Looking down, he sees that his bootlace has come undone. He gingerly lowers himself, holding on to a nearby headstone and laying his torch on the ground. The last thing he needs to do is trip and fall and end up being taken to hospital by Mrs Appleby’s son. As he begins to pull himself upright again, he catches sight of the words that are carved on the grave beside him. They stand out stark, illuminated in the beam of his torch.
Still I love thee without art
Ancient person of my heart
He thinks of Padam. And of himself. Two old men. Was romance, love, ever too late? He remembers the words written by George Eliot, after whom Jo and Eric’s son was named:It is never too late to be what you might have been.
He stands motionless, rereading the words on the grave.
He is startled by a noise to his left, deep in the graveyard. For a moment he wonders if it is Mrs Appleby’s son, come to collect her. But why would he be coming this way? And he can’t see anybody moving around. Then close to the ground is a rustling. He has a strange sense of déjà vu. He picks up his torch and turns it in that direction, heart beating fast.
Emerging from between two headstones is a fox. Gleaming copper bright in his torch beam. They survey each other for a moment, the fox’s eyes luminous, and then the animal turns and trots back the way it has come. Malcolm is taken back to watching a fox trot away in an alleyway. His breath comes out in a cloud of mist in front of him, hanging like smoke in the beam of light. Then he hears it, emerging from the gap where the fox disappeared. A quiet voice, but nonetheless a voice.
‘Malcolm Buswell. The rest is up to you.’
Above him the church clock sounds the hour of two, and he realizes it isthattime:the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning.
Chapter 12
Christmas Day
Malcolm is discovering there are some advantages to being older. His bones may be aching and his joints are stiff, but he is not in the least bit tired. These days he finds he can manage quite well on very little sleep. Which, as he stands in front of his open wardrobe, is just as well. For an instant he thinks of Mr Tumnus andTheLion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. But why would he want to walk through his wardrobe to snow and adventure, when outside his front door the world is a hushed winter wonderland full of promise? He half wonders if he really heard the voice speaking to him last night, but immediately rejects this thought. He may be seventy-eight, but he wants to be a man who believes in magic. He chuckles to himself; he wants to help keep all the fairies alive and well. So, he will take the fox’s advice and put his best foot forward. The first step in making things happen for himself. Malcolm reaches for his favourite suit – bottle green, pure wool. Beautifully cut, with tortoiseshell buttons. He then selects a white shirt (Egyptian cotton) and a tie of abstract design, depicting mustard and ochre thistles interspersed with scarlet berries. He adds a pair of stout brown brogues and a sturdy stick of ash.
As he closes his front door behind him and studies the gargoyle under its fringe of greenery, he is visited by a strong sense of expectation that is more than anticipation. It is a feeling of excitement that is almost like a physical ache. It is so strong it nearly takes his breath away. He thinks of spending the day with a mix of people, who until a few days ago he would not have imagined having around his Christmas table. The mere thought of them all is enough to make anyone’s day. And yet – he pauses looking up the snowy street – there is something more. He can feel it in his bones. And he knows thisfeeling in his joints is not just the sensation of an old man who should not have been dancing to Elvis into the early hours. He turns and starts his slow and steady progress along the street. Was it the coming of the fox? And why does that make him think, not just of Padam, but also of his mother? He has no idea.
He reaches the church just as the congregation is spilling out into the sunny, snow-filled morning. He had thought about attending the family service – the last one Ruth will have to take today. But there is only so much church an atheist can handle, however beautiful the setting and however wonderful the vicar. It is now nearly noon and the lunch guests are due at 1 p.m. He wonders if any of the guests came to church, and immediately spots Mrs Appleby. She gives him a nod, which could almost be called friendly. Behind her are Yana and Max. Yana beckons him. ‘Merry Christmas, Malcolm! You here to help?’
‘Of course,’ he says, bowing slightly.
‘Right!’ And with that Yana is off, issuing instructions, left and right, before weaving through the dispersing crowd to where a military-looking truck is pulling up. ‘Looks like the army are here.’
Malcolm makes his way into the church, ready to start setting the table (his allotted task), looking around just in case Padam has decided to come early. There is no sign of him, but he spots a small golden figure disappearing into the vestry. Rev. Ruth, presumably off to get changed.
The church is warm and fragrant, and the congregation seems to have left something of their Christmas spirit within the polished woodwork. The sun is streaming through the stained-glass, making patterns on the stone floor and illuminating the golden hangings. Churchwarden Glen had been right: it is all rather magnificent.
‘May I help you with that?’
Turning around, Malcolm nearly loses his footing, despite the sturdy brogues – Padam is standing beside him in traditional Nepalese dress. He is wearing cream silk trousers and a knee-length daura. A sash of gold and scarlet lies across his chest, and on his hip is sheathed a jewel-handled knife. If Malcolm had thought the church was looking magnificent, the sight of Padam simply takes his breath away.
He is saved from answering by the arrival of two men in army fatigues with moss-coloured berets on their heads. The older is a big man, with a large open face, and when he smiles, the unexpected glint of a gold tooth. The younger is small, sinewy and compact. He looks as if he would be good in a fight. ‘Royal Yorkshires reporting for duty,’ the older man says jovially. ‘Oven is plugged in, turkey delivered. Now what else can we do?’ The younger man leans in and mumbles something to him, distracting him, ‘That’s right lad, you get things sorted in the kitchen.’ And with this, the smaller man makes his escape. ‘Not one for the pleasantries,’ the older soldier says by way of explanation. ‘But a great one in the kitchen with a knife.’
Malcolm rather boggles at this, imagining a culinary bloodbath.
The man holds out a huge paw. ‘Jim, pleased to meet you.’
Malcolm’s hand is gripped and, having introduced himself, he makes Padam known.
‘My goodness is that a kukri?’ Jim asks Padam, gesturing to the knife. ‘Gurkha?’ he adds, with a definite note of respect.
‘Retired,’ Padam says modestly, ‘and yes, this kukri has been part of my family’s long history.’
Jim then asks Padam about his service and the two men compare notes on where they have served, until Malcolm is feeling more and more like the retired tax analyst thathe is. ‘May I have a look at your kukri?’ he asks, trying to break in on the conversation, and register his interest.
Jim lets out a big bellow of laughter, which makes Malcolm take a step back. Padam doesn’t laugh but, smiling, he puts a hand on Malcolm’s arm. ‘It is better not to take it out,’ he says mildly.
‘That’s for sure,’ Jim booms. ‘Can’t be re-sheathed until the kukri has tasted blood. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed,’ Padam affirms.
