Praag - The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

Three phone calls would change Judes life. But that would come later. Now, Jude stands in her favourite spot, gazing out at snowflakes drifting down to sprinkle the street below. As she watches the early Christmas shoppers scuttling from shop to shop, their hats and hair brushed with a dusting of white, a twist of longing wraps slowly around Judes heart and squeezes tight.

Judes life is full of people. She sees dozens in the shop every day and shes lost count of just how many shes helped. But, of all the hundreds of souls she has saved over the years, none have ever stuck around long enough to befriend, let alone love her. And sometimes Jude is so overcome with a sweep of loneliness that she must sit down and tell herself to breathe.

Now she touches her finger to the cool windowpane, feeling a snatch of pleasure at the chill on her skin, an odd little reminder that shes still alive. Its odd perhaps, but true, that because she has no witnesses to her life no husband, no lover, no close friends Jude often needs reminding that shes alive, that she isnt a ghost accidentally trapped along with all the other spirits in the labyrinthine antique shop.

Jude traces the tip of her finger across the misty glass, first sketching the shape of a small heart then letters: H E L P. Judes eyes widen with surprise. She hadnt expected to write that; she hadnt realised she felt that way, at least not so strongly. Quickly, in case anyone glances up from the street and sees her scribbling, Jude starts smudging the letters then, in a flash of inspiration, alters and adds to them so, instead of a dire proclamation, its now an advanced seasonal greeting: H A P P Y H O L I D A Y S!

Jude lets out a short sigh of relief, which serves to mist up the window again. Then, reluctantly, she turns to leave the quiet tranquillity of her upstairs room. At the doorway, she presses a hand to the wall, open palm splayed on the red brick, steadying herself to leave the tranquillity of her office before going downstairs to open the shop and greet the throng of holiday shoppers.

Jude isnt a fan of holiday shoppers. Especially not those who start their Christmas shopping in November. Those are the worst. She doesnt despise them on principle she doesnt mind them at all when they confine themselves to other shops she simply doesnt like them when they come to Gatsbys. It isnt because of their giddy cheer, or their bustling, frantic desire to purchase something anything now, or their often dangerously overeager, grasping fingers among her delicate antiques. No, Jude hates holiday shoppers because they have no business being inside her special shop in the first place.

Over the past decade, Jude has observed that Christmas time, and the months preceding, sends ordinary people into a frenzy of consumerism that overrides all their subtler instincts. So they dont realise that Gatsbys isnt an ordinary shop, that its wares arent supposed to be bought on hurried impulses for assorted family and friends. Christmas shoppers simply see the glittering front bay window and all the beauty displayed within art deco lamps, ornate Victorian writing desks, polished silver photo frames, elaborately carved onyx and ivory chess sets, glass and gold scent spritzers, delicate Edwardian wooden chairs, plump embroidered footstools and they pounce. During the rest of the year, they simply wander past the glittering window without being drawn inside unless a rogue, last-minute birthday is suddenly snapping at their heels.

In the non-winter months, Jude doesnt have to endure the heartache of selling special pieces to people to whom, strictly speaking, they dont belong. For it gives Jude considerable pain to see shoppers snatch up her antiques, claiming that theyre just darling or that Cristobel/Lucinda/Sally will simply adore it!, then plonking said piece onto the counter and chattering on as Jude sorrowfully wraps it, mumbling apologies under her breath. It gives her great joy, however, to see a purposeful shopper one who knows theyre looking for something, even though they dont know exactly what it is shuffle or stride into Gatsbys, losing themselves among the clusters of crowded gems spread across the two floors before finally alighting on it.

For Jude isnt in the business of selling antiques as collectables, as pretty things that will adorn living rooms or desks or the like, objects that will extract exclamations of approval from various visitors. No, Jude doesnt provide the gift-seeking public of Cambridge with trinkets; she bestows them if they come looking for it with a talisman.

The special shoppers who step inside Gatsbys want something much more than a trinket, they want something far more precious; a boyfriend, a baby, a promotion, a new home, the healing of a health problem. And, among the thousands of extraordinary objects crammed between the tall, narrow walls, they will find the one they need. The one they will hold, the one they will gaze at, the one they will rub like a magic lamp while the whispers of their desires echo in their hearts. And Jude knows, though they rarely come back and tell her after getting their hearts desire they cant believe it was anything else but fate or just plain good luck that brought it to them, certainly it wasnt magic that each person gets what they want, so long as the desire was pure and true.

Its strange, Jude sometimes thinks, that as the custodian of so much power and good fortune, she isnt the recipient of any of it. No talisman has found its way into her hands, nothing to help when her mother got sick, nothing to assist in alleviating her fathers alcoholism, nothing to aid Jude in finding love or having a family. Nothing. Which, Jude thinks, whenever shes lying awake and alone at three oclock in the morning, is both very strange and very sad.