‘Yes, the cushion cover comes with the pad inside …’
‘Yes, it is very attractive.’
He doesn’t catch sight of Ruth again until the Christmas market is over, stalls are being cleared, and the raffle has been drawn. Mrs Switherington-Gorsley didn’t win anything (maybe not surprising, considering his writing), nor did Mrs Appleby (also not at all surprising). But Yana had won a bottle of wine, which pleased her – and Malcolm too, as she had been good company. Yana taught him a couple of phrases in Ukrainian to use on Mrs Appleby, should she come back. He is not quite sure what they mean, but they feel very satisfying on the tongue. She also told him about the region she is from in Ukraine and how she has now made quite a few local friends. A man called Max is mentioned more than once. It seems that Max is from Canada but over here working for a while. As far as he can gather, he works in mountain rescue, but there was also mention of the RAF, so he might have got muddled. One thing he is sure of is that Jo would indeed like Yana.
Eventually he spots Rev. Ruth wandering outside, having just said goodbye to a group of volunteers. He says farewell to Yana and rushes out of the church in search of Ruth. He imagines she is heading to the rectory, which is accessed through a small car park and a gap in the fence next to the church. He takes the path to the neat stone house, with its navy painted woodwork. It is a modern house but built in an old style. Malcolm thinks of it as a homely and comfortable place – just a bit too close to the church. It might be easy for Rev. Ruth to keep an eye on the building and be a short step to services, but it also offers easy access for anyone trying to find her. He is near to the driveway when, turning his head, he spots Ruth sitting on a bench at the back of the church. She has her head held up to the sun, eyes closed. She is wearing a navy skirt and a purple shirt; her legs are stretched out before her.
It is cold enough for him to interrupt her reverie. ‘Ruth, you will catch your death out here.’
‘You sound like my mother,’ Rev. Ruth says, not opening her eyes.
‘At least let me get your coat,’ he insists.
‘Yep. Definitely my mother. Next you will be telling me sitting on marble will give me piles.’ She opens an eye and looks at Malcolm, ‘I could never understand why she thought I would want to sit on marble.’ She grins, ‘Maybe she knew I was destined to be a vicar.’ She opens both eyes and gazes at the headstones and monuments surrounding them.
‘Well, budge up a little then,’ Malcolm says, ignoring this. He wishes he hadn’t felt so angry with her earlier. He takes off his wool coat and spreads it over them like a blanket.
‘Brings back old times,’ she says, squeezing his arm, and he knows they are both thinking of being tucked under rugs on a bench at Highgate Cemetery. She smiles at him and he notices there are dark shadows under her eyes.
He starts gently. ‘Ruth, about Miss Poole.’
‘Speak of the devil,’ Ruth exclaims, sitting up.
Polly Poole is heading towards them. It is now or never.
‘Ruth,’ Malcolm says urgently.
But Rev. Ruth is already speaking, in a sing-song chant. ‘Like your jumper, Miss Poole. Great lipstick, Miss Poole.’
Normally Malcolm would think today’s combination was charming. Navy jumper with white snowflakes, red lipstick and a matching red scarf tied in her hair. However, he is still trying to grab Ruth’s attention and whisper something urgently in her ear.
Too soon the laughing Miss Poole is upon them. ‘You have no idea what you’ve started,’ she declares. ‘The postman even called out after me yesterday.’
‘Ah, that would be Shanaya’s dad, I expect.’
Miss Poole nods and sinks down on the bench beside them. She turns to him, ‘Malcolm, it issokind of you to ask me for Christmas lunch.’
So, itistoo late.
‘You will have to tell me what I can bring. I must admit I’ve been dreading Christmas this year.’ Malcolm can see that her eyes are misty. ‘It’s not just that it’s really awkward doing things for myself,’ she raises her still-bandaged hand. ‘But also, Mum died in November and it will be my first Christmas without her.’
‘Oh, I am so sorry, my dear.’ Malcolm reaches out and touches her arm. ‘Of course you must come to us.’ Malcolm remembers his first Christmas without his mother. On Christmas Day he had sat alone – no decorations, no festive food, a book open unread in front of him. He had thought by not celebrating in any way, it would make it easier. All it had done was to create a chasm between what had been and what his life was like now. How would he have felt if someone had gathered him in? Someone like Ruth or Jo, which – he reflects – is what they eventually did do, making the three of them a sort of family. He is swept with a wave of guilt that he didn’t immediately welcome this young woman, and he pushes away the last of his reluctance. Really it should be jolly having this nice young woman join them. It wasn’t as if she was going to be staying the night. He would still be able to look after Ruth and make it special for her. And perhaps Polly Poole needed sanctuary too.
Miss Poole dabs at her eyes and rises saying, ‘Thank you. In some ways it was a relief for her. She’d had a series of strokes. At first it was her language and she and I managed with that – I could understand most of what she was saying. Then she became partly paralysed, and she really hated that.’ She reaches for another tissue in her bag, and tries to smile, ‘Just let me know what I can contribute apart from wine – obviously I will bring that.’ She turns to Rev. Ruth, ‘See you tomorrow at the nativity.’
When she is gone, they sit in silence for some moments.
‘Thank you for doing the raffle,’ Rev. Ruth says, then she pauses. ‘You don’t really know Polly that well, do you?’
‘It will be nice to get to know her better,’ Malcolm says, inclining his head politely.
‘I wouldn’t have asked her …’
Malcolm can hear the old self-doubt in his friend’s voice and is keen to reassure her. ‘No, say no more, Ruth. It is Christmas.’
‘You really don’t mind?’ she insists.
‘Not at all,’ he says with enthusiasm, wishing to soothe her. He cannot bear this good woman to feel awkward when all she was doing was being thoughtful. He then adds something more to set her mind at rest. He utters the well-worn cliché, ‘As far as I am concerned, the more the merrier!’
