‘Ah, Malcolm, I am so glad you are still here. Rev. Ruth said I might find you in the shop. I wanted to ask you this thing …’ she pauses uncertainly, ‘It is my friend Max. He is also stuck here over Christmas too, and I wondered if I could bring him on Christmas Day. But Rev. Ruth said I had to ask you.’ She is smiling hopefully, but Malcolm can tell she is anxious, and it suddenly strikes him that Yana really likes this Canadian Max.
‘Of course!’ Malcolm exclaims, breezily.
When the door closes behind a jubilant Yana, Padam screws up his nose and says, ‘You could have said no.’
‘Could I?’
Padam returns his helpless look.
‘No, I don’t suppose you could.’
It is only when Malcolm is walking home that he remembers Padam’s strange gesture, rubbing his wrist, and wonders what it was he had been about to say.
Chapter 8
The fairy godmother
Malcolm is waiting patiently in line. He is tired and he is cold. There is not a star to be seen above him and the wind blowing through the alleyway (he has never got in the habit of calling it a ginnel) is icy. But he had told Rev. Ruth he would come and support her in her performance as the fairy godmother inCinderella, and here he is.
He had slept badly the night before and, twisted up in tangled sheets, he had taken himself to task.
It would be good to have more around his table.
That was what Christmas was all about.
Didn’t he himself know what it was like to be lonely at Christmas?
But, despite acknowledging and believing all of this, he still feels something has been spoiled. And the fact that he recognizes the bitterness inside him as an unworthy and shameful thing makes him feel even worse.
The line of people queueing budges forward and so does he. He hates pantomimes, especially the sort that the pub is likely to put on – all bawdy jokes and burly men in drag. He’s surprised Rev. Ruth has agreed to be involved, even as a small walk-on part. Hasn’t she got better things to do? Shouldn’t she be doing her vicarly stuff? Or at the very least taking a rest. How can he be expected to look after her if she won’t help herself?
Malcolm brings himself up short. What is he doing? It is as if the wretched web of his discontent is reaching out and dragging everything else down with it. How can he possibly be feeling angry with his friend, who is doing nothing but good?
And as if by magic, there she is by his side, looking slightly strange in biker boots and a pink sparkly skirt that is only partly hidden by a puffer coat. There is a wand sticking out of her pocket.
‘Oh, there you are!’ the fairy godmother exclaims. ‘Good, I wanted to catch you.’
‘But what are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be backstage?’
‘Yes, yes, but I won’t see you afterwards and tomorrow …’ the fairy raises her eyes to heaven, ‘well, that’s a whole load of councillors, carols and then the RAF.’
‘Yes, but what is it, Ruth? Can I help you with something?’ With the good fairy godmother beside him, he can feel his resentment melting away.
‘I need to tell you something, but I don’t think you are going to be quite pleased with me. So I didn’t want to do it by text.’
Malcolm stiffens. He briefly wonders if she now can’t come for Christmas and he will be left surrounded by strangers. It would be like her to drop everything for someone else in need. He waits, cold and anxiety seeping into his bones.
‘It’s about Christmas lunch.’
‘Yerrss,’ Malcolm says slowly.
‘I’ve asked someone else to join us.’
Relief sweeps over him – sheisstill coming to him for Christmas – and he manages a pretty genuine, ‘That is not a problem at all.’ He inclines his head politely.
The relief is short-lived. The truth is, he wants to tell his friend how he really feels. He had wanted it to be just the two of them – or maybe three … he thinks of Polly Poole losing her mother. But now it looks as if he will have a houseful. But standing beside the good sparkly fairy (in biker boots), he knows this gathering together of waifs and strays comes from a kind place, and more than anything he wants her good opinion. He wants to be worthy of her.
‘I said the more the merrier and I meant it,’ he lies.
