‘You know, so people can choose the design they want?’ she repeats.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says, looking up, but before she can answer, he adds, ‘This is perfect, except, you don’t have any in brighter colours, do you?’
‘Sorry, we only have them in black.’
‘Never mind. I guess I could always put stickers on the front. I don’t suppose you sell those?’ he enquires, looking vaguely towards the rest of the shop.
‘What kind of stickers?’ Jo has no idea why she is even asking. All they have are a few packets of sticky dots and white address labels.
‘The sort of thing children would like. I want this to be something children can look through.’
‘But you can’t tattoo children!’ The words are out of her, and because there is no going back, she adds, lamely, ‘It’s against the law.’ All the time thinking, of course, Eric the Viking would know you have to be eighteen to get a tattoo.
Eric the Viking starts to laugh, and she decides it suits him. His laugh is deep and rich and rolling.
‘What do you think I do for a living?’
‘Aren’t you Eric the Viking, the tattoo artist?’
He issues a huge bark of a laugh. She imagines it is what a walrus might sound like if it were to meet someone as stupid as her. Why on earth had she said her nickname for him out loud? He leans across the counter and grabs her hand, shaking it, while all the time grinning delightedly at her. ‘Why haven’t I been in here sooner? This is perfect. Tell me, what’s your name, Stationery Girl?’ He lets go of her hand and steps back to study her.
She can feel her hackles rise. ‘I’m Jo Sorsby,’ she says with as much dignity as she can muster. ‘This is my uncle’s shop. I’m just looking after things while he …’ She has no desire to share her uncle’s troubles with Eric.
‘Ah, yes,’ he says, suddenly looking more serious. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been keeping up with how Wilbur’s doing through one of his friends from the Legion.’ An image comes into Jo’s head of an old soldier with an arm of tattoos.
Eric is now back to standing and smiling at her. It is as if she once told him the best joke and he is remembering it fondly. She isn’t even sure what he found so funny in the first place. Her inner voice answers for her:You called him a Viking, you idiot.
‘You know I should have come and said hello sooner.’ He makes it sound like he is talking to himself. Telling himself off. ‘No excuses.’ He then leans across and grabs her hand again for a brief but exceedingly firm shake.
‘Eric Sv …’
She does not catch even a fraction of his surname; it seemed to start with an ‘S’, there is a ‘V’ in there somewhere, and a ‘J’.
‘… very pleased to meet you, Jo Sorsby,’ he finishes.
‘How do you spell that?’ she asks, faintly.
‘That’s not going to help you at all,’ he laughs. ‘It’s Icelandic, although I was brought up in—’
‘Birmingham?’ she offers.
‘No, Brighton.’
‘I see …’ she says, not seeing at all.
He shakes his head, laughing once more, ‘Oh, that was far too easy. You’re right; I grew up in Birmingham. Was there until I was eighteen. But you’re also right – and God, would my dad love to meet you – we are descended, way back, from the Vikings. My dad’s favourite subject when he’s had a few.’
‘I thought Vikings came from Scandinavia.’
‘Ah, and you were doing so well with my dad up to that point, Jo.’ He hangs his shaggy blond head in mock sorrow.
She is still struggling to equate the Birmingham accent with this solid, tattooed bulk in front of her.
‘Mum and I try and tell him that Iceland was settled by the Vikings, but he won’t have it. He insists they started there.’ He shakes his head again. ‘And now I’d better go. I’ve got someone due in for an appointment. What do I owe you for this?’ he asks, patting the black portfolio.
She tells him, and he pays, shoving the receipt she gives him deep into the back pocket of his jeans. As he lifts the folder up, he glances down into the glass-topped cabinet and spots the fountain pens. ‘Ah fountain pens! You want to get those out, Jo. They’re no good to you in there. Fountain pens like to be used. Every day. Or they get lonely, they feel like no one loves them …’ He pauses for a long moment, andshe experiences a churning mix of embarrassment that he has guessed that she is equally unloved, and a stir of something else disquieting that she can’t quite identify.
She thinks he is going to say something else, ask her something, but instead he puts his hand into the pocket of his black short-sleeved shirt, and pulls out a fountain pen. It is the colour of pewter, has a short broad body and a shiny silver clip. She looks up at him – taken aback. Then, she thinks, why should she be surprised? After all, Eric the Viking (she’s decided he has earned his nickname) works with ink himself.
