Chapter 3 Christmas spirits
Christmas spirits
Five minutes later, Malcolm is hurrying along Riverside Road, following the path of the river Swale.
Beside him the river rushes and tumbles as if conscious of his mood.
His long stride easily overtakes other walkers ambling along the footpath.
He is filled with so much enthusiastic energy following his idea to give Rev.
Ruth the gift of a delicious and restful Christmas that he feels the need to burn some of this off by walking the long way back to his house.
To his right rises a steep bank, at the top of which towers the imposing wall of Richmond Castle.
Even though it is early afternoon, the light is already fading, and the stone that on some days can look golden now appears flat and grey.
Rooks circle overhead in the charcoal sky.
Looking through the skeletal branches of the trees to his left, he follows the river as it widens.
In patches the pools are now deepening to ink black.
But none of this creeping darkness can touch his mood.
Malcolm Buswell is aglow with Christmas Spirit.
As he strides along, he ticks off things in his mind: the tree is already up, but he will add some more lanterns to the sitting room; get new tableware too; and he will make sure his best guest room is warm and cosy and filled with treats and books that Rev. Ruth might enjoy. But what to cook?
He is taken back to his last Christmas with his mother.
The two of them deciding which dishes they fancied for their quiet but still festive Christmas day.
Even though she ate so little … should he have been more aware of her failing appetite?
He wonders if he had denied what is now so clear: his mother had been ailing.
No dramatic, disease-filled ending, just a fading away of the mother he loved.
Still, they had enjoyed that last Christmas.
Delicious morsels to punctuate their day, rather than a banquet or feast. But still appreciated.
They had talked easily, read books, shared favourite poems. They had laughed.
His mother had a gentle sardonic wit which he still misses.
It brought out his own humour, like few people ever could.
Maybe, in that way, Rev. Ruth is a bit like his mother, he reflects.
There had been no reference to religion though, although Malcolm recalls something inside him shifting when he heard the sound of carols being sung somewhere further down their street.
Not for them the blessing of the coming of Christ. No feeling of hope.
That had all ended with the early death of his father and brother.
He pictures his hand lingering on that London bookshelf, suspended over the worn copy of a childhood favourite: ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’.
A colourful book depicting the song his mother had brought to life, singing it to him and his brother.
He wonders for an instant where that book went.
It had the most wonderful jewel-coloured illustrations, the many characters appearing to leap between the snow-white pages.
He is sure it is no longer on his shelves.
But, despite the poignancy of these memories, and the aching loss brought on by half-remembered carol singing, it had been a good Christmas.
He had always worried that he was a disappointment to his mother.
He had never doubted that she loved him.
Malcolm picks up his pace, keen to get back to the recipe books that are tucked on the shelves in his kitchen. He knew food had the power to restore, possibly the power to heal. He strides up the cobbled hill leading to his Georgian house on Newbiggen.
Halfway up he stops, panting and, leaning over, he holds onto his thighs.
‘Don’t kill yourself before Christmas,’ he mutters.
From this crouched position he looks across to the small chapel-like building opposite – this houses the Richmond Operatic Society.
It is then he spots the Three Disgraces heading towards the open door.
It is dusk now, and the light from within illuminates the three old ladies, like spotlights on a stage.
At the door they catch sight of him and, waving cheerfully, each drops him a theatrical curtsy.
Much laughter follows as two of them must help one of their number to rise to standing again.
Grace – well he thinks it’s Grace – calls, ‘Gracey is going to take a turn in the Christmas special tomorrow with the Operatic Society. You should come!’
He waves back, calling, ‘I may well do that, ladies!’
Just look at him, Malcolm Buswell, the man who used to be crippled by shyness –calling out to his friends in the street!
He finds he wants to laugh out loud. For a moment he wishes his mother could see this, the man he has become.
With renewed vigour he tackles the last bit of the hill leading to the street where he lives.
Even that makes him chuckle, as it reminds him of something Rev.
Ruth once said to him. Teasing him that he chose to live in the street with the Catholic church.
‘And you a confirmed bachelor … oh sorry, I mean atheist.’
He walks along the broad cobbled avenue that is Newbiggen, taking in the lit windows that give a glimpse of the Christmas trees within.
As soon as he gets home, he will turn on the white fairy lights that cover his tree.
Malcolm believes Christmas tree lights, like his pocket handkerchiefs, should be simple and white.
He studies the different door wreaths as he passes.
Eucalyptus with burgundy skimmia – very elegant.
A Christmas confection of red, green and gold – very festive.
A circle of plastic pink and purple baubles – maybe not.
He will go down and talk to the local florist tomorrow and select a wreath.
Something festive but tasteful. He reaches his front door, and it gives him immense pleasure to think this is where he now lives, and that he was brave enough to make the move from London.
Perhaps he isn’t such a dull dog after all.
The house is built in a mellow yellowing stone.
It has three storeys, and a front door painted a deep teal green.
To the right of the door, a long rectangular window shows his unlit Christmas tree.
He studies his door knocker. A demon-like face with a round brass ring in its mouth.
Rev. Ruth had told him it was a sanctuary knocker, similar to the one at Durham Cathedral.
Those holding tight to the knocker would be offered thirty-seven days of sanctuary in the cathedral to plan reconciliations – or their escape.
