‘You’re kidding?!’ As Jo says this, she wonders why she has worried about sensing Uncle Wilbur’s presence in her bedroom, when there are that many dead bodies lying just down the road.
‘Indeed. Not all of them are famous, of course. There is a man called Ernest, who died when theTitanicsank, and a woman called Elizabeth who assistedat Queen Victoria’s many confinements.’ Malcolm rubs his hands together, warming to his subject.
‘And you are writing a history of the cemetery?’ Ruth enquires, glancing at the long row of notebooks.
‘Ah, not exactly. Oh, this is more difficult to explain. I rather think you will consider me a foolish old man.’
‘Would you like another wee dram?’ Ruth asks, her accent now more pronounced.
‘Yes, indeed. I think I may need it.’
As she tops up their glasses, Ruth starts to look worried, and Jo is reminded of her previous changes in mood. Ruth says in a much more serious voice, ‘Malcolm, I do hope you don’t think I’m badgering you. Which, of course, I am.’ She pauses. ‘The trouble, and the privilege, of being a vicar is that you become very closely involved with people’s lives. I sometimes think it has made me rather nosy and a bit pushy. Or maybe that came before I was a vicar.’ She sits down, still holding onto the bottle. ‘If you would rather not tell Jo and me about your book, we will quite understand.’
Speak for yourself.Jo tries to keep her face looking noncommittal and understanding.
‘No, no. I have come this far.’
Jo cannot look at Ruth. She thinks the vicar will know she is suppressing a grin.
‘Now how to put it?’ And Malcolm takes a big slug of his whisky. ‘I want to write a ghost story,’ he says in a rush. Malcolm looks up at them. ‘You don’t think that is a ridiculous undertaking?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ Ruth reassures him, placing the whiskybottle on the floor by her chair. ‘It is in the best tradition of Victorian Gothic.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Malcolm agrees, perking up. ‘I think I have spent too much of my life dealing in hard facts, so it seemed rather fanciful to me. To be honest, I felt embarrassed to talk about it. My work as a tax analyst was all about establishing the truth hidden in the numbers … nothing so nebulous as ghosts …’
His voice trails off, and Jo and Ruth glance at each other. Malcolm appears lost to them. Jo thinks about their conversation on the way over here, which had touched on the implication of those words,I didn’t want to die. They hadn’t reached any conclusions, but Jo had told Ruth about the slight unease she sometimes feels when she thinks of Malcolm.
To draw Malcolm back, Jo says, encouragingly, ‘Well, maybe it’s about time for a ghost story.’
Malcolm takes another sip of whisky. The tip of his nose is almost as bright as his slippers. He crosses one leg over the other and one beautiful embroidered slipper swings gently up and down in the warmth of the firelight. Malcolm seems to have completely forgotten his out-of-character footwear.
‘Maybe start with where the idea came from,’ Ruth suggests.
‘Yes, you are right, Reverend Ruth.’ Malcolm rubs his hands together. ‘The idea came from a story that my mother told me. Something from her childhood. And when she died, I remembered it.’ He pauses, and Jo thinks they have lost him again, but he continues, ‘She passed away in December, five years ago, just before her ninety-fourth birthday, and she is alwaysvery much on my mind at Christmas time. Now, when she was a child, her father had told her that Christmas Eve was the one night of the year that animals could talk. He regaled her with stories of their family’s dogs and what they got up to each Christmas Eve night, visiting the other animals they owned: the horses, the ducks and the chickens. As well as speaking to the local wildlife – the barn owls and the foxes … ah, yes, the foxes …’
Malcolm pauses once more. Jo has no idea why he is dwelling particularly on foxes, but when he starts speaking again she has the distinct impression that there is something more he might have told them but decides against it.
Malcolm continues, ‘Ah, well … now I hope you don’t think I am taking things too far, but I began to wonder what would happen if some of the people who ended their days in Highgate Cemetery were to appear in ghostly form? But just for one night of the year. And that night would be Christmas Eve. What would they talk about? What secrets would they share?’
He looks anxiously at the two women.
‘Oh, I love it,’ Jo exclaims.
‘Malcolm Buswell, you have been hiding your light under a …’ but Ruth can’t finish for laughing.
‘Under a Bushel? … Or would that be a Buswell?’ Malcolm suggests with a slow smile.
19
The art of conversation
An argument has broken out. But as Jo watches them, she realizes that Ruth and Malcolm are thoroughly enjoying themselves. She is reminded of Eric and Lando squabbling in the Italian restaurant.
Malcolm is leaning forward in his chair, his long, slim hands clasped around his knees. In the opposite chair, Ruth is bent towards him, her small feet planted firmly on the floor. While Malcolm’s hands pull tight on his knees, causing him to rock back and forward with each point he makes, Ruth is using her hand to swipe at the air, as if batting each point back to him, like a skilled table-tennis player.
‘Who’s to say just because George Eliot and Karl Marx are the most famous people in Highgate Cemetery that they would necessarily start chatting?’ (Swipe)
‘Who you end up talking to is so often a matter of chance.’ (Swipe)
