You know how it is,’ the woman says again, looking hopefully at Jo.
The doorbell sounds its tinny clink and, looking up, she is actually relieved to see Finn walk into the shop. The relief is short-lived; embarrassment and confusion follow. He raises his left hand in greeting; his other hand is grasping a large holdall. Oh God, is he expecting to stay with her? He nods slightly towards her customer who is still looking at her expectantly.
For once, Jo doesn’t want to sell a fountain pen. This woman’s on-off man clearly doesn’t deserve it.
‘You know what. If he can afford to spend that sort of money …’ Jo doesn’t want to sayon a stripper, in front of Finn. It is not his business. Nor is it hers, but she has found that when people start to write with the fountain pens, they start to tell her things. ‘If he can afford to spend that sort of money … in Madeira,’ she amends, ‘I’d say he could afford to buy his own bloody fountain pen.’
The woman giggles in surprise, and Jo grins apologetically. She hadn’t meant to swear.
And then I would block his number.Jo doesn’t say this last bit out loud.
‘So you think I shouldn’t get him one?’
And Jo realizes with a sinking heart that this woman will always be led by whoever is currently in front of her. She has no doubt that On-Off Man will be enjoying a birthday drink, and probably more, by the end of the weekend. Well, at least he won’t be writing with one of her fountain pens.
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ the woman says, waving the pen around as if uncertain what to do with it.
Jo takes it from her and Finn steps aside to let her get to the door.
‘Right, Right, I should go then,’ the woman says, as she picks up her handbag. Finn holds the door open for her. Jo notices the woman give Finn a speculative look. She doesn’t blame her. She too thought how good he was looking the first moment she saw him: sandy-red hair slightly dishevelled, clean-shaven, clear-eyed. Lithe, fit. And tall. Six foot two of him. He looks like a man who, if he wasn’t taking part in the Tour de France, should certainly be commentating on it.
Finn closes the door behind her and stands looking at Jo.
The moment stretches on, and Jo realizes she is holding her breath.
His face inches towards a smile.
Jo smiles tentatively back at him.
