‘So you’ll have no regrets about leaving London?’ Ruth asks, pointedly.
What can she say? She has no idea. Here in Highgate Cemetery it has been magical; she will treasure the memory of this Christmas Eve for ever.
But … Eric the Viking? Her stomach lurches. Where is he? When will she see him again? Has she left it too late?
‘Has Eric the—’ But Ruth gets no further.
‘Oh course!’ Jo exclaims. ‘He’s helping Crisis at Christmas.’ And she recalls Lando saying that Eric always turned up to do eye-tests for the homeless on Christmas Eve. Was he still there now? Could she find out where that was?
‘Joanne, I think there is something you are not telling us,’ Malcolm says.
And so she tells them. Explains about Caramel Toffee Clare, about Finn, and how she left Lucy in the pub and drove through the snow to get here. But that when she got to the alleyway, there was no Eric the Viking.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Malcolm asks.
‘I have no idea.’
‘Want me to light a candle for you?’ Ruth says, with a grin.
‘Will you?’
‘Of course.’
‘You know, another thing I thought about up on the moors,’ Jo interjects. ‘Some customers in the shop would always take the fountain pens apart. They needed to know how they worked. I think some people look at life and religion in the same way – they need to dissect it to make sense of it. I’m just not one of them. I don’t think I need to keep pulling apart what I believe. I just know how I feel. And that’s enough.’
She understands now that she is a woman who will lighta candle for a friend; wish them well in her thoughts; swim in a freezing pond in memory of a good woman she never knew … and from now on, she will also thank the gods sometimes with wine poured on the earth. She also believes that a fox could visit a grieving man, and that by saying goodnight to her absent uncle each night, she is connecting with him somehow.
It may not make sense to anyone else, but it makes sense to her. She looks at the two figures beside her, bundled up in coats and blankets, faces half lit by the guttering candle, and is overwhelmed by her love for them. They are her dear friends.
They sit in silence for some time. Then the candle eventually fizzes and dies.
‘Time to go home, I think,’ Malcolm’s voice sounds in the dark.
Ruth switches on her torch and together they gather all the blankets and cushions, stuffing them into the Ikea bags they have been sitting on. They make their way cautiously towards the stepladder. There is no one about, and the streetlamp throws an orange glow over the fresh snow. Their footprints from earlier have all but disappeared. With lots of encouragement and laughter, they get over the railings without mishap. Malcolm then tucks the stepladder and lantern out of sight behind a hedge, saying he will collect them later.
‘There we go, two less things to carry back. What are our plans now?’ he asks.
‘Well, I am going to midnight mass with Reverend Abayomrunkoje – he has promised there will be mulled wine and mince pies. Would you care to join me?’
Jo is astounded when Malcolm says, ‘Yes, I believe I would like that.’
They look at him in astonishment. He adds a caveat: ‘But do not for a moment think that I am changing my views on God.’
‘Oh, I will have you running the cake stall before you know it,’ Ruth jokes.
And Jo thinks, she probably will. God or no God.
‘And you, Joanne, will you join us?’ Malcolm asks, bowing his head slightly, in the old polite manner.
‘No. I think I’ll go back to the flat. I should call Lucy and …’ She doesn’t know what else to say, as she has no clear idea of what she intends to do.
Ruth picks up the two Ikea bags filled with blankets and cushions. ‘Well, you make sure you call us. And if you stay in London, come to us for Christmas Dinner. Malcolm has invited me to stay with him.’
Jo is pleased to see Reverend Ruth is back to organizing them all, but with none of her previous slump into anxiety. Malcolm then retrieves a pen and scrap of paper from the bottom of his basket, so he can write down their phone numbers for Jo. They part with hugs and kisses – Jo getting tangled up in the Ikea bags – then Ruth and Malcolm tramp off down the lane.
Jo watches them go, the tall figure in an afghan coat striding easily; the smaller figure throwing up a flurry of snow with small, deliberate steps. As they disappear from sight she thinks she hears the words, ‘Sweeet Jeeesuus!’ drifting back to her, and the sound of laughter.
Up the hill the snow lies drifting against the cemetery wall. No cars have braved the steep slope. The scene ahead is pristine white, apart from a line of small paw prints – a fox? Jo fleetingly thinks of Eve Buswell.
