Chapter 2 A host of angels
A host of angels
It is Monday morning and Malcolm is in the bookshop, which is looking very festive.
Padam has put a potted Christmas tree in the window and hung it with twinkling fairy lights, along with baubles that resemble miniature books, pencils, pens, and even a tiny typewriter.
The fragrance of pine and cinnamon in the air mix with the enticing smell of new books.
In the main body of the shop, the worn wooden bookshelves are draped in more fairy lights, some donated by Malcolm from the collection that he and his mother had built up over the years.
Across the ceiling, heading towards the children’s section, are strung Buddhist prayer flags in colourful primary colours, Padam brushing aside Malcolm’s comment about religious and cultural inconsistencies with a gentle, ‘It takes all sorts, my friend.’
At the time, Malcolm had wanted to reassure Padam that he wasn’t criticizing his religion and that his best friend was a vicar, despite himself being an atheist. But this had seemed too complicated to embark upon, so he had simply replied, ‘Indeed,’ and gone to make them more tea, hoping that Padam understood.
Malcolm treasures their conversations, talk that blossoms in the gaps between customers.
Sometimes it is a short vibrant exchange thrown across the books, at other times the words flow gently, the sharing of news and experiences wrapping around them.
Padam tells him about his life with the Gurkhas, and how he finally settled in Richmond, where his nephew lives.
He speaks of his love of mountains and hill walking.
Although, now he is nearly seventy, he admits he does find the going harder.
During the early days Malcolm had often preferred to listen, feeling like the poor man at the feast. His past work as a tax analyst hardly worthy of mention.
He has rarely travelled and has never fought.
He likes to walk but can’t ever remember climbing a mountain.
On one such tongue-tied occasion, his glance had fallen upon his book, the copper-coloured fox on the cover glistening in the late afternoon sunshine, and it seemed to Malcolm that the fox was giving him a nudge.
So he had ended up telling Padam of how he came to meet Rev.
Ruth and Jo, and of their Christmas Eve in Highgate Cemetery.
Now his novella is once more back in stock, reissued for Christmas.
Padam straightens up from where he has been arranging a display of the books by the till.
Today he is wearing a Fair Isle vest in a pleasing mix of mustard, greens and woodland browns, which Malcolm considers extremely tasteful and attractive.
Lost in thought, he almost misses Padam’s next remark.
‘I think we should put a card with some of the reviews on it next to the books, and maybe a photo of the author?’ Padam suggests, weathered face crinkled from suppressing a grin.
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Malcolm blusters, blushing.
‘Well, maybe I will let you off the photograph. After all, I can always point out our famous author to customers.’
Malcolm issues a stream of incoherent protestations.
Padam talks gently but firmly over them. ‘At the very least, I am going to put this review out.’ He fishes a card from under the pile of books. He reads it aloud.
‘A perfect ghost story for Christmas. Malcolm Buswell’s skilfully written and meticulously researched debut is both engaging and at times unexpectedly funny. It reminds us that if we look hard enough, we can always find something to share.’
Padam looks up, holding Malcolm’s embarrassed gaze. Malcolm is the first to look away.
‘Now, you will remember I am leaving at lunchtime to go and help out at the school nativity practice?’ Malcolm unnecessarily reminds Padam. He always leaves at noon on a Monday.
‘Yes, I remember,’ Padam replies, with the ghost of a laugh.
He adds a final book to the display. ‘Now, if you hold the fort here, I’d better see about decorating the children’s section.
’ He disappears into the back of the shop; a few minutes later, banging and occasional muttering – which Malcolm suspects is swearing in Nepalese – informs him that Padam is putting up the wooden cut-out of a painted sleigh that will decorate this section of the shop.
Padam’s plan is that it should look as if it is flying above the children, with books spilling from it.
Malcolm hadn’t been able to quite picture it, but he has confidence in Padam.
He is a practical man and also, Malcolm has discovered, an imaginative one.
It is one of the reasons he likes him so much.
He stops this thought with an abrupt turn towards the ringing of the shop bell, straightens his olive-green pullover, and turns a solicitous smiling face to the ladies entering the shop.
He knows them well. They are the Three Disgraces.
‘Ah good morning, Mr Buswell,’ the eldest lady calls, cheerful.
