My favourite customer last week was a man called Barnaby Postlethwaite. He is the owner of more than forty fountain pens, and he told me that he hides his new pen purchases from his wife, in the same way that she hides her new shoes. He gave me some good advice about ink and now I have a shelf filled with different-shaped glass bottles containing inks of all colours. There is vermillion, lemon, verdigris, scarlet, sepia – and a turquoise one that reminds me of the sea we once swam in in Croatia – do you remember?
Barnaby says he always writes in purple ink because he thinks of it as a regal colour, and that in another life he’d have liked to have been ‘of royal descent’ rather than the son of a welder from Huddersfield.
Hugs to you all, with love from,
Jo x
Jo seals the letter and tucks her feet further under her hot-water bottle. She is propped up in bed and every part of her is warm. She wonders what Lucy will think of her hints about seeing her. She’s not sure why she doesn’t just ask her to come down (or go back home for a visit herself) but she still has a sense of feeling her way to a better place with her best friend. (A place for everything and everything in its place.)
Jo never expects to get a letter back from Lucy – writing was never her thing – but in her texts Lucy often refers to the stories of the people in the shop. In her last message she also mentioned Finn. Nothing to suggest that Finn had ‘spilled the beans’, but just that Finn was okay and ‘loved-up’ and that he enjoyed his brief visit to London and seeing Jo. Jo thought it was typical of Finn (and men), that in all the things they chatted about, he hadn’t thought to mention his new woman. Or maybe he was a bit self-conscious because of their fling?
Her mind drifts back to Malcolm. She hopes that she and Ruth have been able to help him in some small way. She only wishes that she and Malcolm could do the same for Ruth.
So Reverend Ruth hadn’t run away. Does Jo really believe that? Frankly, no. But maybe the prospect of going back to her parish had assumed greater significance, compared to herMary Celesteflit. And what was it she couldn’t face? The blood, poo and vomit? No. These seemed to be things that Ruth took in her stride. Even the tragedies she encountered were an accepted part of her life.
So, maybe, some of her congregation? Not all of them obviously – Ruth had made it clear that many people had been a help, and didn’t she say she had enjoyed visiting people? Declared it was the thing she liked the best. So no, not everyone, just people like Mr Will-kill-soon.
Perhaps it was the fact that people treated her differently because she was a vicar? Ambushed her with talk of religion. And didn’t people feel that it was a vicar’s job to be nice to everyone, to put up with anything? Jo may not agree with this point of view, but she is aware that she expects Ruth to be interested in her troubles. Even if she has held back from dumping on her, isn’t she self-conscious when she talks to Ruth? She draws in a sleepy breath, thinking of the conversation in the pub. Well, maybe not now. It occurs to Jo that she would like to see where Ruth came from, to visit her parish and talk to the people who knew her there, and especially to meet her curate, Angela.
And Malcolm? Jo is taken back to that look in the graveyard. What was it that had passed between Ruth and Malcolm? Some acknowledgement of something hidden? Jo thinks of the pair of bright, embroidered slippers. So unlike everything else Malcolm wears.
These contemplations lead her nowhere. Instead she thinks of the three of them in the pub talking about ghosts and she smiles into the darkness.
An unlikely trio. A believer, a non-believer, and … what is she? She doesn’t believe in God, she knows that. But on the other hand, she thinks there may be more to life than this. And she does believe that if you think about friends in trouble, wish them well with all of your being, that in some way that does some good. It’s not praying exactly, but it is not the act of someone who believes there is nothing more out there. And she had no trouble believing that the fox had come to Malcolm just when he needed it.
So, a believer, a non-believer and there she is, Average Jo, somewhere in the middle.
Jo remembers Malcolm’s mother, Eve, who had wanted her ashes scattered on the heath by the swimming ponds. An exceptional woman. She recalls Malcolm’s statement:I am not a brave man.She wonders if any of the ghosts would be brave enough to go for a dip there on Christmas Eve night.
Her phone pings. It is a text from Ruth.
I was thinking about Malcolm’s mum and I’m sure it must be this time of year that she died. Maybe we should go for a swim in Hampstead swimming ponds in memory of her. What do you say?!
This is just plain spooky. Maybe Ruth isn’t a vicar. Maybe she’s a witch.
Jo falls asleep before she gets around to replying, her phone lying abandoned on the duvet beside her letter to Lucy. She dreams of playing in a rugby match in which everyone is dressed as either a vicar, a witch or a Viking.
25
Breath comes slow
‘Sometimes I can’t seem to get it to write.’
The young police officer is back. He is now the proud owner of a fountain pen (and his parents the astonished recipients of two handwritten letters). But he admits he is having problems.
Privately, Jo is not surprised. There is a reason that ballpoints were invented: they are less trouble. It still doesn’t make her want to write with one, though. Since looking after her uncle’s shop, she has fallen more deeply in love with fountain pens than ever. But, despite all this, she has to admit, fountain pens can be tricky. ‘Is it when you first try to write with it?’ she enquires.
The dark head nods.
‘There might be some dried ink on the end of the nib.’ She can see he is looking worried. ‘It’s easy to fix,’ she reassures him, ‘I keep a glass of water on my desk. All you need to do is dip the tip of the nib into that and it will get going again.’
‘I use my cup of tea,’ a twenty-something girl suggests. She’s been standing apart from Jo and the police officer, looking through the Christmas cards Jo is selling for a local charity. Jo is not surprised by the interruption; she has discovered that people who love stationery tend to be a helpful bunch.
‘I could certainly do that.’ The police officer sounds relieved. ‘I’ve always got a brew on the go.’
As he leaves the shop, two more customers enter – a mother and daughter. Jo recognizes them from a previous visit. More Stationery Lovers. Word is out that a small shop off an alleyway in North London is expanding its stationery range. Jo feels a burgeoning pride that her efforts are making a difference to the business. She wishes she could tell Uncle Wilbur, but on her last phone call to him, he had struggled to register where she was. Still, she wonders if here in his shop she might have found a new beginning.
The bad pram driver has been back to visit, this time manoeuvring her precious charge in and out of the aisles with consummate skill. When Jo peered in the pram, the baby was awake and studied her seriously from a pair of clear blue eyes. Jo yearned to pick her up, and breathe in that intoxicating baby smell, but didn’t like to ask.
