‘Oh, no,’ Malcolm says, a little sadly. ‘I’m afraid I have led a very dull life in comparison.’ He pauses, and adds, ‘No, I am not a brave man.’
There is a brief silence.
‘What was your mother’s name?’ Jo asks.
‘Eve. She was called Eve.’
Ruth rises to her feet and, taking up the whisky bottle, she tops up all their drinks. ‘I give you a toast to Eve. A courageous and exceptional woman.’
Jo thinks Malcolm is going to cry, then he pulls back his shoulders and stands up straight (his bright purple and orange slippers peeping out from under the turn-ups of his corduroys). He raises his glass in salute.
Jo scrambles up from the sofa and follows suit.
As they all sit down, Ruth turns to Malcolm, ‘And now, I think you should tell Jo and me all about the book that you are writing.’
Reverend Ruth then adds, for good measure, ‘Nice slippers, by the way.’
18
When animals speak
Malcolm blushes and coughs and then glances towards the row of notebooks on the bookshelf. He doesn’t look exactly enthusiastic, but he does look resigned. Perhaps he feels it is best not to argue with a vicar.
The silence stretches on, as if Malcolm is searching for the right words. Jo looks at Ruth, who simply gazes at nothing in particular. Jo is not fooled; her eyes are gleaming.
‘I worry you will think I am rather foolish,’ Malcolm eventually confesses, looking down at his clasped hands. He turns towards Jo. ‘And I also feel I should apologize to you, Joanne, as I know you have asked me about this before and I have been very rude in not answering you. But where to start …’ he muses, contemplating the row of notebooks.
‘At the beginning?’ the vicar suggests, innocently.
‘Of course, you are perfectly right,’ and Malcolm takes a deep breath. ‘I could very well start there.’ He sits up straighter in his chair and looks at Ruth. ‘I do not know if Joanne has told you, but I have an interest in local history. As a result of this, some years ago, I started attending a number of lectures at Highgate Cemetery. In the early years, my mother came with me.’ Malcolm now turns his whole body towards Jo. ‘Have you ever visited the cemetery, Joanne?’
Jo shakes her head, feeling she wears her ignorance of London like a badge.
‘You have been there, I expect, Reverend Ruth?’
‘Of course. Vicars and cemeteries go together like—’
‘Blood, poo and vomit?’ Malcolm suggests, helpfully.
Ruth laughs, while Malcolm looks calmer. The handwriting ‘tips’ float into Jo’s mind –you need to slow down and relax.
‘It really is the most marvellous place. Victorian Gothic at its best. To wander in between the tombs, discovering the names of those buried and interred there, is like walking through history. You will find the famous and the great, lying alongside local people, who may not have made such a splash in their lives, but still will have made a difference to those who loved them.’
Jo notices that Malcolm’s eyes flick towards the table of photographs. Her mind meanwhile drifts to William Foyle. She has a feeling she knows where that particular bookseller is buried. Another thought occurs to her. ‘Is that where your mother is buried?’ she asks.
‘No, Mother chose to be cremated, and she wanted her ashes scattered on the heath near the swimming ponds. She was a great one for outdoor swimming. They do still bury people in Highgate Cemetery, but only about thirty or so souls a year.
‘Well, as I say, I have been visiting the cemetery now for many years. And not just for the history and atmosphere of the place. The wildlife is also a great attraction for me. Between the plots there is such an abundance of growth, one is reminded of the impermanence of human life, of its frailty, compared to the power in nature.’ He pauses and says, softly, ‘Now nature is a god I could perhaps believe in.’
Malcolm appears lost in thought, so Jo asks, ‘Would I know any of the people who are buried there?’ She doesn’t add,Apart from William Foyle.
‘Why certainly, Joanne. The two most famous – shall we call them “residents” – are Karl Marx and George Eliot.’
‘Really?’ Jo remembers studying the Victorian female novelist who wrote under the name George Eliot at school, but realizes she knows very little about Karl Marx, apart from the fact he was involved in the start of Communism.
‘Who else is buried there?’ Ruth asks.
‘The painter Lucian Freud, Charles Cruft who started the annual dog show, the poet Christina Rossetti, the actor Sir Ralph Richardson. Frederick Warne, Beatrix Potter’s publisher, the singer George Michael – oh, my goodness, so many. There are over one hundred thousand people buried there.’