Well, he would make sure that Ruth got sanctuary this Christmas.
He would ensure that no one knocked at his door bothering her and trespassing on her good nature.
He reaches for his key and studies the demon once more.
The gargoyle-like face stares back.
He nods. What had he expected? The demon to turn into the Ghost of Christmas Past … or was it Marley that it turned into? Didn’t the ghosts come later? The knocker turning into Scrooge’s old partner, Marley, had been the first sign.
‘What are you looking at?’ he says out loud.
‘Nothing, pet,’ comes a voice from behind him.
He spins around to find his neighbour’s housekeeper studying him. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mrs Wilson.’ Then he stops. What can he possibly say to explain this?
Mrs Wilson doesn’t seem to be fazed. ‘A courier dropped this off for you. Couldn’t get it through the letterbox.’
‘Ah, thank you. Thank you very much indeed,’ Malcolm gushes.
‘I do believe that is the new electric shaver I ordered.’ Then wishes he hadn’t offered so much personal information.
‘I was thinking about getting a wreath for my door,’ he blurts, trying to give the one-sided conversation a different direction.
‘Good idea, if you ask me. It would give me the willies coming home to that ugly bugger each evening.’ She nods at the demon knocker, and with that Mrs Wilson is off.
Once inside, Malcolm breathes a sigh of relief.
In here he is hidden from the world, which still at times leaves him feeling at a distinct disadvantage.
He hangs up his burgundy wool coat and sets about turning on the lights – making his comfortable and elegant home cosy.
It is not long before he is in the sitting room, settled on his woodland green sofa, Christmas lights lit, glass of whisky by his side and recipe books open on the ottoman in front of him.
Seeing them scattered there reminds him of the evening spent with Jo and Ruth when they had sorted through the notebooks which detailed his research into the souls who had been buried in Highgate Cemetery.
He had wanted to write a book in which the ghosts of Highgate Cemetery materialized on Christmas Eve.
Yet however much research he did into those buried there, he couldn’t seem to start writing his story.
It was Jo who came up with the idea of each taking two people and imagining a conversation that they might have on Christmas Eve.
The night when all animals and – as Malcolm had decided – all ghosts could talk.
Well, look what had come from that.
On impulse Malcolm reaches for his phone and presses Jo’s number.
‘That’s spooky,’ comes the response. Which, in the light of his musings, he finds remarkably apt. ‘We were just talking about you.’
‘Were you indeed, Joanne?’
‘Yes, indeed we were,’ Jo replies, and Malcolm can hear the smile in her voice. ‘Eliot and I have been watching the film of the BFG and he thought he looked like you.’
‘Indeed,’ Malcolm responds, hoping this will make Jo smile some more. She knows it is one of his favourite sayings.
She laughs, ‘Yes, indeed. Eliot said you had long legs like the Big Friendly Giant, and his nose.’
‘It was very kind of him not to mention my big ears.’ Malcolm chuckles.
‘Well, he might have done,’ Jo admits. ‘What can I do for you, Malcolm?’
Malcolm explains to her about his idea for Rev. Ruth. ‘I do appreciate it is rather a long shot. But I felt it would be remiss of me not to invite you and your little family to join us, Joanne. I know Rev. Ruth holds you all in such high regard.’
‘That is such a lovely idea, Malcolm. I wish we could, but what with me the size of a whale, and Eric wanting to be at home with Eliot, as he’s now beginning to really get Christmas, I’d better say no.
’ She brightens, ‘But I know Ruth loved the Christmas pudding I made for her last year, so I’ll make another one.
And you will have to mix her your special Christmas cocktail. ’
‘That is a good idea,’ Malcolm enthuses, adding ‘cocktail’ to the list he is making. How can he have forgotten that? The cocktail is based on a recipe devised by him and his mother. ‘And thank you for the offer of the Christmas pudding,’ he adds.
‘It’s a great idea, Malcolm. You and Ruth are going to have a wonderful time.’
After Jo hangs up, Malcolm stares for some moments at the Christmas tree lights until they become blurred before him, like floating snowflakes.
So, Eliot is beginning to get Christmas.
Does Malcolm ‘get’ Christmas? He thinks so.
His mother and he had certainly made it special for each other.
And what about that magical Christmas Eve in Highgate Cemetery when he had shared his Christmas cocktail with Ruth and Jo?
He looks around his sitting room at the furniture, the lamps, even the books that had once been part of the house that he and his mother had lived in for so long.
And above and around the fireplace are her botanical paintings.
A woman who flew Spitfires who could also draw.
She really had been a remarkable woman. No wonder, even now, he sometimes worries he may have been a disappointment.
Then he recalls his book with the illustrated copper-coloured fox, and another fox who had once given him the confidence to feel that he, Malcolm, was enough.
His mind drifts to a different book: A Christmas Carol.
He pours more whisky into his tumbler – a heavy cut glassthat, like many of the items around him, came from a different era.
He chuckles quietly to himself as he remembers Mrs Wilson’s comment about the demon knocker.
He sits back, feet to the fire. Well, he may not believe in God, or be celebrating the birth of Jesus, like his friend Rev.
Ruth. But he likes to think that with the Christmas he is planning, Ruth will say of him (like they did of the reformed Scrooge) that Malcolm Buswell ‘knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge.’