The tall figure of Malcolm staggers through the door, blood trickling down over his right eye. He is blinking rapidly, but does not appear to be able to focus. One hand is holding onto the doorframe, the other arm is limp by his side.
Ruth moves like a greyhound out of the traps, and before Jo can even step towards Malcolm, Ruth has inserted her small, bird-like form under Malcolm’s arm, her own arm around his waist. It looks as if she is tucking herself under his wing. Ruth readjusts her hold and heaves at Malcolm, just as his body starts to slump. With a grunt she drags his body into a more upright position.
With one hand reaching behind her for the shop’s stool, Jo’s legs start to move. She whisks round the counter to get to the two figures. Between her and Ruth they half drag, half carry Malcolm to where Jo had dropped the stool.
As he slumps onto it, he reaches out both hands to grasp the edge of the counter, steadying himself. Jo spins on the spot and locks the shop door, flicking theClosedsign over, before whirling back to the bowed figure.
‘Malcolm?! What happened?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Joanne – I felt so faint and then all I saw was your shop.’
Being seated seems to bring Malcolm back to some sense of where he is, although the blood that was running down his face is now dripping onto the counter and the new packs of cards. Ruth leans forwards and whips them out of the way, placing them on a shelf behind her.
‘I saw your shop and headed to it, like a beacon in the storm.’
Jo feels a surge of relief at hearing Malcolm’s voice regain some of its lyrical, measured rhythm.
‘Well, let’s get you sorted,’ Ruth says briskly, stepping closer to Malcolm, but not touching him. ‘Do I have your permission to look at that cut?’
‘Are you a doctor, madam?’ Malcolm looks at Ruth as if seeing her for the first time.
‘No, I’m a priest.’
‘As bad as that?’ Malcolm says, looking at her with a slow, rueful shake of the head.
The smile that Ruth gives Malcolm lights up the shop. ‘Now, Jo, would you get me a bowl of warm water, a towel, and if you have them, cotton wool, lint, bandages and scissors.’ Ruth asks, calmly.
A place for everything and everything in its place. Jo can immediately picture where Uncle Wilbur keeps his first-aid kit. She dashes into the back of the shop and returns a few moments later, carrying everything Ruth has asked for.
‘… and so you have found yourself visiting this shop too?’ Malcolm is speaking, head held up, whilst Ruth gently wipes his face with a large white handkerchief – Malcolm’s, Jo presumes.
‘Mmm,’ Ruth murmurs, then dips the handkerchief into the warm water Jo has brought with her and goes back to her task. Jo has such a sense of being in safe hands that she dismisses all thought of calling 999.
‘I can see that you have done this before, madam,’ Malcolm comments, leaning forward so Ruth can more easily reach the wound.
‘Oh, it comes with the territory. Blood, poo and vomit are the vicar’s lot.’
‘But hopefully not all at once. A very unholy trinity,’ Malcolm suggests, and Ruth, eyes not moving from her work, makes a small snorting noise.
‘But you must introduce us, Joanne – I can’t keep calling this kind lady “madam”.’
‘This is Ruth,’ Jo explains, repeating in her head – do not call her the Runaway Vicar. Then she remembers the newspaper article. ‘Ruth Hamilton,’ she adds. ‘Ruth is originally from Glasgow.’ Then it strikes her: perhaps she shouldn’t have disclosed her full name.
Ruth’s expression doesn’t change as she continues to bathe the gash on Malcolm’s head.
Malcolm says formally, ‘My name is Malcolm Buswell. I am very pleased to meet you, Reverend Hamilton.’
‘Please call me Ruth.’ Glancing at Jo, Ruth continues, ‘Don’t look so worried, Jo – it’s not as bad as it looks. The flow is slowing now, and I really think if we can patch you up securely, Malcolm, you will be okay.’
‘People in the street did offer to call an ambulance,’ Malcolm explains to them, ‘but I really thought it was only a graze. It only started to bleed as I walked along.’
For the second time Jo asks, ‘What happened, Malcolm?’
Malcolm continues to stare at a spot somewhere above Ruth’s head, as if his mind is miles away.
Ruth’s eyes flick downwards as if trying to read his expression and then she continues, ‘The wound is in a tricky spot, Malcolm. I am going to have to secure the bandage underneath your chin.’ She smiles at him. ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to look very beautiful, but it will stay in place.’
‘Oh, never fear, Reverend Ruth. No one has ever accused me of being beautiful.’
