‘Oh,thank you, Malcolm.’ She glances about her, ‘Goodness, I really must go!’
‘But who is it?’ Malcolm tries to catch at the arm of her puffer coat as she moves away.
‘Jean Appleby. Her son’s doing shifts on the ambulances over Christmas, and she was going to be all alone. And we couldn’t have that,’ the fairy godmother calls over her shoulder.
‘Mrs Appleby!’
It seems something of his consternation and outrage has a carrying quality, and at the back door of the pub, the fairy godmother turns. She now has her wand in her hand. ‘Oh, she’s not as bad as she seems.’ She waves her wand, as if somehow this will transform Malcolm’s opinion of the rude and abrasive church cleaner. ‘And there is someone who will be really pleased she is there. Just you wait and see!’ she calls as the door closes behind her.
‘But I won’t be pleased to see her,’ Malcolm mutters audibly, attracting glances from the crowd who are already amused and interested by the appearance of their vicar as part-fairy godmother, part-biker. But the vision in pink tulle and leather has now disappeared.
‘But what do I matter?’ he mutters. ‘It’s only my house.My home.’
And with this, Malcolm turns on his heel. He no longer has the stomach for the performance. He stalks down the alleyway, heading back to his home, back to his sanctuary, which he now knows is going to be invaded by a bunch of strangers, one of whom thinks he has more hair than sense.
The next day he is out striding across the Dales by 9 a.m., leaving his bed unmade – something he never does. The sky above him perfectly suits his mood. It is grey and heavy. An oppressive, weighty blanket that seems to bear down on the surrounding hills, robbing them of colour. The air is still and cold, and to Malcolm it is as if the world is caught in wintry monochrome. He thinks of the copper-coloured fox. That encounter in Highgate Cemetery seems many years ago now. It had been at the lowest point in his life. He had slumped down, hidden behind some graves. It was the dead of winter and he had every intention of mirroring the season. It was then a fox had appeared from behind a headstone, and in those gleaming golden eyes he had read a message. A message from his departed mother; it told him that he, Malcolm Buswell, was enough, and all he needed to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Maybe it was a mistake to move here? Maybe he should have stayed the urban animal he was, enjoying the parks and the wildlife of the city’s cemeteries? The time he had spent with Jo and Ruth, a memory he could preserve to sustain him. Rather than assuming he could become part of their lives. He had thought of calling Jo to talk to her, but she has her own life, busy with family and the prospect of a new baby. And it is clear he is not really part of Ruth’s life. She looks after so many people, how can he possibly matter to her? One in so many. He had wanted to look after her. Give her a special gift. The gift of sanctuary. He grimaces wryly as he walks. He, Malcolm Buswell, had been prepared to fight off all who demanded something of her, once she had her hand on his sanctuary knocker. He would have kept the world out, let her rest.
She has invited them all in.
The walk across the hills has worn him out, and he hopes that tonight he will sleep. He had returned home, remade his bed, and spent the rest of the day pottering. He avoidsattending to any Christmas task, but dons a yellow pinny and cleans his bathrooms, hoovers and dusts, and then sits at his kitchen table listening to a Radio 4 adaptation ofThe Canterville Ghostby Oscar Wilde as he polishes his silver. These homely tasks, accompanied by cups of Earl Grey tea, have done much to soothe him. He has not looked at his phone or ventured into town. For today at least, Malcolm is happy to stay cocooned inside his home. He makes himself a light supper of cheese and biscuits, with a glass of burgundy, and he takes these into his sitting room. Normally he would eat sitting at his kitchen or dining-room table, but the walk has aggravated his knee, and he thinks resting it on a cushion on the ottoman might ease it.
He lights the fire and turns on the lamps around the room. For an instant, he thinks of leaving the Christmas tree lights off, but the window looms before him, accusing in its unlit austerity, and he thinks of Scrooge. He is not that man. He still believes in Christmas, even if his bruised soul needs a day off. He flicks the switch and the glistening of the twinkling lights immediately lift his spirits. He scans his shelves for a book to read. SpottingA Christmas Carol, he thinks of Padam, who said he read this book each Christmas. He cannot think of him without a feeling of hopelessness. Whether this is because of his current mood, he does not know, but he moves along the shelves, feeling that he is not ready to face the ghosts of Christmas Past.
