‘Especially after a few G&Ts,’ Gracey laughs.
However, it seems that Padam is still concerned. ‘What happens if Stan is doing an airport run, or taking someone to Darlington Station?’
Malcolm thinks it is a good point. He doesn’t like to think of these elderly, effervescent women being housebound.
‘Then Pam’s the man,’ one of the Graces chortles.
‘Pam?’
‘Stan’s wife, Pam. But then it’s the Hyundai, which isn’t quite the same as the Mercedes,’ they inform him.
‘But mainly it’s Stan,’ Amazing Grace says complacently.
‘You really shouldn’t lead him on,’ the other two Graces chide.
‘You can’t blame the man for trying,’ Amazing Grace comments, winking, then adds in a stage whisper, ‘Dirty bugger.’
The sound of their laughter follows them out of the shop, and Malcolm is left feeling that whatever else Taxi Stan is, he is a man with a kind and generous heart. As is his wife, Pam.
He says as much to Padam and, as Christmas is very much his main preoccupation at the moment, he wonders aloud what the Three Disgraces might be doing for Christmas.
‘They stay put,’ Padam tells him. ‘I overheard them discussing it the other day. It seems two of the Graces have families who welcome them, but one doesn’t.’ He raises his eyebrows at Malcolm, ‘Don’t ask me which one. As a result, they refuse to be parted.’
Malcolm is not sure how he feels about this. He imagines they manage to have a jolly time, but there is something sad about it, nonetheless.
‘Couldn’t the families take in the extra Grace?’ Malcolm wonders aloud.
‘I think there is one that might, but they don’t have the space, and the other has the space but not the inclination,’ Padam replies. ‘Or, at least, that is how it seemed to me.’
There is little chance of further discussion as more customers arrive, bringing with them a blast of cold air. The days remain sunny, but the temperature is heading back down to freezing, and all talk on the local news is of whether there will be a white Christmas.
Just before closing, Rev. Ruth rushes in; her nose is pink, and her greying hair looks decidedly windswept. Malcolm can’t decide if this is a result of the weather or just because Ruth is moving so fast from one thing to the next.
‘Hello you two. I’m sorry to do this last minute, Padam, but is there any chance of a raffle prize for the coffee and craft morning tomorrow in the church? We’re raising funds for the pensioners’ lunch, and the raffle’s looking a bit sparse.’
Padam immediately reaches for a celebrity chef’s cookery book, ‘Would this do?’
‘Oh, perfect. I like him,’ Rev. Ruth enthuses, reaching out and taking the book. ‘Someone was telling me his recipe for sprouts with lemon and parmesan is fabulous.’
Padam exchanges a significant look with Malcolm.
One more for the recipe list.
‘And you, Malcolm,’ Ruth whirls around to him, beaming, ‘come and run the raffle for me. Marjorie’s gall bladder’s playing up again.’ Malcolm has no idea who Marjorie is, but Ruth doesn’t explain or wait for his response; she simply waves her thanks with the book, adding just before the door closes behind her, ‘Tomorrow at eleven o’clock, Malcolm. Wear something warm, the church heating’s on the blink again.’
‘I don’t believe that woman ever stops,’ Padam reflects as they watch her dart out into the street.
Curiosity keeps them both staring out of the window as Ruth makes her way across the road to the gift shop. It is run by a woman called Joyce, who has the reputation locally of being so mean she would begrudge you the steam off her tea. Malcolm and Padam are joined at the window by a couple of late-afternoon shoppers – it seems they are just as intrigued to see how Rev. Ruth gets on persuading Joyce to donate a raffle prize. It is not long before Rev. Ruth emerges, carrying a handsome peacock-blue cushion scattered with pink butterflies.
Padam raises surprised eyebrows at Malcolm.
‘Well there you go then,’ the middle-aged customer beside him offers. After a thoughtful pause, he adds, ‘Buried her mother, and the reverend always did do right by the old soul.’
‘Aye, visited the old woman right up until the end,’ his wife confirms.
This does not surprise Malcolm.
‘And her mother was even more of a nip farthing than that one. Always on the make,’ the woman adds, nodding towards the gift shop, as they watch Joyce rearrange the items on display in her shop window in the absence of the peacock-blue cushion. ‘Her Ma would have sold St Peter a new pair of gates.’
