‘Lando, how are you?’ She tries to swallow her disappointment. ‘Have you seen Eric?’
He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, he headed off hours ago. I just popped back as I’d left Sacha’s present here. Merry Christmas, though! Got to rush, Ferdy is waiting for me. We need to put the carrots out for the reindeer.’
Jo wishes Lando a Happy Christmas and turns away. Snow is now gathering on her lashes, making her blink. She had better get into Uncle Wilbur’s shop and make the best of it. The inside of the shop is cold and still. She picks up the post lying on the old indigo and bronze tiles, and puts the bundle on the nearest shelf. The white sheets of paper across the windows give the interior an eerie glow, like snow is already piled up high against the windows. She tries the light switch beside the door, but nothing happens.
At the back of the shop, she sees a pale orange glow and she remembers the timer Kendrick set up for her. Shegoes to get the lamp, clicking the switch on the kettle as she passes. She doesn’t have any milk, but there will be coffee. She is suddenly conscious of how little she has with her – she doesn’t even have her phone – but then reminds herself: this is London, there will always be shops open late. A wave of loneliness washes away any desire for food and she pushes her bags out of the way and takes up her place on the stool behind the counter. She leans down, plugs in the lamp and at the same time turns the blow heater on, shifting it with her foot so it is throwing all its warmth in her direction. She spots something part hidden under the counter. She picks it up and brushes off the dust. It is a pen-and-ink drawing of a Viking.
Looking at it, she feels foolish and lonely in equal measure.
Sitting in a faint pool of light, she stares at the blank whiteness of the windows. Now what should she do?
Suddenly the answer is so obvious, she can’t believe she didn’t think of it before. She wonders if part of her (and the gods, maybe?) always knew where she was heading; even when she was procrastinating back in the pub. And she has time. It is only 9 p.m. The ghosts won’t be out and about until ten o’clock.
After all, those are the rules.
49
Christmas Eve in Highgate Cemetery
Jo raids her Uncle Wilbur’s cupboards and drawers for all his warmest clothing. She puts on several layers of socks until her feet are the right size for his heavy boots – she thinks they may be ex-Army issue. Then she pulls on jumpers, scarves and gloves, and finally, his long winter overcoat and a grey wool hat. Dressed in his clothes, she feels a closeness to her favourite uncle and sends him a silent message of thanks – not just for this moment, this sharing of his belongings, but for what the last few months have given her and for all the childhood memories.
At the back of the wardrobe she finds a stout stick and, as she drags it out, a memory tumbles out with it. She sees her maternal grandfather leaning on this stick, both hands clasped over the top, eyes half closed in contemplation of the mountains sweeping down to Ullswater. So, Karl Marx kept his father’s picture in his breast pocket; Uncle Wilbur kept his father’s stick.
Thoughts of family remind her she hasn’t yet called home, so she takes off her gloves and rings her parents. Luckily her dad answers and, without asking for any more details, agrees that he will tell her mum she is safe, and also get her to call Lucy.
Outside, the snow has stopped falling but the ground is icy and slippery – even in Uncle Wilbur’s boots and using her grandfather’s stick to steady her. It is easier once she gets away from the High Street. Fewer people have walked here, and the fresh snow gives her more purchase. She heads for the narrow lane that will lead her down to the cemetery.
Houses are aglow with Christmas lights and she is grateful to those residents who have left their curtains open, allowing her a glimpse of the warmth within. From somewhere come the strains of a cello being played, the faint rasp of the bow wrapped within the full richness of the melody. And then it stops. A dog barks.
From the High Street, Jo can make out distant laughter, and then she is navigating her way down the narrow lane and all she can hear is the scrunch of her boots and the short puffs of her breath. It is easier than she expected, but she goes slowly, holding onto fences and lampposts, until she reaches the gates to the Eastern Cemetery.
They are locked.
She hadn’t thought of this. They were usually guided by Malcolm as to when to visit the cemetery, and so in her mind it was always available, always there for them.
She swings the backpack she has brought with her off her shoulder and searches for her torch. Then, clicking on the strong beam, she makes her way furtherdown the lane, examining the wall of the cemetery. It is a low wall, topped with tall railings; it is well maintained and there are no obvious gaps. Her heart sinks.
But she has come this far; she can’t go back now. She thinks of John Lobb, walking all the way to London from Cornwall. The least she can do is keep going. It is easier to walk now, as the snow is deeper and there are railings to hold on to.
She doesn’t have to go far before she sees them. Footprints leading across the lane to a point further down the hill. They come to a halt by the wall, between a stone post and a streetlight. One set of prints is small, hopping bird-like across the snow; the other is from a larger foot (possibly encased in a John Lobb boot). Jo is flooded with an elation far greater than when she plunged into the Hampstead Ladies’ Pond.
Of course they have come. In her heart she knew they would. And Malcolm was prepared. Through the railings, between the post and the streetlamp, she spots a stepladder.
She finds them on the bench near Karl Marx’s tomb. They turn, startled, at the crunch of her boots in the snow.
Malcolm springs to his feet, then she sees him relax. ‘Joanne? Joanne! Is that really you?’ He peers at her and Jo widens the gap between her woolly hat and her scarf to reveal her face. It is then that she is hit full in the stomach by a barrelling vicar.
Ruth wraps her in a comprehensive hug. Over her shoulder, Jo can see Malcolm – who she now realizes doesn’t quite look like Malcolm – clapping his hands together. ‘I thought you would come. When youdidn’t answer your phone, I wondered, I hoped,’ he says, delightedly.
Ruth lets go of her and, stepping back, looks up at her. ‘You are a sight for sore eyes. Andthank you, Jo. You and Angela. I can’t tell you what a difference it made to me.’ She turns to Malcolm. ‘Room for one more, do you think?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ and Malcolm steps aside so Jo can see the bench. It appears to have been covered in a tarpaulin of sorts (or maybe it’s Ikea bags?) on top of which are layered blankets and cushions. Jo spots the green and cream tartan blanket from Malcolm’s ottoman. In front of the bench is a small, fold-out camping table. On it is a large lantern, a thermos flask, two cocktail glasses and a cocktail shaker. A round basket is sitting beside the table. Malcolm reaches into the basket and retrieves a third glass. ‘Shall we?’ he says, gesturing to the bench.
Ruth lets out a snort of laughter. ‘You put in a third glass?’ She looks suspiciously at Malcolm. ‘Did you know she was coming?’
‘No,’ Malcolm says, ‘but I knew you would be praying for a safe deliverance when we couldn’t get hold of her.’
Ruth looks even more suspicious, ‘And …?’ she says.
