Jo lets out another sigh, sadder this time. Eventually Ruth asks, ‘What are you doing with the rest of the afternoon and evening?’
‘Oh, I think a nap,’ Jo says, suddenly feeling exhausted, ‘and then I need to get the flat ready for Lucy’s visit.’
‘Will it take long?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ And something in Ruth’s tone makes Jo enquire, ‘Why?’
‘Just that I thought I would go along to St Michael’s on the edge of the heath for their Advent service.’
Jo tries to rid her mind of purple underwear.
‘I wondered if you’d like to come?’
‘I’m not sure, Ruth,’ Jo says, hesitatingly. She wants to go to please Ruth, to do right by her friend, but knows she doesn’t believe in God, so it seems hypocritical. But mainly she knows that once inside in the warm flat, it would take a crowbar to get her out again. ‘Do you mind?’ she adds. ‘Maybe Malcolm?’ Jo suggests, tentatively, looking at the scribbling figure.
Ruth lets out a snort. ‘I don’t think so, do you?’
‘Think what?’ Malcolm says pleasantly, looking up.
‘Ruth was talking about an Advent service—’ Jo begins.
‘I hardly think so,’ Malcolm scoffs, then his face softens. ‘I do apologize, Reverend Ruth. Have you found an agreeable church nearby?’
‘Oh, I tried a few out. Sat at the back and gave them marks out of ten on a number of criteria. Only got caught once,’ she says, meditatively, ‘and then they thought the bishop had sent me,’ she adds, with a grin. ‘I came across Reverend Abayomrunkoje …’ As an aside, Ruth says, ‘He was such fun and very engaging. So that’s where I go now.’
‘Whereabouts is the church?’ Malcolm asks, politely.
Ruth tells him, then adds, ‘It’s all right, Malcolm – you don’t have to keep on being polite. I’m quite happy to go on my own. The Advent service is quite lovely – one of my favourites. From darkness into light. Reverend Abayomrunkoje is of my mind: start with the church in complete darkness and then process in with candles. I shall be helping him with the lighting of the church. The whole service is then held in candlelight.’
Ruth starts to reach for her coat and hat, ‘Although,’ she continues, thoughtfully, ‘I think to assume that light is the be-all and end-all is a bit short-sighted … as your optician might say,’ Ruth adds, with a crafty look at Jo.
‘He’s not my—’
‘Darkness,’ Ruth interrupts, ‘can have a unique kind of comfort, don’t you think?’
Jo’s not sure what she thinks; she is too sleepy and full of good wine and food. She starts to gather her things and to thank Malcolm for their lunch.
‘Not at all. It is I who must thank you. My mother would have much appreciated your efforts on her behalf.’
Before they go their separate ways, Jo tells Reverend Ruth about the Christmas wishes tied to the tree in her shop and asks if she might say a prayer for a man who wants his wife to be able to spend her last Christmas at home with her family.
‘Of course. I will light a candle for them,’ Ruth replies, composedly.
Later that evening, Jo is standing on the footpath opposite St Michael’s, keeping a watch on the darkened windows. She intended to stay in, but she couldn’t help feeling she was letting Ruth down and should have said, ‘Yes’, when asked to the Advent service. She thought back to William Foyle and John Lobb, and of her resolve to now make more of an effort with her friends. So she layered up once more and set off.
When she got to the church, the doors were closed. Worried about interrupting the service, she took up her vigil in a bus shelter opposite.
The flicker starts just a few moments before the singing. Little by little the glow fills the windows, and the organ music and sound of voices filter out into the cold winter air. Jo thinks of Ruth’s comment about darkness not necessarily being a bad thing. Here she is in the darkness, watching the warm glimmer within, and she feels content to be an observer. She watches until the church is aglow with light and then she turns and heads for home.
30
One of those days
Jo is trying to focus on the good things in her day, but it is hard. Over the past couple of days, her excitement about Lucy’s visit has transformed into apprehension, and she feels like a woman who is preparing to face a great storm.
Then there have been today’s customers. First was the extremely posh woman with the enormous handbag. She dumped this on the counter and Jo could hear the metal studs on the bottom of the bag scratching the glass. She tried a gentle, ‘Would you mind …’ but to no avail. The woman was off, demanding to try every fountain pen that Jo had, decrying the fact she did not stock Mont Blanc. She flung each pen aside when she had finished with it, without bothering to refasten the cap. The woman left the shop without buying anything, smiling vaguely at Jo and finally declaring, ‘Well, that was fun.’
Jo only had a few moments to shut her gaping mouth (and clear up the carnage) before two children came in with their mother. Normally Jo liked children trying the fountain pens, and enjoyed showing them how to hold them and explaining how they were filled with ink. Usually it was the parents who were reluctant for their offspring to handle the pens, and it was Jo who coaxed them into letting the children have a go. Another nudge in the direction of getting more people to write. And maybe, she hoped, thinking of ‘Sacha the magpie’, she would be passing on snippets of information that people would remember.
