‘Goodness.’ Malcolm holds his hands out helplessly. ‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’
‘Let’s take a rain check on a meal, that would be wonderful. I do find I’m just grabbing what I can here and there, this time of year.’ Rev. Ruth shakes her head, ‘You’d think I’d lose a bit of weight, but I always seem to end up eating rubbish. Still,’ she says, brightening, ‘only ten days to go until Christmas and then I can collapse in a heap.’
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ Malcolm asks. Last year, Ruth’s extended family had visited from Canada.
‘I have no idea,’ Ruth admits. ‘I honestly haven’t thought that far ahead.’
‘Still no word from your brother in Scotland?’ Malcolm enquires, gently. When they had first met, Ruth had tried to make peace with her brother, a Scot who thoroughly disapproved of her, especially her calling to become a priest in the Church of England.
‘No,’ Ruth admits. ‘Which is sad, but also a bit of a relief.’
‘Well, I don’t want you to think about that any more. You have enough on your plate … so to speak.’ Malcolm bows a little awkwardly, ‘I would be honoured if you would join me for Christmas lunch and I would be most happy for you to stay the night and I would consider it a privilege to look after you.’
Rev. Ruth’s eyes are swimming as she looks up at him.
He hurries on, not wishing to cause his friend embarrassment. As he speaks, it occurs to him – maybe this is the Christmas spirit he has been missing? Not ignited by the sight of baubles and fairy lights, but by the desire to look after his friend. ‘And even ifall you want to do after lunch is to sleep by my fire, that would be more than acceptable and would make your old friend very happy.’
Rev. Ruth unceremoniously clasps Malcolm to her and hugs him tight, but not before he sees the tears spilling from her eyes. He takes a big breath in, fighting the urge to join in the weeping. Instead, he concentrates on holding the plump bird-like form to him, resisting the compulsion to step away – an instinct built up over years of not touching a soul.
Rev. Ruth gives him a final squeeze just as the doors open and a new flood of children make their noisy way into the church.
After a wave of the hand, Malcolm makes good his escape. But he moves down the aisle with a lighter step. He is going to give Rev. Ruth the best Christmas lunch she has ever had.
Chapter 3
Christmas spirits
Five minutes later, Malcolm is hurrying along Riverside Road, following the path of the river Swale. Beside him the river rushes and tumbles as if conscious of his mood. His long stride easily overtakes other walkers ambling along the footpath. He is filled with so much enthusiastic energy following his idea to give Rev. Ruth the gift of a delicious and restful Christmas that he feels the need to burn some of this off by walking the long way back to his house. To his right rises a steep bank, at the top of which towers the imposing wall of Richmond Castle. Even though it is early afternoon, the light is already fading, and the stone that on some days can look golden now appears flat and grey. Rooks circle overhead in the charcoal sky. Looking through the skeletal branches of the trees to his left, he follows the river as it widens. In patches the pools are now deepening to ink black. But none of this creeping darkness can touch his mood. Malcolm Buswell is aglow with Christmas Spirit.
As he strides along, he ticks off things in his mind: the tree is already up, but he will add some more lanterns to the sitting room; get new tableware too; and he will make sure his best guest room is warm and cosy and filled with treats and books that Rev. Ruth might enjoy. But what to cook?
He is taken back to his last Christmas with his mother. The two of them deciding which dishes they fancied for their quiet but still festive Christmas day. Even though she ate so little … should he have been more aware of her failing appetite? He wonders if he had denied what is now so clear: his mother had been ailing. No dramatic, disease-filled ending, just a fading away of the mother he loved. Still, they had enjoyed that last Christmas. Delicious morsels to punctuate their day, rather than a banquet or feast. Butstill appreciated. They had talked easily, read books, shared favourite poems. They had laughed. His mother had a gentle sardonic wit which he still misses. It brought out his own humour, like few people ever could. Maybe, in that way, Rev. Ruth is a bit like his mother, he reflects. There had been no reference to religion though, although Malcolm recalls something inside him shifting when he heard the sound of carols being sung somewhere further down their street. Not for them the blessing of the coming of Christ. No feeling of hope. That had all ended with the early death of his father and brother.
