Malcolm then repeats what he once told Jo. ‘Reverend Ruth, I will never believe in God. But I do believe in you.’
‘Oh, Malcolm,’ Ruth says, reaching out her hand to him.
No one has made any mention of Malcolm’s appearance. He is wearing a purple beret, a vermillion scarf and a long turquoise afghan coat embroidered with flowers.
A few minutes later, they are all tucked up on the bench, blankets wrapped around them, glasses in hand. Malcolm has mixed his traditional Christmas cocktail. The thermos, which Jo had imagined might contain tea, is full of enough cocktail for a second, or possibly third glass. Reverend Ruth is sitting squeezed between Jo and Malcolm. Jo lets out a contented sigh.
‘I have some sausage rolls in my basket. I think they should still be warm. Would anyone like one?’ Malcolm offers, and Jo remembers just how hungry she is.
As they sit eating sausage rolls and some brie and cranberry tartlets that Malcolm forgot he had packed, the snow starts to fall again. Slow, lazy flakes flutter around them. The position of the bench means they are sheltered from the gathering snow, but the tombs circling them look as if they have been iced with it. Jo uses her torch to illuminate more of the graveyard. The stone angels are cloaked in white and Karl Marx is wearing a toupee of snow.
Jo doesn’t know whether it is the sight of Karl Marx looking ridiculous, or the sheer joy of being here with these two people, but she starts to laugh. The sound is caught up and echoed by her companions and Jo remembers dancing with them around Uncle Wilbur’s kitchen.
‘What are we like?’ she eventually says. ‘I mean, look at us,’ and she starts to laugh again.
‘I must say,’ Malcolm says, ‘I do think it is rather marvellous.’
Ruth joins in, ‘I know what you mean, Jo – the three of us. I don’t know quite how you would describe this.’
Malcolm’s breath clouds the cold air as he speaks. ‘I suppose, Reverend Ruth, I would say that we are simply friends and leave it at that.’
Jo wonders if that is it. She knows friendship can be complex, and, thinking of Lucy, it can make you feel physically ill when it goes wrong. But at its best, wasn’t it joyfully uncomplicated? Someone was simply your friend. And that was that.
They sit in silence for some time, and then Jo asks, ‘If you don’t mind telling us, Ruth, what happened when you went to see your brother?’
‘Ah, yes, Don. Good heavens, that was tough. He just repeated what my parents had told me over the years: that I was too full of myself, too different. Just not what they wanted.’ Ruth’s voice is strained, ‘But I can’t say I regret it. Well, not now. I tried and I will always know that. I can’t deny it knocked me for six, but then you sent me the link to that wonderful forum you and Angela had set up.’ This time Ruth leans over and kisses Jo on the cheek. ‘I will never be able to thank you enough for that.’
Malcolm tops up their cocktail glasses, shaking back the sleeve of his turquoise afghan coat so as not to dribble drink on his cuff. ‘And now, Reverend Ruth, I think you should tell Joanne and me how you came to be the Runaway Vicar.’
It seems to Jo that Malcolm has borrowed a certain directness from his friend, the Reverend Ruth Hamilton.
50
The secret of the Runaway Vicar
‘Oh, must I?’ Ruth complains. ‘I should have known you two would figure out I hadn’t told you everything.’
But from her tone, Jo knows that she is going to tell them. She tucks her arm into Reverend Ruth’s and waits.
‘Oh Malcolm, I feel such an idiot,’ Ruth confesses.
‘Better get it over with, otherwise Joanne and I will think the worst, and I am sure it really isn’t that bad,’ Malcolm insists.
‘Well, I feel it is,’ Ruth states, almost grumpily.
‘You are only human, Reverend Ruth,’ Malcolm says, soothingly.
‘I know, Malcolm – I really do know that – but I felt like I had let myself down, and my calling.’ She continues, and Jo thinks she detects a hint of humour in her voice, ‘And it issoembarrassing, when I look back.’ Ruth sighs. ‘Okay then. Let me tell you the story of Stan … I mean, what a name – it’s not very romantic, is it?’
Malcolm and Jo stay silent. It doesn’t seem to them as if there is any possible response to this.
‘Well, Stan Pickwell was a newcomer to our community. He was originally from Liverpool.’ Ruth groans. ‘A bookie.’
Jo smiles.
Ruth seems to get some sense of this. ‘Yes, I know, I know. Well, he had bought the old Manor House. Threw money at it. I think he was trying for a bit of gentrification.’ Ruth snorts. ‘That was never going to work.’ Jo thinks she says this with a marked degree of affection.
‘I called in, as I always would to anyone new to the parish, and, of course, we were always on the lookout for funds for the upkeep of the church.’
