‘Oh, Malcolm, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry,’ Jo says.
‘I would say those shoes have been worth every penny. I imagine you remember your father every time you put them on,’ Ruth says quietly.
‘I certainly don’t need a pair of shoes to remember my father,’ Malcolm says, brusquely, then taking in a sharp breath, rushes on, ‘I do apologize, Reverend Ruth. Thatwas uncalled for.’ He adds, dryly, ‘But you will perhaps understand why I gave up believing in God before I turned thirteen.’
‘I can indeed,’ Ruth replies, with composure. She reaches for her shoes. ‘But now, I really think I need to be heading to my bed.’
Jo sees that the clock on the mantelpiece is showing past midnight.
Ruth rises to her feet, gathering up her two notebooks: Karl Marx and Hutch. Jo does the same, slipping John Lobb and William Foyle into her backpack.
‘We’ll take Jo to Highgate Cemetery on Sunday,’ Ruth says, decisively.
Before either Jo or Malcolm can say anything, Ruth rushes on, ‘You see, there I go again. You may worry you say too little, Malcolm. I feel that I say too much, just bustle in and take over. You worry you’re a dull dog. I worry I’m a bossy bitch.’
‘No!’
It is the ‘bitch’ that makes Jo react so instantaneously. Ruth is the last woman in the world she would ever call a bitch.
‘Well, I hope not a bitch,’ Ruth concedes, seeming to register their shock. ‘But definitely bossy.’ She smiles.
Jo thinks that she could give Ruth a run for her money in that department, if tonight’s behaviour is anything to go by. ‘Highgate Cemetery, Sunday,’ she says as she leaves, ‘it’s a date.’
Which makes her think of Finn. Has he collected his bag? Had he been expecting to see her this evening?
She hasn’t as much as glanced at her phone since Malcolm opened the whisky.
It is then that she remembers the key. Will Eric the Viking simply think she has left the key so Finn can let himself into his girlfriend’s flat?
20
John Lobb’s boots
The following day Jo is hanging fairy lights around the top of the wooden shelving. It is mid-November and this is her first nod towards Christmas. She also adds a small table lamp to one of the shelves that she has cleared to make it look like a desk, set as if ready for someone to start writing. She places a half-written letter on the blotter and tucks an envelope underneath it. This gives her an idea.
Returning to the counter, she takes a packet of the old-fashioned envelopes that no one (except a Runaway Vicar) appears to want to buy, and opening them she writes random names and addresses on the front of each (in her best handwriting). She starts to have fun with these and includes fictional characters, friends and a Viking called Eric. Jo then searches out Uncle Wilbur’s old philately album and, selecting colourful stamps from the packet of loose stamps he hadn’t deemed worthy of mounting, she sticks these to the letters. Next she cuts lengths of different-coloured ribbon andhangs the envelopes from these across the window, like multi-layered envelope bunting. Left with a short bit of ribbon, she creates a small strip of envelope bunting for the top of her noticeboard.
She has just finished when the door gives an ominous rattle and Eric the Viking steps into the shop, carrying a parcel in one hand, and trying to close the door against a sharp wind with the other. When the wind blows from the East, the alleyway becomes a wind tunnel, and Jo has often watched pedestrians battle their way up the alley, hair streaming back, eyes watering.
‘A courier dropped this off yesterday,’ Eric says, finally winning the battle with the door. ‘I think it might be fountain pens, going by the brand name. I was very good, I didn’t sneak a look,’ he grins, ‘but I think it’s only fair that you open it now. Do you fancy a coffee?’ he offers, before dumping the package on the counter.
‘Cappuccino would be good, thank you,’ Jo says, grateful for the time it will take for Eric to go to the café and back. She hopes she can get her head and heart in order by then.
Eric leaves to get the coffee, acting like nothing happened yesterday. And maybe nothing did, and she is reading far too much into his meeting with Caramel Toffee Girl? Then she remembers Eric the Hand-Holder. Jo stares out of the window, replaying it in her mind. She’s not sure what to think. But maybe it was easier this way. Just put him out of her head.
She tries to retreat into thoughts of James, but she finds this just makes her feel weary and slightly sick. Instead, she revisits how heart-thumpingly pleased she had been to see the Viking coming through the door. And then, once again, she remembers Caramel Toffee Girl’s smile, and feels her stomach twist.
Things are so much simpler with Ruth and Malcolm. Despite the mystery surrounding Ruth’s sudden flit, Ruth and Malcolm’s spats (which they seemed to thoroughly enjoy), and the worry about Malcolm’s words, ‘I didn’t want to die’, everything is definitely easier.
She was tempted to tell Ruth about Eric, James and Lucy, and oh, so much more, on their walk home last night. Jo was just about to open her mouth, when Ruth said cheerily, ‘Well, this is me,’ and after a ‘goodnight’, veered off down a side street at the very top of the High Street. Earlier she had told Jo she was renting a studio flat that was particularly reasonable as it was no bigger than the vestry back in her old church.
Jo is just finishing a text to Finn (Have a good time at the rugby. Glad you got your bag OK. Sorry not to be here), when Eric arrives with the coffees. Jo puts her phone away.
‘So you met Mrs Patmore?’ Eric says, making himself at home on the stool in front of the counter.
‘She’s notreallycalled Mrs Patmore?’ Jo says, laughing.
‘Yes, she is – what’s wrong with that?’