He pictures his hand lingering on that London bookshelf, suspended over the worn copy of a childhood favourite: ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’. A colourful book depicting the song his mother had brought to life, singing it to him and his brother. He wonders for an instant where that book went. It had the most wonderful jewel-coloured illustrations, the many characters appearing to leap between the snow-white pages. He is sure it is no longer on his shelves. But, despite the poignancy of these memories, and the aching loss brought on by half-remembered carol singing, ithadbeen a good Christmas. He had always worried that he was a disappointment to his mother. He had never doubted that she loved him.
Malcolm picks up his pace, keen to get back to the recipe books that are tucked on the shelves in his kitchen. He knew food had the power to restore, possibly the power to heal. He strides up the cobbled hill leading to his Georgian house on Newbiggen.
Halfway up he stops, panting and, leaning over, he holds onto his thighs. ‘Don’t kill yourself before Christmas,’ he mutters. From this crouched position he looks across to the small chapel-like building opposite – this houses the Richmond Operatic Society. It is then he spots the Three Disgraces heading towards the open door. It is dusk now, and the light from within illuminates the three old ladies, like spotlights on a stage. At the door they catch sight of him and, waving cheerfully, each drops him a theatricalcurtsy. Much laughter follows as two of them must help one of their number to rise to standing again.
Grace – well he thinks it’s Grace – calls, ‘Gracey is going to take a turn in the Christmas special tomorrow with the Operatic Society. You should come!’
He waves back, calling, ‘I may well do that, ladies!’
Just look at him, Malcolm Buswell, the man who used to be crippled by shyness –calling out to his friends in the street! He finds he wants to laugh out loud. For a moment he wishes his mother could see this, the man he has become. With renewed vigour he tackles the last bit of the hill leading to the street where he lives. Even that makes him chuckle, as it reminds him of something Rev. Ruth once said to him. Teasing him that he chose to live in the street with the Catholic church. ‘And you a confirmed bachelor … oh sorry, I mean atheist.’
He walks along the broad cobbled avenue that is Newbiggen, taking in the lit windows that give a glimpse of the Christmas trees within. As soon as he gets home, he will turn on the white fairy lights that cover his tree. Malcolm believes Christmas tree lights, like his pocket handkerchiefs, should be simple and white. He studies the different door wreaths as he passes. Eucalyptus with burgundy skimmia – very elegant. A Christmas confection of red, green and gold – very festive. A circle of plastic pink and purple baubles – maybe not. He will go down and talk to the local florist tomorrow and select a wreath. Something festive but tasteful. He reaches his front door, and it gives him immense pleasure to think this is where he now lives, and that he was brave enough to make the move from London. Perhaps he isn’t such a dull dog after all.
The house is built in a mellow yellowing stone. It has three storeys, and a front door painted a deep teal green. To the right of the door, a long rectangular window shows his unlit Christmas tree. He studies his door knocker. A demon-like face with around brass ring in its mouth. Rev. Ruth had told him it was a sanctuary knocker, similar to the one at Durham Cathedral. Those holding tight to the knocker would be offered thirty-seven days of sanctuary in the cathedral to plan reconciliations – or their escape. Well, he would make sure that Ruth got sanctuary this Christmas. He would ensure that no one knocked at his door bothering her and trespassing on her good nature. He reaches for his key and studies the demon once more.
The gargoyle-like face stares back.
He nods. What had he expected? The demon to turn into the Ghost of Christmas Past … or was it Marley that it turned into? Didn’t the ghosts come later? The knocker turning into Scrooge’s old partner, Marley, had been the first sign.
‘What are you looking at?’ he says out loud.
‘Nothing, pet,’ comes a voice from behind him.
He spins around to find his neighbour’s housekeeper studying him. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mrs Wilson.’ Then he stops. What can he possibly say to explain this?