He thinks this is just Grace. He finds he does get muddled.
There is Grace, and Gracey and then there is Amazing Grace.
They had explained it all very seriously to him on his first week working in the shop.
Grace had been an actress, ‘I’m far too old to call myself an actor,’ she had told him.
‘She’s the singer,’ she added, pointing at her friend.
‘We call her Gracey after Gracey Fields.’ Gracey had nodded, gazing at him from bright blue eyes.
All the ladies had white hair cut fashionably short, but Gracey’s eyes really were exceptional.
This had helped a little in telling them apart.
The fact that they seemed to borrow each other’s clothes hadn’t.
Gracey had then introduced the third woman, ‘She’s Amazing Grace.
Grace and I did have our moments …’ Amazing Grace interrupted at this point, ‘You were both very good, darlings.’ She had turned to Malcolm, adding, ‘Now Gracey was in the original cast of Oliver. Beautiful voice. And one day, do ask Grace to tell you all about her time on stage with Sir John.’ As Grace had begun to speak, as if on cue, her two friends cut in with, ‘But not now, darling.’
There had been much laughter, at which point they had informed him that they were not so much the ‘Three Graces’ as the ‘Three Disgraces’.
This seemed to be a favourite joke. Gracey then took up the story, ‘Now Amazing Grace was the most famous of us all. She’s our dancer, and she once performed with the Bolshoi. ’
‘My goodness,’ Malcolm had responded, blinking and reeling slightly from the genteel onslaught.
Three years on, he has the measure of this retired theatrical – sometimes raucous – trio and greets them warmly.
They pop into the shop most weeks, and he has discovered that Grace has a taste for thrillers, Gracey for romances, while Amazing Grace loves an old fashioned whodunnit.
As indeed does he. He sometimes thinks he has reread his favourite Agatha Christie at least a dozen times.
‘We have the latest Richard Osman in,’ he tells them generally, not wishing to be caught out addressing the wrong Grace.
Sometimes he wonders if the women really are all called Grace.
Only one has a ‘G’ on her debit card. But he never raises this as he has become fond of the Three Disgraces.
They always make him smile, and they also make him feel young, which he considers is quite an achievement.
They certainly do not dress like old ladies, but the transparency of their white skin and the stiffening of their movements over time gives them away.
He has discovered they live together on Bridge Terrace in a small house overlooking the river Swale, and often join forces to fight various family members who dare to suggest assisted living might be more suitable now they are all approaching ninety.
‘We told them where they could put their “assisted living”,’ Gracey had told him with glee.
Today it seems they are shopping for Christmas presents, so they wave aside his offer of the latest Richard Osman and head into the back to rifle through the children’s books.
He has lost count of the number of grandchildren and great-grandchildren they have between them.
Malcolm can soon hear them laughing with Padam and he moves around to start tidying the central island of books.
It is not long before Grace is back, and Malcolm thinks she looks tired.
He breaks off from his work and offers her a chair by the counter.
She sinks into it gratefully, saying conspiratorially, ‘You put that Richard Osman aside for me, but don’t let Amazing Grace see it. That’s her Christmas present sorted.’
‘No sooner said …’ Malcolm smiles, plucking a new hardback from the display and hiding it under the counter. ‘Now, may I get you a cup of tea? I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look weary.’
‘Hungover,’ Grace says, shaking her head slowly as if in pain. ‘I know, Mr Buswell, I should know better at my age.’
Malcolm wonders. He secretly believes Grace would rather be labelled a ‘disgrace’ than admit that age is catching up with her. He takes pity on her.
‘I’ve heard that the BBC are showing a new Agatha Christie at Christmas. Wasn’t it an Agatha Christie play you were in with Sir John Gielgud?’
Grace perks up like she has just downed a shot of rum.
‘It was, Mr Buswell. My best performance ever. It was only a small part, mind you, a maid, but Sir John did point out that it was a pivotal role. Of course, he wasn’t “Sir John” at the time, and this was just provincial rep, but you could see that the man had star quality.
I don’t know if I have ever told you this, but he was kind enough to say that I “embodied” the part, and that my performance was “memorable in its personification of grudging domestic servitude”,’ she quotes happily.