The afternoon snow swirls, thick and black. I'll be shovelling the stuff off the path tomorrow, I just know it. Summer holidays or not, July isn't what it used to be.
I'm about to lock the door when something small and white races up the steps like a comet. Nye the cat. I found him beside an abandoned taxi last Christmas – a white cat's easy to spot these days – and it took me a month to nurse him back to health. Now he's plumper than I am. He glowers at me for letting in the cold air.
“Sorry, Nye.”
Brushing snow from my overcoat, I head off down the street. I burrow my chin into my lucky woollen scarf. Lucky because I wore it the day the world ended, and I'm still here, even if the world isn't. Mum herself knitted it, I think. It's my special occasion scarf now.
I turn down St James Street, past the Church, with its steeple clock forever frozen at 9:57. My boots crunch the snow, black on black, until I find the Vicarage. Reverend Snow – now there's a funny name – is out digging his garden. The Reverend likes his potato patch. You'll never see him without his spade.
“Afternoon, Vicar.”
“Afternoon, Sam.”
“Nice day for gardening.”
“It is. Can't let the end of the world get us down.”
“Exactly.” I pause. “Vicar?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“I need a favour.”
“I'm all out of Earl Grey, I'm afraid.”
“No, it's not tea. It's those chocolates I gave you for Easter. Do you still have them?”
“I do, Sam.”
“I need them back...” I feel my cheeks blushing. “I've got this girl, Vicar, and...”
“Say no more. Go get your chocolates – the door's open. Give my regards to Vera.”
I knew Reverend Snow would understand. He's great – always there if you need him, and he'll never go on about religion unless that's what you want. I've had him round for tea and scones a few times – I lay out the good tablecloth, and Mum's good bone china, and even Uncle Boris' funny tea-caddy with the dancing natives poking their tongues out. Not today though: I'm too busy.
The box is sitting on the mantelpiece, in the dust between three unsent letters and the Vicar's stopped fireplace clock. The chocolates are unopened. They're gourmet too, because there's a blonde Swiss milkmaid on the front. In this light, she looks like Vera did when we first met. I hold the box in my gloved hands, and lick my lips.
Back outside, I wave farewell to Reverend Snow.
“See you on Sunday, Vicar. Good luck with your potatoes.”
Don't tell him or Mum, but I hate Church services. So dull. But I've always gone because that's what you do. Especially with the world ending: it's times like this you have to be on your best behaviour.
Speaking of best behaviour, I stick to the pavement when I'm in town. There's less snow on the road, but I'll never jaywalk. Too risky: suppose someone reported me to the police? I'd lose my job at the greengrocers. Mr Gumble is a miserable sod as is. He sits in his corner every Tuesday, making sure I don't steal from the till. He'd love it if I got caught.
I stop beside a zebra crossing, and think. I've sorted the chocolate. Next stop is Mr O'Brien on the corner.
Mr O'Brien is the town jeweller. There's a cardboard sign propped against his window, announcing a sale. There's always a sale when I pass this way. I said this scarf was lucky.
The wind chimes tinkle. It's as cold inside the shop as outside, but that's nothing new: Mr O'Brien's never had much truck with electricity. Never needed it when he was a boy, he told me once, and he'll be damned if he needs it now. He refuses to accept those new 5p and 10p pieces too. I imagine he sat at his window and watched the mushrooms sprout over Birmingham, thanking God the Russian devils saved us from decimal currency.
The jewellery and rings are in fancy glass cases under the counter. Vera's not a big one for gemstones, thank goodness – I can't afford South African diamond on Mr Gumble's wages – but a plain 8-carat band might work. Yes. I press my nose to the glass. I'll take that one.
I dig through my overcoat pocket. Chequebook and fountain pen: brilliant. I peel off a glove to write, and for a moment I stare at my hand. Purple veins and dirty fingernails. Mum would yell at me, and she'd be right. I wasn't brought up that way.
I leave the signed cheque on the counter, beside Mr O'Brien's dust-covered handbell. There's a stack of other cheques too. I shuffle them into one neat pile. There's something missing.
Ah.
The glass cases are locked, and Mr O'Brien isn't here with the key.
“Excuse me?” I call. “Is anyone there?”
No-one answers. I hear the wind gusting down the street. Perhaps I should come back tomorrow.
I shake my head. What if Mr O'Brien's away then too? The day after that is Saturday–-I'll have the football, and the shop'll be shut regardless. I can't wait until Monday. Vera deserves better.
I couldn't pick the lock, even if I wanted to. Which I wouldn't – if I'm no jaywalker, I'm certainly no thief. Besides, I'd go to prison, and Vera would die of shame.
I pause. But would it be stealing? My cheque is sitting there, beside those others. I've paid. That ring belongs to me.
