Chapter 4 The light of Christingle
The light of Christingle
Malcolm opens the window of the advent calendar that Padam has pinned up in the children’s section.
He knows he should perhaps wait and let one of their young customers do it, but he can’t resist the temptation.
The sixteenth of December. Folding back the window, he reveals a yule log.
He recalls as a child being disappointed if he got this in his calendar; it seemed to him very dull compared to a reindeer, a sledge or a snowman.
But septuagenarian Malcolm sees it as a sign.
Another treat to add to his ever-growing list of Christmas food.
Padam has entered into Malcolm’s Christmas plans with enthusiasm.
Malcolm had hoped he would, as he knows Padam enjoys cooking.
They have decided that Ruth would probably welcome a traditional Christmas lunch, but with some extra-special additions.
Today, in a break between customers, Padam pulls some cookbooks from the shelves, and now they are poring over them, chatting through Malcolm’s options.
‘My friend Joanne is making the Christmas pudding,’ Malcolm tells him.
‘I have a good recipe for brandy sauce with orange and cardamom,’ Padam offers. ‘And it might be good to have a lighter option. I think, after a big roast, Christmas pudding can be quite heavy.’
‘Lemon posset?’ Malcolm ponders. Easy to make and he has some nice crystal glasses he could use for them.
‘Perfect. With some shortbread maybe. You could add cranberries to the shortbread and dip them in white chocolate,’ Padam suggests.
‘Yes, that would be very tasty,’ Malcolm approves. ‘I always think it can be good to save the Christmas pudding for later on, after a turkey sandwich.’
‘Mmmm.’ Padam is turning over the pages of a new Christmas cookbook by a celebrity chef. ‘I like the sound of this recipe for stuffing. It has fennel and apple in it.’
Malcolm reads over his friend’s shoulder and experiences a rush of happiness.
Who knew that so many good things could come from his simple idea?
After work today, he is planning on buying some Christmas napkins that he has seen in the window of a local gift shop.
Very simple, just small holly leaves embroidered on white linen.
He already has a door wreath hanging on his front door; he bought it the day after his conversation with the demon-knocker.
It is a large wreath made of pine and viburnum with cones, rose hips and dried orange slices.
He made sure the brass ring-shaped door knocker is still visible; after all, he was serious about offering sanctuary to his overworked friend.
But now the demon is half hidden by foliage.
A long fringe of greenery turning the gargoyle into a comic rather than a scary presence.
He thinks of Mrs Wilson and feels brave enough to tell Padam the story, laughing at himself for talking to the knocker.
‘I always read A Christmas Carol over the Christmas period. I feel it is a book that never ages,’ Padam tells him. ‘Although I somehow doubt you are going to have Christmas ghosts coming to haunt you. Or knockers turning into something nasty. You are already a good man, Malcolm Buswell.’
Padam turns away to greet a customer and Malcolm is left staring in surprise at the back of his maroon, orange and coffee-coloured Fair Isle vest.
As he is about to leave the shop later that day, Padam calls him back. ‘I expect I will see you later.’
Malcolm flushes, wondering what on earth Padam is referring to. It can’t be that he is planning on calling round? Malcolm experiences a rush of panic.
‘The Christingle service your friend Ruth is holding? My nephew’s children are taking part …’ Padam pauses. ‘I imagined you would be going.’
He wasn’t.
But he is now.
‘Of course,’ Malcolm tells him, ‘I never miss it.’
A good man – maybe. But also, as it turns out, a liar.
Malcolm is running late. The napkin purchasing had been followed by a trip to the deli for some special chocolates, and then he had decided to go the whole hog and hunt out some new bedding for the main guest room.
Malcolm believes that the material for his bedding should, like his pocket handkerchiefs, be white Egyptian cotton.
Although, in the end, he had succumbed to some white bed linen with discreet navy ribbon edging.
He was halfway home with his packages, when he turned around and retraced his steps to buy some new white towels.
He went for the largest, softest bath sheet he could find.
