a cup of tea.
But she hadn’t a clue where to get one, and even if she had, it would probably be stupid to give up her spot.
*
The city began to come back to life at around 5.30, and at last the rain had stopped. She wasn’t sure if she’d actually slept at all, but she got stiffly to her feet
and set off to find a public toilet. God, she was desperate for a wee. She’d been too scared to leave her warm spot so had been holding it in for hours. In Berwick Street, she found a public
toilet which had soap and hot water, so she gave herself what her mum used to call a ‘cat’s lick and a promise’ and then headed back in the direction of Trafalgar Square, which
was probably the only place in London she was sure she’d be able to find.
She was sitting on the steps of Nelson’s Column, eating a soggy Wimpy and wishing she had some gloves when she realised someone was standing over her. Her experience with Tina and Mr
Rundle’s warning about wooden-leg-stealing Londoners jumped into her mind and she pulled her suitcase and duffle bag closer as she looked up. The woman wore a long maroon velvet coat with a
floor-length chunky-knit scarf in bottle-green wound around her neck. Those long scarves had been all the rage at school a couple of years ago. You made them by using big thick knitting needles and
double strands of wool. Jo had made one herself, though not very well – it had somehow got wider as well as longer and had ended up almost twice the width at one end as at the other. The
woman’s hair was partly hidden by a crocheted hat, but dark strands poked out from beneath the mustard-yellow wool and her stripy shoulder bag matched the hat and the scarf, with one tassel
in green and one in yellow.
‘My name’s Eve,’ the woman said, crouching down. ‘Are you okay? You look so . . .’ She frowned and stroked a strand of hair away from Jo’s forehead –
her hands were encased in sheepskin mittens. ‘So very lost.’ She sounded quite posh, Jo thought, but she didn’t look well-off .
‘I’m not lost,’ Jo said. ‘I mean . . .’ She looked around the square. ‘I mean I know where I am.’
‘But you don’t really know who you are, do you? How old are you?’ Eve said, in an I-know-what’s-best-for-you voice that reminded Jo of her mum’s social worker.
When she looked more closely, she could see that Eve was younger than she’d thought, probably only three or four years older than Jo herself. Her skin was peachy-coloured and her
complexion was completely clear. She wore no make-up but there was a hint of rosiness to her cheeks, as though she was wearing blusher.
‘Nineteen,’ she said. She’d had to lie to Carol and Geoff when she’d started working at the pub, and it came out almost automatically now. People often took her for older
than she was anyway; Sheena said it was the way she talked and behaved, especially since she’d been running the house and looking after her mum. Her final school report described her as
a
sensible and responsible pupil who is surprisingly mature for her age.
Granny Pawley said it was because she was an ‘old soul’.
‘I sense,’ Eve said, drawing her dark brows together, ‘that you’ve been having a difficult time; I’d say you need some time to heal.’ She undid the toggle on
her shoulder bag and opened the flap. Jo’s instinct was to get up and walk away; her mum would have said Eve was
one of those airy-fairy hippy-types.
She did seem a bit weird, and
after the week Jo had had so far, she could do without any more weirdness. But there was something about her that made Jo feel safe, so she carried on sitting on the cold steps while Eve mumbled to
herself and rummaged in her bag. ‘Ah!’ she said, smiling with her wide mouth. ‘Here we are. Rose quartz.’ She pressed a little pink stone into Jo’s hand.
‘It’ll be perfect for you. Rose quartz can heal your heartache and ease your loneliness. And it’ll help you find inner
But she hadn’t a clue where to get one, and even if she had, it would probably be stupid to give up her spot.
*
The city began to come back to life at around 5.30, and at last the rain had stopped. She wasn’t sure if she’d actually slept at all, but she got stiffly to her feet
and set off to find a public toilet. God, she was desperate for a wee. She’d been too scared to leave her warm spot so had been holding it in for hours. In Berwick Street, she found a public
toilet which had soap and hot water, so she gave herself what her mum used to call a ‘cat’s lick and a promise’ and then headed back in the direction of Trafalgar Square, which
was probably the only place in London she was sure she’d be able to find.
She was sitting on the steps of Nelson’s Column, eating a soggy Wimpy and wishing she had some gloves when she realised someone was standing over her. Her experience with Tina and Mr
Rundle’s warning about wooden-leg-stealing Londoners jumped into her mind and she pulled her suitcase and duffle bag closer as she looked up. The woman wore a long maroon velvet coat with a
floor-length chunky-knit scarf in bottle-green wound around her neck. Those long scarves had been all the rage at school a couple of years ago. You made them by using big thick knitting needles and
double strands of wool. Jo had made one herself, though not very well – it had somehow got wider as well as longer and had ended up almost twice the width at one end as at the other. The
woman’s hair was partly hidden by a crocheted hat, but dark strands poked out from beneath the mustard-yellow wool and her stripy shoulder bag matched the hat and the scarf, with one tassel
in green and one in yellow.
‘My name’s Eve,’ the woman said, crouching down. ‘Are you okay? You look so . . .’ She frowned and stroked a strand of hair away from Jo’s forehead –
her hands were encased in sheepskin mittens. ‘So very lost.’ She sounded quite posh, Jo thought, but she didn’t look well-off .
‘I’m not lost,’ Jo said. ‘I mean . . .’ She looked around the square. ‘I mean I know where I am.’
‘But you don’t really know who you are, do you? How old are you?’ Eve said, in an I-know-what’s-best-for-you voice that reminded Jo of her mum’s social worker.
When she looked more closely, she could see that Eve was younger than she’d thought, probably only three or four years older than Jo herself. Her skin was peachy-coloured and her
complexion was completely clear. She wore no make-up but there was a hint of rosiness to her cheeks, as though she was wearing blusher.
‘Nineteen,’ she said. She’d had to lie to Carol and Geoff when she’d started working at the pub, and it came out almost automatically now. People often took her for older
than she was anyway; Sheena said it was the way she talked and behaved, especially since she’d been running the house and looking after her mum. Her final school report described her as
a
sensible and responsible pupil who is surprisingly mature for her age.
Granny Pawley said it was because she was an ‘old soul’.
‘I sense,’ Eve said, drawing her dark brows together, ‘that you’ve been having a difficult time; I’d say you need some time to heal.’ She undid the toggle on
her shoulder bag and opened the flap. Jo’s instinct was to get up and walk away; her mum would have said Eve was
one of those airy-fairy hippy-types.
She did seem a bit weird, and
after the week Jo had had so far, she could do without any more weirdness. But there was something about her that made Jo feel safe, so she carried on sitting on the cold steps while Eve mumbled to
herself and rummaged in her bag. ‘Ah!’ she said, smiling with her wide mouth. ‘Here we are. Rose quartz.’ She pressed a little pink stone into Jo’s hand.
‘It’ll be perfect for you. Rose quartz can heal your heartache and ease your loneliness. And it’ll help you find inner
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