‘No, indeed,’ Malcolm laughs. And Jo is warmed by the sound of it.
‘Soon Issachar was sendingher gifts of pineapples and including her in his best wishes to the president.’ Malcolm pauses for dramatic effect. ‘However, during the Civil War, Issachar made the transition from Lincoln’s chiropodist to the president’s personal spy.’
‘Goodness!’ Ruth responds.
‘Lincoln saw that Issachar could get himself anywhere and talk to anyone. So the president used these skills for his own ends. He sent him to see one of his key soldiers, General Banks, purporting to have messages for him. But in reality he was asking Issachar to check up on the general and to test his loyalty. After a while, Issachar was being paid by Secret Service funds.’
‘This is amazing,’ Jo says, shaking her head. For a moment she thinks how much she would like to tell Eric about Issachar. Then, in her mind, she hears the sound of her shop door slamming.
‘So how on earth did he end up in Highgate Cemetery?’ Ruth asks, in astonishment.
‘Well, in 1874 Issachar decided to move back to England and settle in London. He bought a large house on Brook Street and set up a surgery, now proclaiming he was Dr Zacharie, Chiropodist General to the US Army,’ Malcolm declares, with suppressed delight.
‘In 1874? Could he have bought his boots from Lobb?’ Jo wonders aloud.
‘Possibly,’ Malcolm reflects. ‘I myself have wondered if he ever met George Eliot. He was a man who enjoyed the high life; he threw lavish dinner parties and liked to go about in society. He also had an interest in literature. Iforgot to tell you he plagiarized yet another book about chiropody, but in this one also included extracts from Shakespeare. The reviewers called it, “The Poetry of the Foot”.’
Jo laughs, then wonders why she is surprised. After all, she knows an optician who likes poetry.
‘And why Highgate Cemetery?’ Ruth repeats.
‘I have a theory as to why Highgate Cemetery, and I will come to that.’ He turns to Jo. ‘But first let us help you take the plates to the kitchen, Joanne,’ and with this, he rises to his feet. ‘That was a marvellous meal, Joanne,’ he says, bowing his head slightly towards her, his chin nestling into the folds of his psychedelic cravat.
37
The dear friend of Malcolm Buswell
Jo has put a plate of mini mince pies on the coffee table and refilled the champagne glasses. They have settled themselves in Uncle Wilbur’s armchairs around the gas fire.
Jo raises her champagne glass to Malcolm. ‘To bravery.’
Ruth follows suit.
Then they wait.
Malcolm takes a deep breath, and although his shoulders sag, he looks determined. ‘Well,’ he begins, ‘I was given this cravat many, many years ago by my very dear friend Rupert. I met him when I was eighteen.’ He looks at each of them, nodding. ‘He had chained himself to the railings in Berkeley Square, where I often ate my lunch. I ended up sharing my sandwiches with him.’
Jo can’t help it; she smiles.
‘Oh, please don’t laugh,’ Malcolm begs, and Jo instinctively puts her hand to her mouth.
‘Oh Malcolm, I wasn’t meaning to make light of this.’
Malcolm sighs, and pats her arm. ‘Oh, indeed I know you weren’t, Joanne. It is just that it reminded me that Ididlaugh. I mocked what he was trying to do. I wish now that I had ripped my tongue from my mouth.’
‘WhatwasRupert trying to do?’ Ruth asks.
‘He was trying to change his life, and also the world we lived in. He wanted a fairer world, a world without prejudice. This was towards the end of the Sixties. Rupert rather took to the Sixties, whereas I’m afraid I was a boy forged in the Fifties, and sometimes I think that is where I remain.’ Malcolm stops, apparently lost in thought. ‘Anyway,’ he refocuses on his companions, ‘Rupert, now, he took part in many demonstrations in London. There was always some cause he was fighting for. We became close friends, even if I did tease him about all his “lame ducks”.’
‘How long were you friends?’ Jo asks.
‘For around two years,’ Malcolm replies. ‘Yes, during those months we were very much in each other’s company. But in the end he thought going to America would be the answer. It was the time of the Vietnam War and he wanted to join the peace movement.’
‘You weren’t tempted to go with him?’ Ruth asks.
Malcolm’s face is a mask of sorrow; there are no tears, but maybe, Jo thinks, he has shed so many for Rupert there are none left.
‘He held his hand out to me. I can picture it still. He wanted me to go with him. But I was young and afraid and weighed down by the thought of what people might say. Oh, what a fool I was.’ He shakes his head, a gesture of incredulity. ‘So, I turned away. My mother, that brave woman, urged me to go. She understood what Rupert really meant to me.’
