‘They are, mate. Real Farmer Eliot pants with all those tractors,’ Eric assures him.
‘I’mnotFarmer Eliot,’ the little boy insists worriedly, ‘I’m just Eliot.’
Jo hugs him to her. ‘That’s right, you’remyEliot.’
Eliot throws an arm briefly round her neck, before wriggling free.
Next to Malcolm, Ruth is now making the most extraordinary noise. He thinks it is a low growl. This is followed by a definite bark. He is about to say something, but Eliot gets there before him. ‘Good dog!’ he cries. Now Ruth is panting, tongue lolling. Eliot jumps off Jo’s lap and clambers up onto Ruth, as if she is a mountain he is well used to climbing. He reaches under her towel, which is now draped around her neck like a scarf. He draws back in disappointment. ‘You haven’t got your dog collar on.’ His voice is accusatory.
Eric jumps in. ‘Mate, dogs never wear their collars when they go swimming.’ Eliot seems satisfied and he turns contentedly back to Rev. Ruth, patting her vigorously.
‘Ready?’ Eric asks. He adds under his breath to Jo, ‘I think he needs feeding.’
‘I need a snack,’ Eliot declares, catching the murmured words and jumping down.
‘No, bear, we’re going to get some lunch. You’ve already had enough snacks.’ Eric hurries on, before Eliot can draw breath to argue. ‘We could go over the road to the old station. You like the pizzas they do there.’
‘Or there’s the Little Drummer Boy tearoom,’ Jo suggests. She adds for Malcolm and Ruth’s benefit: ‘That’s his current favourite, he’s become a bit obsessed with the old legend.’
They nod. Both are familiar with the tale of the drummer boy sent down to investigate an old tunnel that was believed to run between Richmond Castle and Easby Abbey. The older soldiers couldn’t fit, so waited and listened for the sound of the small boy’s drum, until the drumming suddenly stopped and nothing was ever seen or heard of the boy again. Malcolm thinks that if he did believe in ghosts, he wouldn’t blame the drummer boy if he came back and haunted that particular regiment.
Maybe the drummer boy could visit the bookshop in his new book?
Malcolm concentrates back on the conversation in front of him. It seems the station has been decided upon, and Eric is suggesting they could see what film is on in the cinema that afternoon.
‘Whatever you like, mate. What d’you fancy?’
‘Can we go to the library?’
Malcolm feels a swell of borrowed pride that this little boy already likes books. He might ask Padam’s advice about what to get Eliot for Christmas.
It is Jo who replies, helping Eliot into his coat, ‘I’m really sorry, Eliot. The library’s closed on Sundays.’
The little boy, with messy ash-blond hair just like his dad’s, studies her for a moment. A look of confusion puckers his face. ‘But it isn’t a sun day, it’s a rain day.’
Malcolm thinks it’s hard to argue with that sort of logic.
Chapter 2
A host of angels
It is Monday morning and Malcolm is in the bookshop, which is looking very festive. Padam has put a potted Christmas tree in the window and hung it with twinkling fairy lights, along with baubles that resemble miniature books, pencils, pens, and even a tiny typewriter. The fragrance of pine and cinnamon in the air mix with the enticing smell of new books. In the main body of the shop, the worn wooden bookshelves are draped in more fairy lights, some donated by Malcolm from the collection that he and his mother had built up over the years. Across the ceiling, heading towards the children’s section, are strung Buddhist prayer flags in colourful primary colours, Padam brushing aside Malcolm’s comment about religious and cultural inconsistencies with a gentle, ‘It takes all sorts, my friend.’
At the time, Malcolm had wanted to reassure Padam that he wasn’t criticizing his religion and that his best friend was a vicar, despite himself being an atheist. But this had seemed too complicated to embark upon, so he had simply replied, ‘Indeed,’ and gone to make them more tea, hoping that Padam understood.
Malcolm treasures their conversations, talk that blossoms in the gaps between customers. Sometimes it is a short vibrant exchange thrown across the books, at other times the words flow gently, the sharing of news and experiences wrapping around them. Padam tells him about his life with the Gurkhas, and how he finally settled in Richmond, where his nephew lives. He speaks of his love of mountains and hill walking. Although, now he is nearly seventy, he admits he does find the going harder. During the early days Malcolm had often preferred to listen, feeling like the poor man at the feast. His past work as a tax analyst hardly worthy of mention. He has rarely travelled and hasnever fought. He likes to walk but can’t ever remember climbing a mountain. On one such tongue-tied occasion, his glance had fallen upon his book, the copper-coloured fox on the cover glistening in the late afternoon sunshine, and it seemed to Malcolm that the fox was giving him a nudge. So he had ended up telling Padam of how he came to meet Rev. Ruth and Jo, and of their Christmas Eve in Highgate Cemetery.
Now his novella is once more back in stock, reissued for Christmas. Padam straightens up from where he has been arranging a display of the books by the till. Today he is wearing a Fair Isle vest in a pleasing mix of mustard, greens and woodland browns, which Malcolm considers extremely tasteful and attractive. Lost in thought, he almost misses Padam’s next remark.
‘I think we should put a card with some of the reviews on it next to the books, and maybe a photo of the author?’ Padam suggests, weathered face crinkled from suppressing a grin.
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Malcolm blusters, blushing.
‘Well, maybe I will let you off the photograph. After all, I can always point out our famous author to customers.’
Malcolm issues a stream of incoherent protestations.
Padam talks gently but firmly over them. ‘At the very least, I am going to put this review out.’ He fishes a card from under the pile of books. He reads it aloud.
