‘Well, there is only me and my brother Don now. He’s a couple of years older than me. But, yes, you’re right, I’ve been thinking about family. My parents were strict Scottish Presbyterians. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But it wasn’t a whole heap of fun growing up.’ Ruth gazes into the fire.
‘What were they like?’ Jo asks, trying to imagine Ruth as a young girl.
‘Strident and strict … oh, how they loved their rules. And what made it tricky was these rules changed. So one day I was too noisy, and another day I’d be told I wasn’t joining in enough. Either way the fault was always the same: I thought too much of myself.’ Ruth’s voice takes on a reflective tone, ‘My brother, now, he seemed to get it right. Perhaps he was more sensitive than me.’ Ruth then lets out a small bark of a laugh and shakes her head. ‘No, it’s no good, when I think of Don, no, definitely not. I shouldn’t say he has a sensitive bone in his body.’
‘Maybe he had a copy of the rule book,’ Malcolm suggests with a slight smile.
Ruth sighs. ‘Who knows? But there we were: one getting it right, one getting it wrong. I left as soon as I could.’
‘Did you ever go back?’ Malcolm asks.
‘Yes, I did. I tried to see them a few times a year, but it got a whole lot more difficult once I decided to train as a priest. And within the Church of England too. You can imagine how that went down with Scottish Presbyterians. Plus they had very strong views about women in the church. Basically, they believed there was no place for them, unless they were polishing something. After my dad died, I thought it might get easier, and I did move in to help my mum when she was diagnosed with dementia, but …’
‘What happened?’ Jo prompts, thinking of Uncle Wilbur.
‘Don put her in a home, and that was that. No discussion. What he said went. A chip off the old block is Don.’
‘And you’ve been thinking about your family recently?’ Malcolm prompts, gently.
‘I have,’ Ruth says. ‘To be honest, reading about Karl and Hutch, it made me feel like my childhood really wasn’t all that bad. A breeze compared with what Fawksy had to put up with.’
‘Are you still in touch with Don?’ Jo asks.
‘Now and again. But not often. And that’s why I’ve decided to go to Glasgow. I really think I should see him and try and find … oh, I don’t know … some resolution for the two of us.’
‘Redemption?’ Malcolm suggests, and Ruth glances quickly at him. ‘Yes,’ she says slowly. ‘The thing is, I can’t help feeling I’ve been at fault too. I could have made more of an effort, tried to fit in more, who knows?’ She rubs her forefinger up and down her forehead, and she looks tired. ‘It’s difficult to untangle. The more I think about the past, the more I can hear all the old criticisms: too difficult, too nosy, too pushy, too self-important—’
‘That’s rubbish,’ Jo can’t help saying, at the same time thinking this journey into the past explains Ruth’s sudden plunges into anxiety.
‘Thank you, Jo, but what I need to work out is what I doneed forgiveness for and what I should let go of. And thinking about Karl and Hutch makes me realize you shouldn’t leave it until it’s too late. It might not work, but at least I should try.’
‘When are you leaving?’ Malcolm asks, and Jo thinks he looks tired too.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’ Jo says, in shock.
Ruth nods.
‘Oh,’ is all Jo can think of to say, but a great weariness sweeps over her. It is tinged with regret and loss.
They are a subdued trio as Malcolm helps them into their coats. Ruth gives them both a Christmas card and this seems to underpin their parting. Jo wonders when the three of them will next be together.
Maybe it is this sense of time slipping away that makes her ask. It seems like it might be now or never.
‘What was it that made you run away, Ruth?’
‘She didn’t run away, she just didn’t—’ Malcolm begins.
Ruth holds out a mittened hand. ‘It’s okay, Malcolm.’ She smiles at him. ‘And kind of you. But I think we all know I did run away.’ She looks at Jo. ‘And you want a reason?’
Jo drops her eyes to pull on her own gloves; she should say something, stop this. But curiosity gets the better of her.
‘I can give you plenty to choose from,’ Ruth says, her voice tinged with something that Jo thinks might be disappointment. ‘We could start with the never-ending worry about the stateof the buildings.’
Jo looks up. She hadn’t been expecting that.
Ruth half laughs, in recognition of her surprise. ‘So, you have endless fundraising to keep the buildings from falling down, and in the meantime you have to become an expert on boilers, insulation, pointing, guttering and fuse boards. There are the piles of admin, from the diocese and the PCC – paperwork that I could have papered the entire church with. Then come the weddings, the christenings and funerals – all of which you want to make personal and special. And when that’s done, there are more letters, more sermons … oh, and the plays. I can’t think how many nativities I’ve written over the years, and each one has to be different from the last, otherwise it will be commented upon. A bit tricky when you’re talking about the same story each year.’ Ruth snorts. ‘One time I made the kings three chefs in tall hats. I rather liked that, but apparently Colin Will-kill-soon didn’t.’ Ruth presses on. ‘And so we come on to the complaints: why didn’t I include Ethiopia in my prayers, it’s a disgrace?; why am I not using the ancient text but at the same time why am I not getting young people into church?; why can’t I be more like the last vicar and his wife? Alan played the bassoon so well, and Trish was so good on the guitar …’
