‘You do not really believe that, do you?’ a woman on the next table challenges him when Mrs Switherington-Gorsley has moved on to attack the tombola.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Malcolm looks up from trying to tear and fold raffle tickets. Ruth had said it was best to do this as you went along.
‘That all refugees should be shipped home and that they only have themselves to blame?’
Malcolm stops, confused and flustered. ‘Oh, my goodness, was that what that dreadful woman said? I wasn’t really listening.’
‘I was not surprised that she would say these things. But, you, I was not sure.’ The woman on the stall beside him smiles questioningly at him, and he looks at her properly for the first time. He had been so overwhelmed with the responsibility of running the raffle, and being handed a card machine as well as a cash box, that since arriving in the church he has had little time to focus on anything else. He is familiar with the cardmachines they use in the bookshop, but this one is slightly different and keeps losing Wi-Fi connection.
He leans over and holds out his hand, ‘I am so sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier; my name is Malcolm Buswell. I am a friend of Rev. Ruth’s.’
‘She is a person who makes friends of many,’ the woman replies, grasping his hand. She is a small woman of delicate build but she has a firm handshake, and an open and attractive face. For some reason he thinks of Jo. He imagines these women could be friends.
‘I’m Yana. Did Ruth tell you that you must come?’
‘I think you could say I was volunteered,’ Malcolm admits.
The woman laughs, ‘In this she is like my grandmother.’
‘What is it you are selling?’ Malcolm asks. Glancing at the stall, it seems to be a sort of deli, with local cold meats, cheeses and yoghurts.
‘I work at Willoughby’s farm, just off the A1 road. We sometimes do the farmers’ market and Ruth told me I must have a stall today. Not that I think it is a bad idea that she has. I meet new people and they see the good things we make.’
‘Am I right in thinking you are not originally from around here?’ Malcolm wonders about Yana’s response to the comment about refugees.
‘Ukraine,’ she confirms. ‘I came with a group when the fighting got too bad where we live. Durham, to start with, as it is designated a city of sanctuary …’
Malcolm pictures his door knocker and its large brass ring.
‘… then I came here to work on a farm.’
‘And you enjoy the work?’ Malcolm asks solicitously, imagining it might be a change from what this delicate woman had been used to.
‘Yes. It was hard to begin with, and it doesn’t get easier worrying about people at home, but they are a nice family and many people welcome me …’ she glances in Mrs Switherington-Gorsley’s direction, who can be heard putting someone right about what constitutes a true cashmere jumper. ‘And you, Malcolm? Where are you from? That is not a Yorkshire accent I think.’
Malcolm only has the chance to say ‘London’ before they are inundated with another wave of visitors, and he is back explaining the range of raffle prizes and the price of the tickets. There are quite a few faces he knows – Miss Poole waves a salute as she passes – and soon Malcolm settles into a rhythm, feeling more relaxed and lifted by the knowledge that he has so many acquaintances in his adopted home. He hopes Yana feels the same, but he has little chance for more conversation with her.
‘Well, who’d ever want to winthat?I wouldn’t give it house room.’
Malcolm is confronted by Mrs Appleby, who is glaring accusingly at the peacock-blue cushion with pink butterflies. Today she is in a serviceable tweed coat, but with no hat. Or, as far as he can tell, an apron. Before he can answer she continues, ‘And that’s nowt but packaging,’ she points at a basket filled with toiletries. She studies Malcolm, ‘If I buy a ticket, can I choose what I get?’
Malcolm is tempted to suggest, as a gentle joke, that she might not win, but Mrs Appleby doesn’t look in the mood for pleasantries. So he simply says, ‘I’m really not quite sure. I don’t know if the committee has allocated prizes in a particular order or if the winner can take their pick.’
‘Well, you should know,’ Mrs Appleby grumbles. ‘It’s your job to know.’
‘I do apologize … I-I am merely a volunteer,’ he stutters, now feeling a lot less relaxed.
‘That’s no excuse. I clean this chuffing place as a volunteer. Much good it would do them if I didn’t know my job, and ifIhad more hair than sense.’
Malcolm assumes this is directed at his still-full head of white hair. Mrs Appleby walks away, grunting, dragging her shopping bag on wheels after her.
Rev. Ruth appears at Malcolm’s elbow, ‘I thought you could do with a cup of tea so I’ve come to look after the stall for ten minutes for you. How’s it going?’
‘Good, good,’ Malcolm replies distractedly, still reeling a little from his encounter with Mrs Appleby. ‘Do winners get to choose their prize?’ he enquires.
‘Oh, I think so. Saves a lot of bother.’ Before he can do more than nod, she continues, ‘I was chatting to your friend Polly.’
He looks at her blankly.
