Malcolm leads them up one of the side paths to a much smaller grave. At the head of a shallow rectangular trough is a simple monument. Underneath the stone edifice are the two names: George Eliot; and also, Mary Ann Cross; and the dates, 1819–1880.
‘Why did she write under the name George Eliot?’ Jo asks, thinking of Jane Austen and the Brontësisters. Hadn’t they paved the way for female novelists?
‘At the time she really started to write she was living with a man who was already married. George Henry Lewes, her partner, was accepted in society regardless, but George Eliot was an outcast. So writing under her own name would have been difficult. I believe she chose the name “George” in honour of her lover.’ Malcolm explains.
‘A fallen woman,’ Jo comments, remembering her earlier conversation with Ruth. ‘So was George Eliot shunned for the rest of her life?’ she asks.
‘No, fame changed that. She really was quite a celebrity. Then she became a much more palatable proposition, especially once it was known Queen Victoria liked her books. And then eventually George Lewes died and so she was no longer living in sin. But I think it is fair to say the world judged her harshly, despite her prestigious talent. On the other hand, I think it is also fair to say that she could be tricky, and did not always have an easy relationship with those who surrounded her.’
Malcolm taps the edge of the grave with the toe of his brogue, ‘As a result of which, she upset some very influential people, and I believe that was the reason her request to be buried in Westminster Abbey, alongside other writers – like her friend Charles Dickens – was refused.’ He sighs, ‘And so here she lies.’
‘It’s good to know that she’s still famous and that things have changed, compared to her day. People have more freedom to live the way they want,’ Jo suggests.
Malcolm gives her a long look, but says nothing. He turns his attention to Ruth. ‘And the sad thing is, George Eliot would have had no hope in death. She gave up believing in God as a young woman, and consequently was treated appallingly by her family. No. She had been brave enough to live outside the conformities of society, but all the comfort the Church had to offer her was the prospect of everlasting Hell.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe in Hell,’ Ruth says, breezily, flapping her arms about her as if to warm herself.
‘You, a vicar, don’t believe in Hell?’ Malcolm sounds incredulous.
‘No. I thought about it and decided against it,’ Ruth says, cheerfully.
Jo smiles to herself. Ruth certainly isn’t like any vicar she has ever met.
‘But surely you can’t just pick and choose?’ Malcolm presses. ‘Youareordained into the Church of England, I presume?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘But surely, the doctrines, the Bible—’
The Reverend Ruth nudges the tall man beside her in the ribs. ‘Malcolm Buswell, you stand here by George Eliot’s grave and tell me I have to believe every word written in the Bible? A book compiled solely by men?’
Malcolm stares at her for some moments, then makes a humphing noise, close to a guffaw. ‘You make a good point,’ he says, and bows his head slightly. It is the same gesture he uses when he opens the door for customers in Jo’s shop.
As they make their way back towards the entrance of the cemetery, Ruth links her arm into Malcolm’s. Jo hears her say quietly to him, ‘I know it can take a lot to step aside from convention, but I think God favours the brave, even though in saying so I know you think me a fool.’
Malcolm stops and turns towards Ruth. Jo can barely make out their faces in the gloom, but she glimpses a look of – she is not quite sure what – pass between them.
‘Well, well,’ Malcolm says briskly, picking up pace, ‘it really is getting dark now, and I for one am feeling the cold. Tea? Or shall we find ourselves a pub?’
‘Pub,’ Jo answers without a pause, still wondering about that look.
In an alleyway off Highgate High Street, a tall figure in a shaggy jumper pauses by the darkened window of a small stationery shop. From where he is standing, he can just make out the noticeboard behind the counter. Hanging there, underneath a ribbon of envelopes, are drawings, handwritten words, pamphlets – and he spots a card for the restaurant, La Biblioteca. A small calendar sits in the centre of the board. Some of the earlier dates have been crossed off, but in more recent weeks the dates have been left unmarked. The board is half full and half empty, and the Viking called Eric wonders whether this is a sign that Stationery Girl is coming or going.
23
The ghosts and a fox
They are writing a list of rules for the Highgate Cemetery ghosts. Jo is doing the actual writing; happy to get her fountain pen out of her bag and to have an excuse for using it; but the compilation is a group effort. She, Ruth and Malcolm are gathered around a table, close to the pub fire, discussing Malcolm’s book. Earlier, Ruth had made the problematic observation that not all the ghosts could appear every Christmas Eve – there would just be far too many of them. In the end, over mulled wine and cheesy chips, it had been decided that readers would allow Malcolm a bit of artistic licence and that it would be okay to focus on a few characters in particular. Other points on the list include:
Christmas Eve night lasts from 10 p.m. until dawn.
This would give them more time to enjoy themselves, rather than ending their existence on the stroke of midnight, as was perhaps more traditional. Jo suggested that Christmas Eve might start earlier than 10 p.m., but Malcolm was worried about his ghosts bumping into children, and he didn’t want the possibility of them being scared. Jo wasn’t sure if he meant the ghosts or the children being frightened, but said no more, thinking that, after all, it was Malcolm’s book.
The ghosts cannot walk through walls but could get on a bus.
Ruth particularly wanted them to be able to make the most of their night out in London.
The gathering is an annual occurrence.
