The ‘dentist’ gestures a vague dismissal towards the back of the shop and repeats, ‘I mean, what’s the point?’
‘Well, Ithink some—’ Jo tries.
But this woman hasn’t come to the shop to hear what Jo thinks.
‘It’s terrible how these things are changing,’ the woman reflects, as if she really has no choice in the matter.
Jo’s eyes stray to the customer waiting in line. The woman’s expression is completely deadpan; a mild, open face; middle-aged; with mouse-coloured hair squashed under a rain hat. Then she winks at Jo.
The gesture is so fleeting, but it breathes warmth into her.
And something else creeps into her mind: does she know this woman from somewhere?
‘Do children even know how to hold a pen or pencil any more,’ the ‘dentist’ continues. Again, not a question – a querulous reproach, as if somehow Jo is at fault.
Jo rallies – well, at least in her mind. She would like to ask this woman some questions.Do you have children? Do they see you writing a letter? Writing a list, even?But she knows there is simply no point in saying these things. Her eldest brother’s family live in a house with barely a single book in it (unless you count agricultural catalogues and tractor manuals), and her sister-in-law’s frequent complaint is that the twins never pick up a book. ‘Can’t get them to read at all. Well, they’re just not interested in books, are they?’
Then, like now, Jo keeps quiet.
‘Is there something I can get you?’ Jo eventually enquires, politely. She glances again at the woman in the raincoat, trying to catch her eye, trying to tease out the memory of why she seems familiar. But now the woman is gazing out of the shop window to the alleyway beyond. She appears miles away from this tiny shop in North London. Distanced, in some way, from the wet October day.
Jo rather envies her.
‘Just some Sellotape if you have it.’
Jo gets the woman what she needs, takes the payment and then wishes her a pleasant good morning. Even to herself, her voice sounds over-friendly.
The woman looks sharply at Jo, as if unsure if she is being sarcastic. In that look, Jo thinks the woman actually sees her for the first time. An unremarkable-looking woman, apart – she allows herself this – from her eyes. A woman on the brink of forty, wearing denim dungarees over a yellow jumper.
The ‘dentist’ turns quickly away. She runs her hand over a set of envelopes and writing pads on one of the shelves as she heads to the door. As she opens it, she says, carelessly, ‘And of course, no one writes letters any more.’
Jo mouths silently after her, ‘I do.’
It doesn’t seem worth adding sound, either for the ‘dentist’s’ benefit, or for her own. Of course, she is right. Writing could soon be a lost art. That is the reality. Jo may make lists, send cards, write letters to her mum and to her Uncle Wilbur; she may rejoice in that particular squeaky sound of a fountain-pen nib moving over paper; but she is not going to be able to stem the tide of change. She may take comfort from connecting with other stationery lovers via social media, but she is not a campaigner or a denier; she is not prepared to stand Canute-like, holding her hand up to the inevitable. And what would she be defending anyway? This is not even her shop.
Not even her life. The niggling thought wriggles in behind.
The rain-coated woman steps forward and hands over the exact money for the pack of envelopes she is holding.
‘No one believes in God any more.’
Jo looks at her in confusion.
There is a pause, and the woman half-smiles at Jo, her eyes glinting.
‘But I do,’ she adds.
The three small words fill the space between them. And then, with another smile, as if they are sharing a joke, she turns and is out the door.
3
In black and white
Jo is left staring at the closed door. Why on earth had the woman said that? Andwhydoes she feel she has seen her before?
Jo’s mind is a complete blank.
Her attention is caught by a figure walking past her window; a man, almost petite in his build; he is on his phone. One of her neighbours.
