Chapter Eight
My breath tightens in my chest. I’ve got maybe twenty seconds before he recognises me – if he hasn’t already. But there are no good options: it’s not dark enough for me to hide against the wall of the bookshop, but there’s also no way I can run to the end of the street without him seeing me.
Then I see that the light is on in Ruth’s antique shop.
It’s not ideal, but it’s better than the alternative.
Maybe she hasn’t left yet. Maybe, if I ask really nicely, she’ll let me take refuge in her shop for five minutes.
I dart to her bright red door before I can talk myself out of it, lifting my hand to knock softly, if a little desperately.
Less than a second later, the door swings open.
‘Clarrie?’ Ruth’s eyes are wide through her blue-rimmed glasses.
She has a massive pink scarf wrapped round her neck, and she looks like a hug.
It always hurts seeing her, because she reminds me of Gran, but today my overwhelming feeling is relief that on top of everything I’m not going to have to try to spar with Declan Archer.
‘You came!’ The delight in her voice squeezes at my heart, but also: we don’t have time for this.
‘Hi, Ruth.’ I try to smile and my cheek muscles hurt almost immediately. ‘Is it okay if I come in?’ I resist the urge to look back over my shoulder.
‘Of course, of course!’ she says, opening the door wider.
I pretty much dive inside the light, warm shop, relief coursing through me when the door clicks closed behind me.
Ruth stares at me for a moment, shaking her head. And there are . . . are they tears in her eyes? Just the sight of them has me blinking back my own again. Please don’t let her ask me how I am. But she doesn’t. Instead, she reaches forward and takes one of my hands.
‘I’m so pleased you’re here, Clarrie. We’ve missed your grandmother so much. Not that that’s why I asked you . . . Oh, I’m rambling. I’m sorry, dear – do come on in.’
I’m about to ask what she’s talking about when it finally sinks in.
The pink scarf. The reference to Gran. Crap.
It’s Knit, Stitch and Yarn night. I can’t believe I forgot it was Knit, Stitch and Yarn night.
I don’t want to see anyone right now, let alone a gang of Gran’s friends.
I want to be at home on my couch with a blanket at least three times the size of me and a tub of ice cream.
But then Ruth is leading me to the back of the shop and she’s chattering about how wonderful it is and how thrilled everyone will be to see me.
There’s no way I can leave now without it being horribly rude.
Half an hour , I tell myself. I can last half an hour.
At least then Declan Archer will have well and truly disappeared from the street.
Hopefully, no one will notice that the glue holding my smile in place is not really sticking.
Ruth’s shop is a collection of wonders. It’s filled to the brim with stuff : display cabinets, old sewing machines and enough crockery to cater for a wedding of about 6,000 people.
Somehow, though, there doesn’t seem to be a speck of dust in the entire shop.
As though Ruth personally threatened every last one while wearing a kind smile and a home-knitted sweater.
The familiarity is both warm and crippling.
Before Gran went to Glenhaven, I came here with her sometimes.
I loved listening to the conversations and watching her and her friends bicker and knit.
But it’s been eighteen months since I’ve seen most of them.
As we near the back of the shop, deeper into the collection of furniture, soft voices and the click of needles filter towards us.
I follow Ruth round a massive bookshelf to a long table covered with fabric, baskets of wool and half a dozen different projects.
There are six people sitting around it – four women and two men.
I recognise all but one of the women – an older lady with bright pink hair who is furiously knitting.
Then there’s Sofia from the bakery, plus Diane and Min, who used to play bridge with Gran.
There’s gruff Frank from the butcher, and then there’s Alistair, who I only met once, but who Gran sometimes told stories about.
The conversation halts when they see us, and Ruth wraps an arm around my shoulders.
‘Everyone, you remember Clarrie – Margaret’s granddaughter. Clarrie, this is everyone.’
‘Hi, Clarrie,’ the group all chorus, and Sofia gives me a little wave.
‘Hi,’ I say, waving back at Sofia like I’m on autopilot.
Ruth eyeballs Alistair. ‘I’m trusting you to remember the rules and make Clarence feel welcome. We want her to come back again.’