A mad and dangerous idea springs into my mind. I wonder what Vera will think. Sam, she'll say, you can't break things for me. That's wrong. And I'll say No. It's wrong for anything to stand in the way of our love.
I head back out. No policemen. Good. My heart beats faster. If they catch me, I'll say I did it for you, Vera.
A stray brick lies semi-buried in the snow: a blot of red in a river of black. I pick it up, and return to the shop.
I try not to think, and let my arm do the work. It's strange: like watching a film. Or reading some detective story where the crook's stealing the Koh-i-Noor. It's surely not me doing this. Not harmless little Sam!
The glass case cracks, then shatters. Mr O'Brien will be livid, so I write another cheque, to pay for the damage, plus an apology note. I slide the ring into my pocket, my gut tensing with the thrill.
But there's still glass shards everywhere. That could hurt a customer, or even Mr O'Brien himself. He's never been quite right since that fall in 1956. I fetch a broom, and find a Daily Telegraph behind the counter. 26th October, 1962. Nearly seven years old. Mr O'Brien won't need it. I sweep the glass onto the paper, and drop the rubbish into the bin.
Chocolate box under my arm, I head out. I breathe easier. Still no policemen!
I've everything I need. In a perfect world, I'd have a bundle of red roses too, all tied up with gold ribbon. But Mr Kirby the florist is still waiting for delivery, so I'll have to wait too.
I follow Great North Road to Vera's, past the football field. It's the big match this Saturday, the game that decides if our local lads go through the season unbeaten at home. They should. They've done it the past, ever since I wrote to the FA about the forfeiture rules, but City will be the true test. I'm bringing Vera too. She's not mad about football, but she comes out for the big games. Since the end of the world, I get her any seat she likes, and she can take blankets and her hot-water bottle.
The snow is heavier now, and I'm shivering in my overcoat. Luckily, Vera doesn't live too much further. July isn't what it used to be.
My wristwatch reads quarter to three as I turn into Calder Road. Vera's front door sports one of those lion-knockers with a ring in its mouth, locked in perpetual snarl. I grin. Today, I have a ring too.
I pause before knocking.
“Vera, it's me!”
“Come on in, Sam!”
My heart skips a beat. I try the handle. Vera's front door is unlocked. It's always unlocked.
I remove my boots, and leave them in the hall. I keep my overcoat on. I can see my own breath in here: the place feels like an ice-box.
She waits in the living room, sitting in her favourite padded armchair. There's no fire in the grate.
“You poor thing,” I say, through chattering teeth. “You must be frozen!”
“Yes, Sam. I am.”
I fetch a thick woollen rug from the closet, and tuck it around her.
“Thank you, Sam. I'm warmer now.”
Vera has a coal bucket and kindling, and I soon get a cozy blaze going with some old Daily Mirrors. I break out a box of kitchen candles, and pull the curtains against the chill. Mr O'Brien's wrong: you do notice when electricity is gone, and I'll tell him next time I see him.
My nose no longer tingles and my breath no longer steams. I shrug off my overcoat and drape it across the back of a chair. The candle-lit living room reminds me of my own place during winter. I think it looks romantic too, like you see in films when someone's inviting Ingrid Bergman to dinner. I didn't intend that, but then I am wearing my lucky scarf.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks, Sam. I'm fine.”
“I got you something.”
I reveal the chocolate box. At first I hold it the wrong way, with the milkmaid facing me. I quickly reverse it, hoping Vera didn't notice.
“Why, Sam. You shouldn't have. Put it down on the coffee table, for later.”
I nod. My cheeks are warm, and it's not just the fire.
“Vera?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“It...it...must get very dull in here, by yourself. No radio or anything.”
“I manage, Sam. How are you?”
“Good ... still plenty of sauerkraut left.” I like cold sauerkraut. “Nye's happy too.” Vera knows Nye. I've told her all about him.
I keep my voice calm. “I want to ask you something.”
“If it's about taking me outside again... no. It's so cold out there, Sam. Who'd ever think we'd see black snow? In July? No, I'm happy here, beside the fire with you.”
Those last two words set me quivering. “It...it...isn't that.”
“So what do you want to ask me?”
I fiddle with the ring in my pocket, and draw a deep breath. Let's get this over with, Sam. I shuffle across and kneel before her.
“Vera,” I gulp. “Will you marry me?” There. I said it. “You can come stay with me and Nye. Or we could move in here... whatever you want.”
I look up at her face, heart hammering. I don't dare breathe.
“Why, Sam...”
“I've got a ring and everything.”
I slide it onto her finger, and grasp her hands. Her skin feels like old library parchment. The dark sockets – eyes long since rotted away – stare back at me, blank as always.
“Yes, Sam. I will marry you.”
She said yes! I hug her close, and run my hands through the brittle tangles of dry hair. My cheeks are warm and wet with tears.
I am the happiest man alive.
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