‘Or anything else,’ Ruth agrees. ‘It took quite a while to calm Angela down.’
Ruth is wiping her eyes now. ‘I don’t think she’ll forget that sight in a hurry.’
Jo continues to laugh, thinking how much she likes this woman.
‘But where werewe?’ Ruth says, looking around. ‘Oh, the people you try and help, well, we were never short of them.’ She waves a hand towards the tombs, ‘Still, we wouldn’t want to go back to this.’
‘To what?’ Jo asks, puzzled.
‘To the Victorian age of only helping the “Deserving Poor”. You just have to look at how women were treated. Nobody was less deserving of help and pity in society’s eyes than a fallen woman.’
Jo shakes her head. ‘I’ve never really hung out with a vicar before. Are they all like you?’
‘Oh, we’re a mixed bag,’ Ruth smiles. ‘What would you have expected?’
‘I guess I might have expected you to ask me about my beliefs.’
Ruth’s laugh rings out into the still November air, ‘Oh believe me, I don’t normally have to ask. People are more than happy to ambush me and tell me what they do and don’t believe in. And usually, where the Church – and I personally – have gone wrong.’
Ruth is still chortling to herself when Malcolm comes to join them.
22
Coming or going
Malcolm addresses them. ‘Now, my dears, the light is beginning to fade and I think before we leave we should pay our respects to Karl Marx and George Eliot.’ He swivels on the spot, the stones on the path screeching under the sole of his Lobb brogue, and he strides away. Jo and Ruth are left to scurry after him.
A few minutes later, they are standing in front of the monument to Karl Marx. It is a huge rectangular block of stone, on top of which is an enormous, bulbous head. Karl Marx stares down at them from under shaggy brows – a complement to his flowing locks and beard.
Malcolm is bending down, examining the tributes that have been placed at the base of the tomb: a holly wreath, some wilting scarlet roses, and a bunch of red plastic carnations.
‘I’ve been reading up about Karl,’ Ruth says in Jo’s ear. ‘I think that enormous lump of stone rather suits him. He was a huge bear of a man with hair coming out of every orifice.’
‘What was he like as a person?’ Jo asks.
‘Difficult to say at this stage. There’s some good stuff in there, but I’m having to wade through an awful lot of politics and pontificating. He seems to have fallen out with most people he met.’ Ruth grimaces, ‘But I suppose I wasn’t expecting the father of the Communist Manifesto to be a bundle of laughs.’
‘William Foyle, you know who I was telling you about, he wrote a kind of manifesto – but it was all about books.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, I don’t think he called it a manifesto, but it read like one. I rather liked it. I can’t remember all of it, but there was something about supplying the greatest number of books to the greatest number of people.’ Jo steps forward to join Malcolm, who is still studying the flowers at the base of Karl Marx’s tomb. The tall figure is bent at a right angle, as if folded at the waist. ‘Malcolm, do many people leave tributes here?’
Malcolm slowly unfolds until he is standing upright, ‘Yes, indeed. Although when Karl died, only a handful of people attended his funeral. Since then it has become a place of pilgrimage for many. Not all of whom wish him well. Over the years a fair few have tried to deface or destroy this monument.’
‘But no one’s succeeded?’ Ruth asks, looking more bird-like than ever as she hops up the shallow step in front of the tomb.
‘No, not completely. But someone did once put a bomb under it.’
‘Wow! Was there a lot of damage?’ Jo asks, staring up and reading the inscription underneath the stern face:Workers of All Lands Unite.
A slow smile spreads acrossMalcolm’s face. ‘I’m not sure the bombers achieved quite what they intended. The device didn’t destroy the tomb. It just made it tilt a bit more to the left.’
‘Oh, Karl would have liked that,’ Ruth says, appreciatively. ‘Now where is George Eliot? My feet really are beginning to freeze standing here.’
‘Oh, yes, yes, indeed. One more stop and then I think we should get some tea.’
Jo isn’t convinced by the idea of tea; she has been dreaming of a warm pub for the past half-hour.
