‘Can I help?’ Jo repeats.
‘No, it is a simple process. A new week. A new notebook.’
Maybe Malcolm is writing a diary, not a book? His reticence makes it impossible for her to ask.
‘Ah, this will do. A5, blue, ring-bound. Perfectly adequate.’ He brings the notebook to the counter and presents his debit card.
Jo suddenly remembers something she has been meaning to say to Malcolm.
‘Malcolm, I know you often ask how Uncle Wilbur is doing, but I wanted to ask, were you a friend of his?’ She thinks that Wilbur, at eighty, is probably older than Malcolm, but not by much.
‘I wouldn’t say a friend, Joanne, but we did sometimes sit here and have a cup of tea together.’
Jo is aware she has never thought to offer Malcolm a drink, let alone a seat.
‘What did you talk about?’ she asks.
‘Oh, the area. How it has changed. And Wilbur was very keen on chess; we chatted a bit about that and the chess club he was in.’
‘Are you a member too?’
‘No, no. Not really for me, clubs and societies.’
Jo wants to ask why not, but Malcolm’s next words forestall her.
‘I can’t think why not, really. Just something I never did.’ He continues, ‘Your uncle is a good man, Joanne. You must remember me to him.’ He adds, rather wistfully, ‘But no, I wouldn’t say we were friends.’
Before he gets to the door, he turns back to Jo. ‘I think I would have liked to have been his friend.’ He pauses, and continues more slowly, a puzzled note creeping into his voice, ‘There were times, you know, when he was the only person I spoke to for many weeks.’
They look directly at each other and something passes between them.
Jo knows that Malcolm doesn’t want her sympathy. Any more than she wants his. But she knows she wants to give this gentle man something.
‘Oh, I would say Uncle Wilbur thought of you as a friend,’ she offers.
Malcolm accepts the words with a slow nod.
As he turns away, Jo notices that his expression is more hopeful, even if his brow is still furrowed.
5
A Viking called Eric
It is a week since the Runaway Vicar was in the shop. There has been no further sign of her (Jo has been on the lookout), but now she has a new, unexpected visitor.
‘I need one of those folder things. You know, black … portfolio, I guess … but not huge … A4 … clear plastic sheets.’ Eric the Viking is waving his arms in the air.
When Jo doesn’t answer, he starts to use his hands to draw out a large rectangle in front of him, as if he and Jo are playing charades. She knows exactly what he is looking for and she has them in stock, but she still says nothing. She just can’t get her head around the fact that Eric the Viking is from Birmingham.
He has the furry boots on, the tattoos on his arms that look like ancient Nordic symbols; his hair is so blond it is nearly white. He has the beard, the blue eyes.
But his accent is nasal and clearly from somewhere in the Midlands.
She wants to say,But I thought you were a Viking.Instead she says, ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ and she comes out from behind the counter. She squeezes past him so she can go and fetch him one. He is even built like a Viking.
‘Here you go,’ she says, returning with an A4 file and laying it on the counter. ‘Is that for your designs?’
He looks a bit confused, as he flicks through the plastic sheets.