Alistair – spry, mischievous-looking, with light grey hair and sparkling eyes – winks at me. ‘Always,’ he says. ‘I’m so focused on this blanket that I couldn’t possibly find time to cause any trouble.’
‘That same blanket you’ve been working on for the past two and a half years?’ says Ruth, raising an eyebrow.
‘Masterpieces take time,’ says Alistair.
Sofia pats the seat between her and Alistair, a warmth on her face that threatens to make me crumble.
I mutter hellos to everyone as I make my way round the table.
Halfway down, the woman with the short pink hair glances up at me.
I’m smiling politely at her when she shoots out a hand to grab my arm.
Before I can ask her what on earth she’s doing, she tugs on my sleeve and pulls me down towards her.
Then she studies my forehead, her deep wrinkles sucking in even more of her skin as she frowns.
I’m so shocked that I don’t move a muscle, and I’m still standing there five seconds later when she starts shaking her head and sighing like I’ve disappointed her.
‘Your head is too small,’ she announces.
Then she lets go of my sleeve and picks up her knitting again, as though the encounter never happened.
I blink, and then I’ve somehow been ushered down the table and am sitting on a chair that’s at least as old as I am, staring at blankets, scarves and what must be ten baskets full of wool.
What the hell just happened?
‘Don’t mind Susan,’ says Alistair, leaning in and watching the woman with the pink hair who is knitting and muttering. ‘She’s making a beanie for her grandson and apparently all of us have the wrong sized head.’
I’m not sure whether to laugh or to cry.
‘Clarrie, it’s so good to see you,’ says Diane, and I look up to meet her eyes between blankets across the table. ‘We’ve missed Margaret so much.’ Her eyes fill with tears and I feel mine threaten to do the same. She’s still there , I remind myself, the way I always do. Gran is still around.
Diane reaches across the table to take one of my hands, and I’m just about to pull away and excuse myself – I was wrong; there’s no way I can even get through half an hour – when she knocks over one of the baskets, and the short gruff man next to her furrows his thick, grey eyebrows.
‘Steady on, Diane,’ he says.
‘Oh, shut it, Frank,’ she says, looking at me with a smile even as she snaps at him. ‘I just want to check in and see how Clarrie is.’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Diane,’ I say, hoping the short answer will prevent too many follow-on questions.
‘And how is Margaret? Have you seen her recently? We all just think it’s so lovely that you’re running the bookshop.’
It’s well meaning, but it still makes my stomach twist. I think of the light in Gran’s eyes earlier today and of the quote burning a hole in my email.
I’m just working out how to breathe and answer when I’m saved by the most unlikely source: a loud knock at the front door.
Everyone from the table looks up, and Frank’s eyebrows jump up his forehead.
‘Another newcomer?’ he mutters under his breath. ‘No, thank you.’
Ruth hasn’t sat down yet, and she’s already making her way back towards the front door to see who it is.
Diane hushes Frank and then smiles worriedly at me, like I might take it personally that he doesn’t really want me here.
Although, if anything, his attitude is actually making it easier not to break down.
All of which I register out of a small corner of my brain.
Because, after the initial rush of relief, my stomach has been flooded with something else: trepidation.
Declan Archer was the last person I saw on the street.
I tell myself that I’m being stupid. There’s no way Declan would be knocking on the door of a random antique shop. He didn’t see me.
But then I hear a low voice that rushes down my spine, and I don’t know whether to hide under the table or to grab an armful of wool, throw it into the air in an attempt to distract everyone and run out as fast as I can. The point is moot, anyway, because I can’t move.
I can’t move.
‘Come inside!’ I hear Ruth’s muffled exclamation. No, please stay the hell outside, thank you. I cannot see Declan Archer on top of everything else today.
‘I really must get going,’ says the voice, and there’s no denying that it’s him. How has it taken him this long to walk the twenty steps to Ruth’s door? Did he stop for a coffee on the way?
‘I insist,’ says Ruth. ‘Just for a few minutes, until you warm up!’ I can’t believe that five minutes ago I thought her voice was kind. Stop being so damn pushy, Ruth!
Declan’s protests are clearly in vain against Ruth’s aggressive friendliness. It’s a small comfort that he doesn’t actually want to come inside.
So why the hell is he here?