New Beginnings (The Book of Beginnings #2)

Prologue Under the lamppost

Prologue

Under the lamppost

‘Now who is it that you remind me of?’ Rev. Ruth asks.

Malcolm stamps his feet. Not through frustration – he always likes bumping into Rev. Ruth unexpectedly. But it is cold loitering here on the edge of the Market Place. It is mid-December and the temperature has suddenly plummeted, bringing with it snow and sleet flurries.

Rev. Ruth eyes him, speculatively, head tilted to one side.

Malcolm had in fact been wondering the same thing.

Who or what does Ruth remind him of? When they first met in Jo’s uncle’s stationery shop in London, Ruth had always brought to mind a wren.

Hopping and popping up – often surprising a laugh out of him and filling him with the hope that they might settle in for one of their to-and-fro discussions.

Rev. Ruth delivering her points with the swipe of an open palm, in the manner of a table tennis player trying to sneak a score over the net.

But Malcolm likes to think he gave as good as he got on the subject of God and all the other things they merrily disagreed about.

Now standing watching her, he pulls his brown velvet jacket more snugly around him, and wonders if it is still a wren.

Five years on, Ruth is in her sixties – he remembers her sixtieth party well, a marvellous fancy-dress affair of ‘Tarts and Vicars’.

With age his friend has filled out, rather like a bird plumping up its feathers.

So, a bird definitely, but a wren? He’s not so sure.

‘I’ve got it!’ Rev. Ruth declares triumphantly.

Malcolm lowers his head in polite enquiry.

‘It’s the umbrella and that red scarf,’ Ruth declares. ‘I like the velvet jacket, by the way. Very natty.’

Malcolm smiles encouragingly and wishes he had worn his burgundy wool overcoat. So much warmer. Ruth appears oblivious of the cold, cocooned in a long navy puffer coat, only her clerical collar a splash of white at the neck. ‘I suppose the parcels are books?’ she prompts.

‘Indeed,’ Malcolm assents, looking at the wrapped packages in his hands. At least he’d remembered his mittens (turquoise cashmere).

Rev. Ruth’s eyes are twinkling. And Malcolm thinks how much he likes this woman – and, despite his now dripping nose, how glad he is that he moved north to Richmond when he sold his mother’s house.

He supposes it was his house too, but it had never quite felt like he was the owner of that little cottage on the edge of Hampstead Heath.

And when she died, hadn’t he always felt like something was missing?

Now here he is, almost a Yorkshire man. But no, hardly that.

A true inhabitant would be made of sterner stuff.

He fishes a crisp white handkerchief out of his pocket to attend to his nose.

He may dress in more colourful clothes these days, but he can’t help feeling a handkerchief should always be white Egyptian cotton.

‘Did Lucy give you that when she came for tea?’ Rev. Ruth asks mischievously.

In that moment Malcolm feels a glorious surge of humour, and a rush of love for this perky, pesky, bird-like woman who is always roping him into fundraisers, and what he sees as her ‘do-goodery’, despite his vociferous protestations.

‘From that remark, I presume that I remind you of Mr Tumnus from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?’ He inclines his long narrow head once more in polite enquiry.

‘Got it in one, Mr Tumnus!’ Rev. Ruth exclaims, punching him playfully but painfully on the arm.

Malcolm winces and puffs out a cloud of breath into the icy air. Then he thinks maybe he might dare risk it …

‘Sweet Jeeesus,’ he murmurs quietly, rubbing his arm and looking at her from under his bushy eyebrows which, like the snow that is gathering on his umbrella, are now completely white.

Rev. Ruth’s eruption of laughter echoes around the Market Place, startling a solitary pigeon into flight. Smiling, Malcolm watches it flap away through the swirling snow.

A pigeon maybe?

No. Too commonplace.

And Rev. Ruth certainly isn’t that.

Malcolm can still hear her laughter as he turns to make his way along the Market Place to his home.

As he passes an alleyway, he spots a slight movement to his right.

Low down by a pile of boxes at the back of a shop.

A cat maybe? Then he sees it. A copper-coloured tail.

The end is white, as if dipped in snow. A fox.

He watches as the small creature trots away.

It does not look in his direction and, for an instant, Malcolm is disappointed, wanting a glimpse of those gleaming eyes.

He pauses in a half-stride, wondering. Like the snow that is swirling about him, he is swept up in a confusion of emotions.

Excitement. Anticipation. And something a lot like anxiety.

He tries to catch at these feelings, as if they were snowflakes. But nothing settles.

Malcolm shakes his head and continues on his way, conscious once more of the cold that is seeping into him. But his stride is longer now, quicker, as if he is hurrying towards something. He just has no idea what.