Jonathan and folded down the collar on his polo shirt, which was creased due to the heaviness of his coat. As he wrapped his hands around his neck to straighten the shirt he looked Jonathan in the eye and gave him a smile. ‘There you go, all neat and tidy.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, are you sure you’re OK? You didn’t have to come back into work.’
‘I’m sure. Thanks. I didn’t stay long; just long enough to see it get started. I had no idea how easy it was. The thing almost fell apart as soon as the digger broke into it.’
‘Were there many sightseers?’
‘The usual ghouls and a journalist from
The Star
.’
‘Jonathan, if you want to talk…’
‘Well I can’t stand around here for much longer,’ he interrupted, eager to miss another conversation about how was he feeling and if he needed a shoulder to cry on. ‘I’ll work through my lunch seeing I was so late.’ He strode towards the door. Stephen had to quickly sidestep to allow him to pass.
Stephen sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. The large bookshop had many staff, all of them polite and friendly in their own way, but Jonathan was different.
There was something about him that Stephen couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was very intelligent and well read but he gave off an aura of sadness. He knew his parents had been killed, and he had read the book by Charlie Johnson, but he felt there was something else beneath the surface that was bothering Jonathan; another tragedy he was allowing to eat away at him instead of releasing the burden.
Stephen left the overheated staffroom and went in pursuit of Jonathan. He found him at the downstairs tills. He was serving an elderly lady who was buying four paperbacks. He couldn’t hear what their conversation was about, but Jonathan looked relaxed and had a genuine smile on his face. He guessed Jonathan had read a couple of the books she was buying and was telling her how much he’d enjoyed them. Jonathan really was the perfect member of staff. When the customer left, Stephen approached the counter.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked with a frown.
‘Yes I’m fine,’ Jonathan almost snapped. ‘Why?’
‘You look very pale.’
‘Well it is cold out.’
‘And you have a red mark around your neck.’
‘I do?’ Jonathan felt at his neck.
‘Yes. It looks sore.’
‘I probably had my scarf too tight. It’ll be a friction burn, bloody wool. Like I said, it’s very cold out there.’ He walked away from the tills leaving Stephen alone.
When Stephen looked up he saw another member of staff at the next till looking at him; she looked smug.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Never going to happen.’
‘Just get on with your work, Claire.’ He walked away, his face reddening with embarrassment.
It was almost lunchtime and Lloyds Bar at Barker’s Pool was filling up nicely. Sitting in the front window, Matilda glanced out onto the cold city centre. People were moving around in their own little world, wrapped up against the elements, carrying bags of Christmas gifts. The automatic doors of John Lewis kept yawning open and closed, open and closed as festive shoppers went in empty-handed and came out with heavy bags and a lighter wallet.
‘Can you believe people are still having their picture taken next to the post box even after all this time?’ she asked Rory.
He turned to look out of the window and saw a trio of Japanese tourists taking it in turns to stand next to the gold-painted post box in honour of Jessica Ennis-Hill’s triumphant gold medal at the London 2012 Olympics.
‘Me and Amelia have a picture of us standing next to it. It’s in a frame above the fireplace,’ he beamed.
Matilda rolled her eyes. ‘Did you attend her victory parade here too?’
‘Of course. It’s not very often Sheffield has something to celebrate. Our football teams certainly don’t give us much to cheer about.’
A barmaid arrived with their food: a shepherd’s pie for Rory
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, are you sure you’re OK? You didn’t have to come back into work.’
‘I’m sure. Thanks. I didn’t stay long; just long enough to see it get started. I had no idea how easy it was. The thing almost fell apart as soon as the digger broke into it.’
‘Were there many sightseers?’
‘The usual ghouls and a journalist from
The Star
.’
‘Jonathan, if you want to talk…’
‘Well I can’t stand around here for much longer,’ he interrupted, eager to miss another conversation about how was he feeling and if he needed a shoulder to cry on. ‘I’ll work through my lunch seeing I was so late.’ He strode towards the door. Stephen had to quickly sidestep to allow him to pass.
Stephen sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. The large bookshop had many staff, all of them polite and friendly in their own way, but Jonathan was different.
There was something about him that Stephen couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was very intelligent and well read but he gave off an aura of sadness. He knew his parents had been killed, and he had read the book by Charlie Johnson, but he felt there was something else beneath the surface that was bothering Jonathan; another tragedy he was allowing to eat away at him instead of releasing the burden.
Stephen left the overheated staffroom and went in pursuit of Jonathan. He found him at the downstairs tills. He was serving an elderly lady who was buying four paperbacks. He couldn’t hear what their conversation was about, but Jonathan looked relaxed and had a genuine smile on his face. He guessed Jonathan had read a couple of the books she was buying and was telling her how much he’d enjoyed them. Jonathan really was the perfect member of staff. When the customer left, Stephen approached the counter.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked with a frown.
‘Yes I’m fine,’ Jonathan almost snapped. ‘Why?’
‘You look very pale.’
‘Well it is cold out.’
‘And you have a red mark around your neck.’
‘I do?’ Jonathan felt at his neck.
‘Yes. It looks sore.’
‘I probably had my scarf too tight. It’ll be a friction burn, bloody wool. Like I said, it’s very cold out there.’ He walked away from the tills leaving Stephen alone.
When Stephen looked up he saw another member of staff at the next till looking at him; she looked smug.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Never going to happen.’
‘Just get on with your work, Claire.’ He walked away, his face reddening with embarrassment.
It was almost lunchtime and Lloyds Bar at Barker’s Pool was filling up nicely. Sitting in the front window, Matilda glanced out onto the cold city centre. People were moving around in their own little world, wrapped up against the elements, carrying bags of Christmas gifts. The automatic doors of John Lewis kept yawning open and closed, open and closed as festive shoppers went in empty-handed and came out with heavy bags and a lighter wallet.
‘Can you believe people are still having their picture taken next to the post box even after all this time?’ she asked Rory.
He turned to look out of the window and saw a trio of Japanese tourists taking it in turns to stand next to the gold-painted post box in honour of Jessica Ennis-Hill’s triumphant gold medal at the London 2012 Olympics.
‘Me and Amelia have a picture of us standing next to it. It’s in a frame above the fireplace,’ he beamed.
Matilda rolled her eyes. ‘Did you attend her victory parade here too?’
‘Of course. It’s not very often Sheffield has something to celebrate. Our football teams certainly don’t give us much to cheer about.’
A barmaid arrived with their food: a shepherd’s pie for Rory
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