Hen.
A French hen.
Malcolm feels his knees almost give way.
He looks up at the crowd of Christmas diners. All are now gathered around the piano and Gracey is singing to them. She is standing on a hassock, a small upright figure in red, Max holding her hand to steady her. Her face is alight, and her clear notes warble into the air. She really does have a wonderful voice.
A calling bird.
Malcolm shakes his head, trying to clear it. But no. It comes in a flood now.
Yana; Ruth said she ran a herd of three hundred Holstein. A maid a-milking.
Max; the Canadian goose. What was it? Six geese a-laying.
Malcolm grasps the back of a chair and, as he turns it around to collapse into, he is no longer surprised by the next two consecutive thoughts. Mrs Appleby, a lady dancing, with Malcolm Buswell. A lord who had been a-leaping over the heads of the children in the church. His knee still sometimes twinges. At this point Amazing Grace shimmies past his seat, moving to the song that Gracey is singing, accompanied now by the others.
‘Grace,’ he calls after her.
She turns, smiling, ‘This is a simply marvellous party, Mr Buswell.’
‘Grace,’ he repeats more insistently, ‘when you danced with the Bolshoi, what ballet was it?’
‘Tchaikovsky of course, darling.Swan Lake.’
‘And what part did you play?’
‘I was a cygnet. All of us in those delicious white tutus.’
He has his swan.
It comes to him he already has his piper. Hadn’t Sergeant Major Jim said as much? Roddy would pipe in the turkey.
It is unbelievable. He sits, rubbing his hands together, trying to remember the exact words of the song his mother sang for him. The same song he had found illustrated as a print, which he has gift-wrapped for each of the guests. Giving each of them a part of what for him had been a family Christmas tradition.
He barely notices Padam draw up a chair beside him.
He does notice him take his hand, ‘What is it, Malcolm?’ Padam leans his head forward. ‘Are you worried about Ruth? I am sure she will be here soon. She would not let you down.’
‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Oh, my goodness, how does he explain? Then he thinks, why on earth wouldn’t he? He is a man who listens to foxes and who believes in fairies.
‘It is just that I can see them all here,’ he starts.
‘See who?’
Malcolm takes a steadying breath. ‘I told you once that when I was young, my mother used to sing “The Twelve Days of Christmas” to me and my brother. I have been thinking of her so much recently, missing her. But also, I realize, wanting her to know how happy I am and …’ he looks around helplessly. ‘And the ridiculous thing is they are allhere.I know it’s nonsense, but they are,’ he says, helplessly.
‘Tell me who is who,’ Padam asks. And Malcolm thinks he sounds remarkably calm for a man who is talking to a madman.
So, he explains. Polly, the French hen; Gracey, the calling bird; Yana, a maid a-milking; himself a lord a-leaping; Max, the goose; Amazing Grace, the swan; Roddy the piper piping; and Mrs Appleby, a lady dancing. Padam’s eyes widen slightly at his explanation of their dancing in the kitchen to Elvis, but otherwise he remains remarkably calm. In fact, more than that, he is now smiling. His hazel eyes sparkling. Malcolm looks at him beseechingly.
For a long while, Padam remains silent. Then he looks down, and Malcolm sees again that strange gesture. Padam is fiddling with his cuff. Then, slowly and deliberately he undoes the shirt button at his wrist and he speaks. ‘I told you once that I represented my country. I did not want to boast, but since then I wished I had told you that I alsorepresented Nepal at the Olympics.’ With this he folds back the cuff of his shirt and turns his arm over. There they are tattooed on the rich coloured skin of his wrist.
Five interlocking rings.
‘They were once a deep bronze, almost red, but they have faded over time to—’
‘Gold,’ Malcolm finishes, looking up at him.
