‘First, let’s take Hutch. No one seems to know much about his wife, Ella, but there are photos of her in Paris with him – a pretty, shy-looking black girl. A complete innocent abroad. When they moved to London, he bought a house not far from here, south of Hampstead Heath. Here she cleaned and cooked for him and laundered all his many shirts. Here she brought up their daughter, Leslie – named after him. Here Hutch entertained his lovers, some of them staying over with no thought for his wife and child. He even moved one of his lovers in next door. If anyone met Ella, he often told them she was his housekeeper.’ Ruth looks at them to check how her story is going down.
‘Shocking,’ Malcolm says, encouragingly.
‘Ella died on her own in their Hampstead house at the age of sixty-three. After finding her body, Hutch went out that evening to perform as usual. He had her buried in an unmarked grave in a large corporation cemetery. There were three other bodies buried in the grave with her.’
Jo thinks of Highgate Cemetery. Of the splendour of the tombs and the sense of hushed, ornate serenity, and she is not surprised that Ruth dislikes Hutch so much. She is almost frightened to hear about Karl Marx, but she asks anyway. ‘And Karl?’
‘Ah, Karl Marx,’ Ruth says, sounding at once sadder. ‘He was a man who could earn a reasonable income from his writing, but he spent all of that – and what he borrowed – on himself and on creating the illusion of a lifestyle that was beyond his means.’ She sighs. ‘Two of his children died; one was a little boy named after Guy Fawkes, as he was born on the fifth of November. Just like Karl to name his son after the man who tried to blow up Parliament. Despite having money coming in, he let his family go hungry, didn’t save for a doctor, was thrown out of numerous houses, often living in a couple of squalid rooms. He let the bailiffs come and take all they owned, including this little boy’s bed and toys. Meanwhile, he was writing in the warmth of the British Library; he insisted on keeping a secretary and he always had enough money for his drinking.’ Ruth declares, in disgust. ‘His son’s nickname was Fawksy,’ she adds sadly. ‘What sort of father would allow that to happen?’
It is Malcolm who breaks the silence. ‘So what would Karl and Hutch ever find to talk about?’ he asks.
Jo isn’t sure if it’s the effect of the drink, but the meeting of these two brilliant but flawed characters has become real to her, and she finds it really matters that Ruth hits on something they might share.
Ruth’s answer surprises her.
‘I think they would talk about the importance of family.’
Malcolm voices Jo’s thoughts. ‘Youcannotbe serious, Reverend Ruth! After everything you’ve told us.’
Ruth smiles at him sleepily. ‘You may not have noticed, Malcolm, but I am a vicar.’ She wags a finger at him, then briefly touches her dog collar.
Malcolm looks at her under his eyebrows. ‘I had noticed that,’ he says pointedly.
‘The thing is, we vicars believe in redemption.’
His frown intensifies.
‘It goes with the job,’ she adds, ‘along with the blood, poo and vomit.’
It seems her ghosts are having quite an impact on the Reverend Hamilton. Not only is she ‘saying what she really thinks’, but now she is also gambling. Ruth has bet Malcolm that she will convince him that Karl Marx and Hutch will talk about their families. And, she assures him, not with hypocrisy, but with sincerity. Malcolm has said he will require some evidence, it can’t just be something based on her religious beliefs. (Jo thought he was going to say ‘make-believe’, but he stopped himself in time.) Ruth has agreed and Malcolm has assuaged his mounting frustration at her smug imperturbability by noisily clearing away the remains of the drinks and nibbles and preparing coffee for them all.
Now, filled with caffeine, Ruth is perking up. ‘So, for my evidence, I’m going to start with the general and then I’ll hit you with the specifics,’ she declares.
Jo’s father taught her to play cards when she was a little girl and they spent many a wet, Sunday afternoon (before he went out to check on the sheep) playing for buttons. He always told her,Play your trump card first. And this is what Ruth does now.
‘I have watched men die.’
Jo knows that Ruth need say no more. The small figure in front of them has experienced death in a way she and Malcolm will never have done. Up until this point, she has not thought of Ruth as the figure by a bedside, many bedsides, holding the hands of those whose days are ending. She will know better than anyone what thoughts fill their final moments.
Ruth lets the words sit, and then quietly moves on to the specifics. The reasons that make her believe that in the time between their deaths and their meeting on Christmas Eve night, Karl Marx, philosopher, and Leslie Hutchinson, cabaret artist, will both have been dwelling on their families with a deep sense of regret.
‘I’m going to start with Karl,’ she says. ‘I think he genuinely loved his family. He wrote his wife, Jenny, many love letters, and his grief at the loss of their children was very real. So, despite his shortcomings and his preoccupation with himself and Communism, his family were very much part of him. He was constantly watched by the secretpolice, and even their reports relayed how gentle he was when he was with his children, spending hours telling them stories.’
Malcolm is nodding along. ‘Tell Joanne about his father,’ Malcolm encourages. It seems he is now content to help Ruth win her bet.
‘Thatisinteresting,’ Ruth says, smiling warmly at him. She turns to Jo, ‘He had a pretty awful relationship with his dad and wouldn’t even go to his funeral …’
Malcolm cannot help himself. ‘But when Karl Marx died, they discovered that he carried an image of his father around with him in his breast pocket.’
‘It was interred with him,’ Ruth finishes.
‘And Hutch?’ Jo asks, now convinced that Karl Marx might indeed wander the cemetery – maybe sit on the bench they had sat on – and think about his family.
‘Some of Hutch’s friends noticed a very peculiar thing. Wherever he was staying, he would ring his wife Ella, often daily, and be on the phone to her for hours. Maybe with her he could relax and he didn’t have to put on all his airs and graces,’ Ruth reflects. ‘It was said he had at least four different accents he would use, depending on who he was with. Maybe it was only with Ella that he could drop the façade.’
Ruth falls silent for some moments and then holds her palms out to them. ‘I rest my case,’ she says.
‘So, Karl and Hutch, together on Christmas Eve night, talking about their families and their regrets,’ Jo concludes. ‘Ruth …’ she continues, slowly, ‘you said that Karl and Hutch had made you think about your own life. Do you mind me asking about your family?’
