At this point Reverend Ruth scores a winning point: ‘Well, I mean, just look at us three.’
Malcolm holds up his hands, conceding the point. ‘That is undoubtedly true.’ He nods at Ruth. Both sit back in their chairs and turn to Jo.
Jo hasn’t taken part in the argument that sprung up after Malcolm confessed that, so far, he hasn’t actually got around to writing a single word of his book. He pulled all the notebooks from the shelves and laid them out on the ottoman (removing the tray for the whisky and returning with coffee). Each of the notebooks, he told them, represented a different person who was buried in the cemetery; they recorded his research into their lives.
Malcolm had been holding tight to the two notebooks that represented George Eliot and Karl Marx, suggesting they should meet within his story and discuss topics ranging from politics to philosophy to religion. He suggested Karl and Mary Ann (as George Eliot had been christened) would enjoy debating George Eliot’s translation of the German philosopher, David Strauss’sLife of Jesus, and her unravelling of Ludwig Feuerbach’sThe Essence of Christianity.
At this point, Ruth had said, somewhat acidly, that the two of them might very well enjoy it, but she wasn’t sure any reader would. Jo thought Ruth had a point. But she had also agreed with Malcolm, when he had fired back, that a woman who was considered the ‘cleverest woman in London’ should not be confined to talking about needlepoint.
Now, argument suspended, they both seem to be expecting something from her.
‘Well, Joanne, what do you think?’ Malcolm eventually asks her.
Jo looks at the two flushed faces.
‘I think,’ she says, considering for a moment, ‘that we should order a takeaway.’
There is a small grunt of laughter from Ruth.
The remnants of the pizzas have been cleared away and the ottoman has been dragged closer to the fire, so all three of them can rest their feet on it. The notebooks sit in a pile on the sofa beside Jo. Each of them holds a glass of red wine, which Malcolm insisted was essential to go with Italian food.
Jo watches the firelight catch the wine in her glass, turning it from crimson to silver. Ruth and Jo have taken their shoes off and Jo can see their socks through her glass: hers, with navy and cream stripes; Ruth’s, red with penguins on. Malcolm has tucked his slippers away out of sight and now his feet, in soft grey socks, rest – one crossed over the other – on top of the faded tartan blanket.
‘I believe I need to make another confession,’ Malcolm says, sipping his wine. For a moment Jo thinks about those beautiful slippers. ‘I strongly suspect the reason I have made so little progress with my book is that I myself do not have the gift of natural conversation.’
Like Jo, Malcolm has been stuck in his own limbo– always researching, never writing.
He continues, ‘I have always found it hard to hit on subjects that might be of interest to others. I’m afraid I make rather slow work of it. I fear I’m rather a dull dog.’
‘Not at all,’ Ruth says, swiftly, ‘we have only just met, but you’ve already introduced Jo and me to a whole different world. I may have visited Highgate Cemetery, but you have made me see it in a completely new light.’
‘I have?’ Malcolm says, and the trace of hope in his voice touches Jo.
‘And look at the conversations we’ve already had,’ Ruth insists.
‘It has beenquitea to-and-fro,’ Malcolm admits, brightening. ‘And I suppose conversation is so much a matter of practice.’
‘I know you must miss your mother, Malcolm. And I’m not at all sure people are right when they say that time makes it easier.’
Malcolm’s gaze is fixed on Ruth, and Jo is conscious of this woman’s palpable empathy. She is someone people want to confide in – hasn’t she felt that herself? Hasn’t she wanted to lay the problems of her life down in front of her? Ruth’s lack of embarrassment in talking about subjects that others might veer away from comes as a refreshing relief. Does it open the door to confidences that Ruth would rather not have? Is that what had made her run away?
As she watches her, Jo begins to imagine a time when she might ask Ruth why it was she left her parish.
Malcolm doesn’t say anything, but looks away fromRuth towards the table of photographs. In the firelight his face is deeply etched with sorrow.
‘Malcolm, I don’t think you are alone,’ Ruth says, gently. ‘The art of conversation, like most things in life, is a matter of practice. As a young curate I was often overwhelmed by the prospect of talking to people. I would find all manner of things to do in the vestry rather than join people for coffee after the service.’
‘How did you get over that?’ Jo asks, finding it hard to imagine Ruth as a shy woman.
‘I watched how others did it and copied that …’
For a moment Jo thinks of Lucy.
‘… and, once you start, you usually find something to talk about. Even if it’s that you both like dogs.’ Ruth smiles at Malcolm, the man who thinks he’s a dull dog.
‘Right,’ Jo says, with sudden decision. ‘I have an idea. Move your feet.’
They look at her in surprise but do as they’re told. She is surprised too. This is not the behaviour of the woman she has become; the woman who is now living in limbo; the woman who tried so hard to do everything James wanted and who followed where he led (well, rather like a faithful dog). But she wasn’t always like this. She may have envied Lucy for her way with people, but she was the one, out of the two of them, who usually came up with the ideas, the one who solved problems.
