Except now, she plunges into more speech, desperate to avoid another silence. ‘Some people want to talk, but I got the impression she didn’t. I just think she needed to write it down, get it out there.’ Jo glances back at the words that the woman had written, wondering what just happened between her and the Viking.
She looks at Eric, head down, still drawing. His hand is tilted towards her, his thumb and forefinger pressed against the body of the pen. She hears herself say, ‘There’s poetry too.’Anything to keep talking, to stop herself from feeling so vulnerable.‘Do you remember the other day there was a flurry of snow? It didn’t settle properly, but it was definitely snow.’ She can’t believe she has sunk to talking about the weather.
Eric looks up, then sits back, watching her, drawing forgotten. ‘Yeah, Mrs Patmore got quite excited.’
Jo raises her eyebrows at him, unsure if he is teasing her. For once, she hopes he is. It will feel like a return to normal. Somewhere back there she thinks their conversation got sidetracked into … she’s not sure what. With thoughts of snow, thin ice comes to mind.
‘So what was the poem?’ Eric asks, still studying her.
Jo searches for the lines of poetry on the wall. Suddenly she is aware that she has made a mistake. Taken a wrong turn. This is not a poem about the weather– oh such a safe subject.Yes, there were some lines about snow. But that’s not why she liked it so much.
She pictures the thin ice cracking under her feet.
‘I never really got poetry when we did it at school,’ Eric tells her, ‘but I read quite a bit now. Don’t laugh, but I keep a poetry anthology by my bed.’
Her heart sounds loud in her ears. She knows he will expect her to read these lines of poetry out. Her eyes alight on it, and in the end she reads the words to Eric the Viking, simply because she can’t think of a good enough excuse not to.
‘Clouded whispers,
Breath comes slow.
And outside falls the silent snow.’
The shop is completely still. All Jo can think of is lying in bed with this man, in a cottage, snow falling outside, their breath and whispered words mixing in the dark. His arms around her. His hands against her skin. Her fingers interlaced with his.
‘Jo, can I ask you something?’ Eric’s voice doesn’t sound quite like his own.
She doesn’t move; she just waits. She has no idea what she is waiting for. But for her, time stands still.
She remembers a line from her dad’s favourite poem.Time was away and somewhere else.
‘I … I wanted to say …’ Another pause. ‘You don’t mind about Clare, do you?’ he finishes.
‘No, no. Not at all. No!’ It bursts from her, her voice sounding squeakier than normal. She feels caught out, foolish.Please God, would someone just come in the shop. She would even welcome Malcolm staggering through the door, blood dripping from his chin.
‘She’s really lovely. I think you’d like her if you knew her.’
‘Great, great. I’m sure she’s great.’ Now she seems to be stuck on repeat, anxiety pumping out her words, ‘Yes, yes. I’m sure I would. Yes, she seems great.’
When someone taps on the window, Jo whirls around to the sound. Anything to stop this conversation. ‘It’s Lando!’ Jo exclaims, far too loudly.
Lando raises a hand in salute and then beckons to Eric.
‘Sorry, Jo. Forgot the time. Lando and I are going to the pub.’ He hands her his ink sketch, which is of a fox jumping over a dog. ‘Do you fancy coming?’
‘No, no, that’s fine. Got things to do.’ And because she can’t seem to stop herself she throws in another, ‘No!’ for good measure.
‘Okay then,’ Eric says slowly, getting up from the stool. ‘Thanks for the wine.’ He tucks the stool back beside the counter. ‘Jo …’
She is saved by the ‘ping’ of her phone. She grabs it as if it were a lifeline. It is Ruth asking once more about the idea of them going swimming, and Jo realizes she forgot to reply yesterday to her text about Hampstead swimming ponds.
‘Got to get this,’ Jo mutters to Eric. She wonders if he can hear the relief in her voice. ‘Sorry.’
As the broken doorbell sounds its tinny farewell, Jo texts back:
Yes, I’ll give swimming in the pond a go.
With any luck she’ll drown.
