‘I know,’ Ruth pats his arm, ‘When he and your brother died … I can quite understand after that …’ She leaves it unfinished.
‘I keep thinking of how my mother used to sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas” to me and my brother. That was a favourite of hers. Whenever I hear the words from that, I always think of her. Oh, and she did like taking us to Hamleys on Regent Street to see the Christmas windows.’
Ruth stretches. ‘I wish I could sit here forever, reminiscing, Malcolm. But I must go, I have a thousand things to do. I’m due at a service with the Yorkshire Royal Regiment.’ She stands and looks down at him. ‘But you are sure you are fine with all of this?’
He studies her. ‘Very much so. We will be a family.’ He chuckles, ‘EvenMrs Appleby. Now tell me who is going to be pleased to see her.’
Ruth again tips her head to one side – once more, like that elusive bird. ‘You wait and see.’
Malcolm stays seated as she moves away and soon he hears the old wooden door close. He wonders if he has been guilty of a type of conceit, wanting to be the provider of the feast. He certainly wanted to give his friend the best Christmas lunch ever, but he admits that maybe he got a bit carried away with thoughts of what Ruth would think of him for preparing it. What was it that Jo had said? Give in to Rev. Ruth – if you did, it usually worked out well.
Despite his own view of religion, Malcolm finds it really is rather pleasant sitting in the quiet and ancient building. The heating seems to have been fixed, so he is comfortably warm, wrapped in a world of polished wood, surrounded by the scent of spruce and candles. The twinkling lights of the tree cast shadows and illuminate glimpses of colour from the stained glass. And through the greenery and festive floral colours shines the purple of advent, the altar cloth and hangings from the lectern and pulpit.
In a low and melodious voice, Malcolm begins to sing, ‘On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me …’ He pauses.
A partridge?
Was that it? No. Not quite. He shakes himself and rises. Rev. Ruth isn’t the only one who has things to do.
It is past ten o’clock, and Malcolm is standing in his dining room staring anxiously down at his table. On it are several cookery books that are open at Christmas recipes. Beside them are sheaves of paper – lists, all made out in Malcolm’s immaculate copperplate handwriting.
There is no doubt about it, whichever way he looks at it, and he has been studying a table plan for some time: nine is going to be a problem. It is a small room and eight would be a squeeze, but possible. Nine now …
He recounts. The Three Disgraces, him and Ruth, Mrs Appleby, Yana and Max, and then there was Polly Poole …
His phone sounds and he sees it is Rev. Ruth.
‘Are you all right, Ruth?’
Perhaps she is calling to say Mrs Appleby has a better offer. One can but hope.
‘Um, yes, all is good. In fact, more than good. We have Yana on the case.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Malcolm frowns in his confusion.
‘Yana. She’s taking charge …’ She seems to sense his unease, ‘Oh, not of the hosting, but she is working out who will bring and do what, so it doesn’t all fall on you. She already has colour-coded spreadsheets.’
‘Yana?’ he says uncertainly.
‘Yes,Yana.’ Ruth laughs. ‘You do know she is a superlative organizer. Ran a huge farm in Ukraine. The Willoughbys were very lucky to get her for their Holstein herd. She is looking after more than three hundred cows.’
Malcolm blinks trying to catch up. Yana had seemed so slight, so small. He somehow hadn’t pictured her at home on a farm.
‘She’s also acting as a consultant for the Thomases for the production of ice-cream from their Jerseys.’
‘My goodness,’ is all Malcolm can manage.
‘I’ve given her your number. She’ll be in touch.’
‘Quite. I mean, thank you.’
‘And I have another idea. I’m not sure I can pull it off, but leave it with me.’ With this she hangs up, and Malcolm shakes his head. Leave what with her?
In a sudden moment of panic, Malcolm forgets all about Rev. Ruth.
The turkey!
He had forgotten the turkey. It is never going to feed nine and he is pretty sure it is too late to order another. Maybe a goose? For a mad moment he imagines himself opening his front door, grabbing the nearest small boy and instructing him to run to the poulterers to buy him the prize turkey. He can imagine the sort of response he would get. Malcolm heads to his study, pours himself a whisky and unearths his rarely used laptop.
