Jo thinks that Lucy was right. Before they said goodbye this morning, Jo told her about Malcolm. Lucy asked detailed questions about his colourful fashion choices, and concluded: ‘Those are vintage pieces. We’re talking Sixties and Seventies. There is more to this than a man simply introducing a spot of colour into his wardrobe.’
‘Groovy Baby!’ exclaims the Runaway Vicar, giving the tall, awkward, angular man a hug. She then swings around to Jo and repeats the manoeuvre, enveloping her in a wave of cashmere and gardenia. ‘Nice dress,’ she adds, approvingly. Jo has once more ditched the dungarees and worn her emerald green wrap-around dress.
As soon as Ruth has finished hugging and Malcolm has finished blushing, the conversation turns to Lucy. ‘And?’ Ruth asks.
‘All good, all sorted,’ Jo assures them, and she feels content leaving it at that. Some things are part of another era, another life. Her London friends nod approvingly but do not push her for more information.
They are seated in Uncle Wilbur’s sitting room, each with a glass of champagne in their hand. Jo wanted to make the evening special and has invested in good wine, food she knows she can cook, and some Christmassy serviettes and candles for Uncle Wilbur’s table. Now, with everyone here, she is flushed and hot, but she thinks she has everything ready.
Ruth has been telling them about a visit she has had from an estate agent. It seems that the lease is coming to an end on her small studio apartment. ‘Oh, well,’ Ruth says, slowly, ‘perhaps it’s time to move on.’
‘No!’ Jo is surprised at her own shock. She sees Malcolm lean towards Ruth, a look of distress on his face.
Ruth glances from one to the other. ‘I have to go at some point.’ Then she sighs. ‘Jo, you won’t be here for ever, will you?’
Jo feels the truth of this in her bones, but before she can answer, Malcolm says, ‘And me? Must I move on too?’
The three of them stare at each other – their easy camaraderie showing the first faint signs of cracking. This can’t last for ever. Looking out of the window at the darkness beyond the city lights, Jo senses a great loss lurking.
Malcolm is the first to recover.‘We are getting ahead of ourselves. We have the here and now, in this very pleasant room … and I must say, Joanne, this is the most comfortable chair …’ Jo has given him Uncle Wilbur’s chair by the fire. ‘… there are very enticing smells coming from the kitchen. And we have the three of us.’ He turns to Ruth. ‘I may not have your belief, Reverend Ruth, but wouldn’t your God tell us to be grateful for these many gifts?’
‘He would indeed, Malcolm. And he would also kick me up the backside for being a tactless fool.’
They settle back in their chairs, and sip their drinks, but Jo knows something has shifted. She thinks of her mum, holding on to the belief that Uncle Wilbur will get better. Is it so wrong to want to keep things the way they are?
She resolves to make a decision about her future in the New Year. She is pretty certain she knowswhereshe will be, but as yet she doesn’t have the first idea of what she will be doing (or quite who she will be, beyond being Auntie Jo). But for now she might as well enjoy the run-up to Christmas (it is only two weeks away) and put everything else from her mind. She is about to share something of this with Ruth and Malcolm, when Malcolm puts his glass down.
‘I have to say I have been so looking forward to this evening,’ he says, and turning to Jo, adds, ‘and the icing on the cake is that you have made your peace with poor Lucy.’
‘Yes, poor,poorLucy,’ Ruth echoes.
When Jo glances at her in consternation, Ruth winks, and Jo is reminded of their first meeting, and theNo one believes in God any more. It seems so long ago now. ‘Well, enough ofpoorLucy,’ Jo says, pointedly. ‘You were saying, Malcolm?’
‘Well, I would like to tell you over supper about George Eliot and Issachar. I really do believe that if I took those two as my role models, I would learn to be a different man. My goodness, when I think of the courage of George Eliot and, well …’ he holds his hands up, ‘… the just go heck of it, of Issachar. I do think that combination really could inspire me to be braver.’
Ruth smiles, eyeing the cravat. ‘I can’t wait.’
Before Malcolm or Ruth can say more, Jo suddenly claps, ‘I’ve got it!’ It has come to her in a flash.
Ruth and Malcolm start, Ruth spilling some of her drink. Both of them stare at Jo.
Maybe it was the mention of Lucy, but something has suddenly fallen into place. Jo leans forward, smiling, ‘Can I ask you something, Malcolm?’
He nods, but his eyes are wary.
‘Have you by any chance ever been a hippy?’ It seems so clear to her now: the man in grey is hankering after a more psychedelic era. Now she can see that over the weeks Malcolm has been transforming into a hippy before their very eyes. Flickers of it at first, but now the fashion choices becoming more overt statements.
‘Ah, ha!’ Ruth declares in obvious agreement, then she repeats her earlier comment, ‘Groovy baby.’
Malcolm puts his head down and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, followed by a much more drawn out, ‘oh, no.’
Jo and Ruth look at each other in concern.
Jo tries another tack; she instinctively feels she is on the right line. She says, less brightly, but still with assurance, ‘Well, have you ever fancied beinga hippy?’
To their horror, Malcolm Buswell puts his head in his hands and he gives a long, guttural groan. He sits like this for some moments, then from deep within him rises up a sob that racks his body. This is followed by another and yet another. Jo is painfully reminded of sitting on Uncle Wilbur’s bed with Lucy. Like Lucy she leans forward and wraps her arms around Malcolm; her hands meet Ruth’s arms, which are simultaneously enveloping him from the other side.
‘I am so sorry, Malcolm, I am so, so sorry,’ Jo almost pleads, without having the least idea of what she is sorry for.
