With the upturn in business, Jo has been able to expand her product range even more. She now also stocks: a range of traditional, heavy fountain pens that come in glorious colours; terracotta pots filled with crayons (that look like they are growing there); soft leather covers, perfect for one fountain pen; and colourful hand-held blotters with chrome tops which, when pressed with a rocking motion over newly writtenwords, stop them from smudging.
When she first saw the rocker blotters, Jo thought of Caramel Toffee Clare, and pictured the smudged words, ‘Dear Giana’. She has seen Clare a few times, heading past the shop. She hasn’t yet had the chance to show her the rocker blotters, as Clare appears reluctant – or maybe is too busy – to come in. But Clare always waves and smiles, although Jo still thinks she detects a certain embarrassment in her look.
It is nearly closing time when Eric the Viking comes in, and the shop is finally quiet. Jo is so conscious of his presence it feels like a large and noisy crowd has stepped over the threshold.
‘How’s your day been?’ Eric asks, pulling out the stool like a pub customer heading for his favourite seat.
‘Good,’ Jo says. With a feeling of surprise and a definite feeling of pleasure, she realizes that for once she’s not lying. She has got so used to telling her mum on the phone that all is well that it seems strange to be speaking the truth for once.
‘How about your day?’ Jo asks.
Eric looks thoughtful. ‘Interesting case of double vision. Not something you want to see every day as it can mean a brain tumour.’
‘Oh, God!’ Jo wonders if every time she utters these words she is now going to think of Reverend Ruth. ‘Were they okay?’
‘Yep. In the end. I managed to get through to the on-call ophthalmologist at the hospital, and when I explained it was sudden-onset diplopia, they fitted him in straight away.’ He runs his hands through his hair and Jo thinks he looks tired. ‘Sometimes the system works, and when it does it’s bloody good.’
‘And?’
‘The guy’s just been back in wearing a patch over one eye. No brain tumour.’
‘Do they know what it is?’
‘Not yet – they’ve booked him in for a follow-up appointment.’ Eric looks at her for a long moment. ‘Don’t look so worried, Jo, I saw a couple of girls giving him the once-over as he left wearing his patch. Got a feeling Dwayne will be wearing a patch even when his eye’s better. Tell me more about your day.’
Before Jo can answer Eric leans forward, ‘Whoa! New pens. Smart. Can I try one?’
Jo takes one of her new pens – bright scarlet, with a chrome clip shaped like a fountain pen nib – and hands it to Eric. Rather than thinking about her day, Eric’s comments about Dwayne have made her realize what Eric has to deal with in his work. It wouldn’t all be glasses and contact lenses; he would also have to tell some of his patients they were going blind.
Eric turns the words he has written with the tester pen around for her to read:
Stationery Girl has had a good day.
Jo laughs and starts telling Eric that the shop is now attracting the Stationery Lovers. After a while Eric interrupts her, ‘Hold on, shall I get us a coffee? I think the café may still be open.’
‘No, don’t worry, I’ll make us one.’ Jo glances up at her sliver of sky. It is the colour of graphite, against whichthe streetlight is glowing pale orange. It is past closing time, but she doesn’t want to shut up the shop for fear Eric will notice how late it is and leave. ‘Or I could get us a glass of wine?’ she suggests, tentatively. ‘I’ve got some red open.’
‘Shame I don’t drink on days with an “N”, in them,’ Eric says, sadly.
‘Oh … well, don’t worry. I can make us coffee.’
Eric lets out his walrus-like bark. ‘Every time. You make it too easy, Stationery Girl. Wine would be great.’
Jo thumps Eric on the upper arm as she heads towards the back of the shop. Then wishes she hadn’t. It is like hitting her fist against rock.
When she returns with two glasses of wine, Eric is flipping through the notebook about William Foyle that she had left on the counter. ‘You don’t mind?’ he says, looking up. Jo shakes her head. ‘I just love this guy’s handwriting. Who’s this one about?’ He hands the notebook back to Jo, exchanging it for a glass of wine.
‘William Foyle, who started Foyles bookshop.’
‘When was that?’
Jo flicks through the book. ‘Well, he was born in 1885.’
‘Was Lobb, the boot man, around then?’ Eric asks.
Jo can’t help feeling pleased he remembers their conversation about John Lobb.
‘William Foyle would have been ten when John Lobb died, so they wouldn’t have met. Maybe William would have walked past Lobb’s shop sometimes. I don’t know if he ever bought Lobb shoes or boots though.’ As she says this, Jo is distracted by the thought: maybe she could find out. Perhaps there are some lasts in a storage room somewhere, the exact shape of William Foyle’s feet.
