As she is waiting for their responses, a new post flashes onto her screen. It is from Colin Wilkinson, Churchwarden (in bold) stating that this website does not have the official sanction of the Parochial Church Council (in bold, and italics). Jo doesn’t get a chance to read the rest of the message as a new box comes up obscuring it.
Moderators of this site are opposed to online abuse and misrepresentation in all its forms. Comments that we deem to be inappropriate, bullying or offensive will be removed immediately.
Jo grins. Oh, how Angela must have enjoyed posting that. She imagines it is payback for years of patronizing put-downs.
A text from Malcolm pings on her phone at the same time as an email arrives from Angela.
Angela’s message is just a line of air-punching female vicars (where the hell did she get that emoji from?), and a short message:your idea, you tell her, but send her my love.
Malcolm’s message is equally brief:Inspired, dear Joanne. Happy Christmas.
Jo just hopes that it makes a difference to how Ruth feels. She felt that if they could balance the scales in some way, remind her of what she had achieved during her time in Warwickshire, it might ease her doubts about herself. Jo decided, above all things, that this is what she wanted to give Reverend Ruth for Christmas. So she copies the link, types a text message from her and Angela to Ruth, and presses send.
As she looks out of the window, she feels the need to get back out on the moors. She won’t go far; more snow has fallen in the night, and it is now lying on the lower ground. She can see that a stiff wind is blowing. But she would like to be out there under that huge, grey sky and fill her lungs with raw, clean air.
She will take a small flask with her, to pour a small amount of red wine onto the rough patchy earth where the greener grass gives way to moorland.
She knows without her dad having to tell her that, when the gods help you, it is important to thank them. In this, she now knows she is her father’s daughter.
It is a while before she looks at her computer again. After her walk, she rushed to the post office to send Malcolm his notebook. It is Christmas Eve tomorrow, but with a special delivery she can get it to him in time for Christmas Day.
When she does open up her laptop, she sees that even more messages have been posted. It seems Ruth helped with the village fete cake stall, made pickles to raise funds for the OAPs’ Christmas lunch, and entered a fun run against the advice of ‘certain busybodies’ – Mr ‘Will-kill-soon’, Jo thinks.
Just as she is about to close her laptop, another message appears. It is simply a quote from George Eliot’s book,Middlemarch:
For the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.
It is signed,
With very best wishes for Christmas, from your friend, Malcolm Buswell, and from the ghosts who rest in Highgate Cemetery.
47
Advice from Lucy
It is Christmas Eve and Lucy is back – and still married to Sanjeev, which she claims is quite an achievement after a prolonged stay with his family. They are meeting at the pub for lunch, and Jo cannot wait. Sanjeev is going to see Jo later at home, giving Lucy and her the chance to catch up properly. It also allows time for his wife’s best friend to remind her of all his good points, which he knows he can rely on Jo to do.
The pub is glowing amber with warmth and light, and buzzing with conversation. Holly and ivy are strung from the beams, and in the inglenook fireplace huge logs are crackling and smouldering. Jo spots Lucy at a small table in an alcove near to the fire. A bright spot of crimson, in dungarees, with a green scarf in her hair. As always she is wearing her signature scarlet lipstick. Jo pushes towards her and hugs Lucy to her. She is swept with a feeling of great contentment for her best friend. How can she ever have thought she would run away from this? They hang, limpet-like, to each other fora few moments.
‘Ah, so good to see you, BF,’ Lucy says in her ear.
‘What the hell!’ The words are catapulted from Jo, and Lucy steps back, startled.
Over Lucy’s shoulder, Jo can see a back she recognizes, a cycling jacket she knows. ‘It’s Finn,’ is all she can say.
Lucy glances towards the bar, ‘Yeah, and so?’ She looks at Jo in bemusement. ‘Oh, the girlfriend …’ Lucy adds, still staring at Jo in wonder.
Finn has his arm around the waist of a woman. Her caramel toffee curls cascade over the sleeve of his jacket.
‘What the …’ is all Jo can manage.
‘I’m not with you?’ Lucy says, slowly. ‘Oh, that’s Finn’s new girlfriend.’
Words tumble from Jo. ‘But she’s with Eric the Optician. What the fu—’
‘No more! What are you on about?’ Lucy says, starting to laugh. ‘Do you know her? I thought he’d hooked up with someone up here, but apparently he met her in London.’
Caramel Toffee Clare turns round and – seeing Jo – gives a small wave, nudging Finn. She has the same look on her face as she had when she walked past Jo’s shop window. Embarrassed.
