‘I do indeed,’ Ruth says, borrowing one of Malcolm’s phrases.
‘So do I,’ Jo adds, with enthusiasm. In her heart she is sure the three of them are meant to be on stage together for a few more scenes.
‘Shall we drink to the future?’ Ruth suggests, reaching for the thermos of cocktails. She insists they all get to their feet as she tops up their glasses. The snow has stopped falling but the thick covering smothers the sound of the city beyond the walls. Jo feels this is a moment captured in time that she will never forget. They are cocooned in the light of the lantern, the circle of snowy, ghostly tombs guarding their little group. For her, this will always be an important meeting point: of herself, the Reverend Ruth Hamilton, and the campaigner, Malcolm Buswell.
‘I feel we should say something,’ Ruth says, raising her glass, and cocking her head towards Malcolm.
Malcolm gives a slight shake of his head. A brave man, but still a reserved man.
Jo hears her own voice, strong in the darkness, and watches her breath mist the air. ‘I would like to say something.’
They both look to her.
It came to her as she gazed out into the darkness of the cemetery.
‘To the three of us.’ She pauses and then adds the words that George Eliot wrote: ‘It is never too late to be what you might have been.’
The three of them raise their glasses in unison.
51
Jo Sorsby makes plans
They settle back on the bench, a quiet, thoughtful trio. Jo’s reverie is interrupted by Reverend Ruth: direct as (almost) always, she gets straight to the point.
‘Now then Jo, enough about us – tell us all about your plans. What are you doing back in London for Christmas Eve?’
‘Before we go into all that, shall we have a walk around the cemetery?’ Jo suggests. She feels the need for a pause, a chance to gather her thoughts. ‘We’re never likely to be here like this again.’
‘You’re right, Joanne. As much as I would like to make this an annual convening with the ghosts each Christmas Eve, I do worry about those railings. Even with a stepladder,’ Malcolm admits.
Ruth is already up on her feet and pulling something from her pocket.
Jo’s impressed. ‘Good head torch.’
The torch certainly has a very powerful beam, and Ruthleads the way, Jo taking up the rear. First they visit George Eliot’s grave and stand in silence for a few moments, before moving on deeper into the graveyard. The path squeaks under their feet and their bodies, brushing the branches, dislodge snow, which falls with a slithering sigh.
As they walk, they talk about their ghosts; where they are now and what they might be doing. Jo thinks William Foyle and John Lobb will be on their second pint. Those two ghosts, who reminded her of the importance of friendship. Malcolm suggests that, even now, Issachar is showing George Eliot the display of her novels in the window of Waterstones. Something, Issachar tells her (loudly, so passers-by can hear), that he has arranged just for her.
Ruth is quieter about her ghosts. Eventually she says, she hopes they have more success than she did, reconciling with their pasts and their families.
Malcolm reaches out and pats her shoulder. ‘You did everything you could, Ruth. No one could have done more. Sometimes it is time to move on.’
Jo wonders if Malcolm is also talking about himself.
It strikes Jo that anyone overhearing them would think they are quite mad. Yet she knows for the three of them – right here, right now – their ghostly Christmas Eve story has become a reality.
‘Will you write your ghost story, Malcolm?’ Jo asks.
‘Most assuredly. Maybe I will start after I move house. I hear Yorkshire is nice.’
Jo hears a quiet, ‘Ah, wonderful,’ from Reverend Ruth.
Now they are deeper into the graveyard, theboughs are bent low with the weight of snow. It feels as though they have entered a smaller world, a cave of branches, ivy and ice. It is darker and there is a new depth to the silence.
Jo’s torch beam picks up a headstone of a private who died aged 19 in 1917.
Malcolm sees it too. ‘Joanne, it is most remiss of me. I should have thanked you for your wonderful gift. I spent the whole afternoon reading the airmen’s stories.’
