Jo thinks of what Malcolm said, about a lover who is also a friend. No wonder Malcolm understood so well about James.
‘Shewould have gone,’ Malcolm tells them. ‘A woman who took a bomber up beyond the clouds and flew it blind. She wasn’t afraid. Oh, what a disappointment I must have been to her.’
Jo wants to interrupt him, to contradict him, but in amongst the sorrow she can sense the relief that Malcolm feels in telling his story.
‘So, when I read about George Eliot, another unconventional but brave soul, I was drawn to her strength like a moth to the flame.’ Malcolm looks towards the Christmas candle Jo has lit on the coffee table. ‘Yet even now I fear the fire, fear I will be burnt. Even now as a dull and decrepit old man, I am afraid.’ He looks up at them. ‘Back then I was so frightened of trying for a different life. I spent so much of my time being terrified of failing that I never thought – what if I made it?’
He looks around the room, as if uncertain where he is, lost in remembering a very different time. ‘With Rupert holding my hand I might have made that leap.’ He looks at the two women seated either side of him. ‘Oh, my dears, I have wasted so much of my life.’
Jo thinks she has never heard such desolation in a voice.
‘What happened to Rupert?’ Ruth asks, gently.
‘He went to America. Without me. He did what he could. The world didn’t change, or not immediately, but I genuinely believe he was part of history.’
Jo notices the use of the past tense.
‘And Rupert?’ Ruth repeats, softly.
‘We were not in touch. I think I had hurt him too much for that.’ He turns to Jo. ‘You see, I let him go.’
His next words are hard to hear, and Jo knows they will have cost Malcolm a great deal to say them. ‘I heard that Rupert died in 1984 in New York. His friends contacted me after he died. He still had my address and a poetry book I had given him.’
Malcolm tries to smile and Jo thinks her heart is going to break.
He pulls her closer to him. ‘Oh, Joanne, no tears. It was a long time ago.’
Malcolm tugs at his cravat with his other hand, trying ineffectually to pull it from his neck. His sorrow has turned to frustration and anger. ‘And here I am trying to recapture something, go back in time and be the hippy I always wished in my heart to be.’ He leaves off the tugging, his hand falling into his lap. ‘Rupert – he knew what I really wanted. He always said if he could ever peel away the grey, he would find I had a psychedelic soul.’
Ruth has been unusually quiet. Jo sees that both she and Malcolm are watching her. They sit in silence for some minutes. Ruth picks up a glass of wine and swirls it in her hand, apparently lost in thought. The silence stretches on.
Eventually she speaks. Her words are slow and measured. ‘The thing is Malcolm, maybe it is not enough to dress like a hippy. To really follow in Rupert’s footsteps, I think you need to find something to fight for.’
Malcolm doesn’t reply but Jo is startled by the look on his face. She wonders if her face held the same expression when Malcolm had said,… he was never your friend, Joanne.It is a look of incredulous realization.
When Jo looks at Reverend Ruth, she can see a shadow of sadness in her expression, then she gives the ghost of a smile and winks. Meanwhile Malcolm stares at the Christmas candle that burns on the coffee table like a man in a trance.
After a while, Ruth nudges him, ‘So, Malcolm, are you up to telling us what you think your ghosts would talk about?’
‘What? Oh, I beg your pardon.’ Malcolm rouses himself. ‘Well, yes, I think so. If you are still interested?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Jo says. ‘Of course we are.’
Malcolm smiles at them both. ‘Now let me see … I need to get my thoughts in order. The truth is, I think George Eliot would have loved meeting Issachar. He would have been just her cup of tea – George Lewes was himself a flamboyant man.’ Malcolm rubs his hands together, and Jo is pleased to see a gleam in his eye. ‘And George Eliot had what Issachar wanted above all things.’
‘Which was?’ Ruth asks.
‘He desperately wanted to be famous. Andthatis the reason I believe he wanted to be buried in Highgate Cemetery. It was a resting place of great prestige.’ He nods as if to accentuate the point.
‘What do you think they wouldtalk about?’ Jo asks.
‘We are speaking of a man who included Shakespeare in a textbook about feet. They would most certainly talk about literature. I can see Issachar escorting George Eliot down Highgate High Street, making a great fuss of finding her books in the bookshops there. Showing her that she isstillfamous.
‘Above all I think he would ensure she had a jolly time. Apparently he had a good sense of humour and never minded people teasing him. And, as he escorts her and fusses over her, I feel confident he would ensure that as many people as possible see them together; Dr Issachar Zacharie, strolling along, with the famous George Eliot on his arm.’ Malcolm sits back, flushed from his efforts.
‘And you told us, Malcolm Buswell, that you were a dull dog when it came to conversation. I think this is brilliant,’ Ruth says, thumping him playfully on the knee.
‘Itis, you know – it’s wonderful. I can just picture them.’ As Jo says this, she feels that Malcolm’s ghosts really have given him courage, and in some way have comforted him. She knows that tonight hasn’t washed away years of sorrow and regret, but she believes that by walking with his ghosts, something has changed for Rupert’s old friend.