He thinks back to the evening with Padam in the bookshop, trawling through and sharing children’s books, the air filled with the scent of spices from the mulled wine. The memory pierces him, making him want to cry. How can he, Malcolm Buswell, refuse others the sanctuary of his home, when he knows so well what it is to be lonely? He sighs, not knowing how to truly embrace others as Rev. Ruth does, and worse, not knowing how to banish the feelings of disappointment and of something precious spoiled. Instinctively he reaches for a children’s book. He is tired, his knee is aching.These are things that can wait for another day. For now he will sink into the world of Ratty and Mole. Malcolm settles himself in his favourite chair, wine and cheese within easy reach, knee elevated, and he opensThe Wind in the Willows.
He falls asleep just as Mole calls out piteously to Ratty:
‘Please stop, Ratty!’ pleaded the poor Mole, in anguish of heart. ‘You don’t understand! It’s my home, my old home! I’ve just come across the smell of it, and it’s close by here, really quite close. And Imustgo to it. I must, I must!’
Malcolm comes to, with the words still playing in his mind. He knows he is like Mole, a homebird. The thought of birds takes him back to Ruth and the recurring question of what bird she reminds him of. Wishing to avoid all this brings; his sleep-befuddled mind wanders into thoughts of the smell of his home. What fragrance does he associate with his home? Wood from the fire, fresh pine from the Christmas tree, the smell of polish lingering, and candles too. Spiced orange, mixed with cinnamon and bergamot. He hopes his home doesn’t have an old-man smell, despite it clearly being the abode of an ancient man. He keeps windows open and often selects diffusers with names like The Greenhouse or Late Summer. His latest one is simply called Winter, a mix of nutmeg, cedar and clove.
He doesn’t know if he is still sleeping and dreaming ofThe Wind in the Willows,but the soft sound of carols permeates his consciousness. His mind drifts to images of carolling dormice visiting Mole End. But no, Malcolm shakes himself awake. No dormouse has such a baritone. Or, he suspects, is so out of time. The singing is becoming louder. Enthusiastic and with just a nod at musicality. Further down the street, the singers are now belting out, ‘Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by.’
Even an atheist like Malcolm can recognize ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. It comes to him that maybe it is wrong for an atheist to enjoy carols. He settles himself morecomfortably in his chair. The fire is low and he flicks the lamp off beside him, enjoying a world of dying firelight and twinkling Christmas tree lights. Soon they are at his door and he can hear the strains of ‘The first Noel, the angels did say…’ He levers himself out of the chair, unsure if he should try and find some cash. He thinks he may have a £10 note somewhere. He keeps one for emergencies.
Malcolm shuffles over to the window, his legs stiff from inactivity. He peers round the curtain out into the street. There are about fifteen or so carollers, wrapped up in coats, gloves and scarves, some of the number holding lanterns high. Others using phones to read the words. They appear to only be singing a couple of verses of each carol and are now on to ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’. It is then that he spots Ruth, lantern held high at the back of the group. He wants to go out and welcome them all in like Mole and Ratty, or at the very least make a donation. But he is hidebound by his indecision. He can’t face Ruth just yet. Part of this he recognizes as cowardice, and part is motivated by a genuine wish to be a better man and to welcome people as she does.
In the end, the decision is made for him.
‘Don’t think he’s in,’ the baritone calls to the others, and the group moves on.
Malcolm sinks back into his chair with a sigh. Head bowed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. Even in his distress, he recognizes that in another man this might look like prayer. And Malcolm Buswell silently acknowledges – maybe this is just what it is.
Chapter 9
A change in the weather
His sanctuary knocker is being banged for all it is worth. Malcolm hurries from the kitchen, drying his hands on the tea towel as he goes. He has just finished breakfast and is washing up.
Jo is standing on the doorstep.
‘Joanne!’ he exclaims, stating the obvious.
‘Can I come in?’ she asks, ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he says stepping backwards, and nearly falling over in his haste. ‘Is everything all right?’ As she steps into the hallway and takes off her coat, he glances down at her bump. It is proud and splendid under a multicoloured, striped woollen dress. She hands him her coat, ‘I’m fine, Malcolm. It’s you I’m worried about.’