Then, once he was home and unpacked, he had the problem of deciding what to wear.
He had changed three times, eventually deciding on slim-fitting Paul Smith trousers and a three-quarters-length coat, both in navy, with an orange polo-neck jumper.
As a result of all of this, he is now literally running to the church.
He takes the slope up from Station Road to St Mary’s at a gallop, coat flapping.
At least the slope is dry and not slippery.
Today has been filled with sunshine and it is unexpectedly warm.
He pauses before the door, smoothing his hair with shaking hands, before slowly and quietly pushing it open.
The body and the back of the church are full.
Every seat seems to be taken and, gathered in a bunch furthest from the altar are the children, some wearing crowns and some wearing tea-towel shepherd headdresses.
As he is faltering, wondering where to sit, the door opens behind him, and he is relieved to see that he is not the last to arrive.
It is Miss Poole, looking flushed and wearing, in addition to her scarlet lipstick, a dark green jumper with Ho Ho Ho on the front in pink and red sequins.
The children stir and then comes the fulsome sing-song chant of, ‘We like your jumper, Miss Poole. Great lipstick, Miss Poole.’
It seems praise for Miss Poole is catching on.
The giggling from the children and the laughter from the audience seems to sweep Miss Poole into the body of the church, and Malcolm hurries to follow her, hoping to be less conspicuous.
He just catches a glimpse of Rev. Ruth’s look of surprise, before a small but muscly hand grabs at his coat sleeve and, looking to his right, he sees Padam.
He gestures Malcolm to the seat he has saved for him, closest to the aisle, and Malcolm sinks gratefully into it.
There is no time to do more than nod gratefully at Padam before the organ booms out the introduction to a carol and, with scuffling and loud whispered exhortations from adult helpers to take care, the candles poking from clove-covered oranges are lit, and the service begins.
The children are halfway down the aisle when it happens.
Padam has just pointed out his nephew’s son and daughter – older children at the head of the procession – when one of the following kings stops dead and a log-jam of children fills the aisle.
Just ahead of them, young shepherds slowly and carefully walk on, taking baby steps, eyes fixed on their candles, as instructed.
Further on, the older children have nearly reached Rev.
Ruth. In the centre of the church the gap between the static kings and shepherds grows wider.
The problem seems to be a crown slipping down around a small girl’s face so she can no longer see.
She is turning her head left and right, candle wobbling.
The beginning of a wail is attracting the audience’s attention.
A quick-thinking member of the congregation reaches out from her place in the nearby pew and she holds the girl’s hands steady as she tweaks the crown up.
An audible sigh of relief ripples through the church.
But not through Malcolm. He is watching the shepherds, and one of them, turning to see what is going on behind him, has flicked a corner of his tea towel into the flame of his Christingle.
In seconds the edge of the tea towel is ablaze.
Children block the exit to his right, and Malcolm does the only thing he can think of.
He stands.
Then, bowing low over the pew in front, he pulls his body backwards in an arch, like the high jumper he once was, taking a run-up.
Without further conscious thought, he gets one foot on the pew seat behind him, places one hand on Padam’s shoulder and launches himself over the top of the children towards the shepherds.
He is conscious of only two things. One is a Mexican wave of mothers rising from a pew in front of him – they have just spotted the conflagration too.
The second is the thought – still got it Malcolm Buswell – as he sails through the air and lands neatly in the aisle, where he quickly pulls the tea towel from the boy’s head and stamps the flames out with his Lobb boot.
It is Rev. Ruth who leads the applause as Malcolm, raising a modest hand, returns to his seat – trying hard not to limp.
His knee is absolutely killing him. Then the organ booms out once more and the service recommences.
Malcolm hardly notices what is happening, or the pain in his knee.
He is just conscious of Padam patting his arm, and his whispered, ‘That was very well done, Malcolm. Very impressive.’ After the patting stops, Malcolm can still feel Padam’s arm up against his own, the warmth of it making him feel far more breathless than his sudden vault into the aisle had done.