Chapter 12 Christmas Day
Christmas Day
Malcolm is discovering there are some advantages to being older.
His bones may be aching and his joints are stiff, but he is not in the least bit tired.
These days he finds he can manage quite well on very little sleep.
Which, as he stands in front of his open wardrobe, is just as well.
For an instant he thinks of Mr Tumnus and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
But why would he want to walk through his wardrobe to snow and adventure, when outside his front door the world is a hushed winter wonderland full of promise?
He half wonders if he really heard the voice speaking to him last night, but immediately rejects this thought.
He may be seventy-eight, but he wants to be a man who believes in magic.
He chuckles to himself; he wants to help keep all the fairies alive and well.
So, he will take the fox’s advice and put his best foot forward.
The first step in making things happen for himself.
Malcolm reaches for his favourite suit – bottle green, pure wool.
Beautifully cut, with tortoiseshell buttons.
He then selects a white shirt (Egyptian cotton) and a tie of abstract design, depicting mustard and ochre thistles interspersed with scarlet berries.
He adds a pair of stout brown brogues and a sturdy stick of ash.
As he closes his front door behind him and studies the gargoyle under its fringe of greenery, he is visited by a strong sense of expectation that is more than anticipation.
It is a feeling of excitement that is almost like a physical ache.
It is so strong it nearly takes his breath away.
He thinks of spending the day with a mix of people, who until a few days ago he would not have imagined having around his Christmas table.
The mere thought of them all is enough to make anyone’s day.
And yet – he pauses looking up the snowy street – there is something more.
He can feel it in his bones. And he knows this feeling in his joints is not just the sensation of an old man who should not have been dancing to Elvis into the early hours.
He turns and starts his slow and steady progress along the street.
Was it the coming of the fox? And why does that make him think, not just of Padam, but also of his mother? He has no idea.
‘Of course,’ he says, bowing slightly.
‘Right!’ And with that Yana is off, issuing instructions, left and right, before weaving through the dispersing crowd to where a military-looking truck is pulling up. ‘Looks like the army are here.’
Malcolm makes his way into the church, ready to start setting the table (his allotted task), looking around just in case Padam has decided to come early. There is no sign of him, but he spots a small golden figure disappearing into the vestry. Rev. Ruth, presumably off to get changed.
The church is warm and fragrant, and the congregation seems to have left something of their Christmas spirit within the polished woodwork.
The sun is streaming through the stained-glass, making patterns on the stone floor and illuminating the golden hangings.
Churchwarden Glen had been right: it is all rather magnificent.
‘May I help you with that?’
Turning around, Malcolm nearly loses his footing, despite the sturdy brogues – Padam is standing beside him in traditional Nepalese dress.
He is wearing cream silk trousers and a knee-length daura.
A sash of gold and scarlet lies across his chest, and on his hip is sheathed a jewel-handled knife.
If Malcolm had thought the church was looking magnificent, the sight of Padam simply takes his breath away.
He is saved from answering by the arrival of two men in army fatigues with moss-coloured berets on their heads.
The older is a big man, with a large open face, and when he smiles, the unexpected glint of a gold tooth.
The younger is small, sinewy and compact.
He looks as if he would be good in a fight.
‘Royal Yorkshires reporting for duty,’ the older man says jovially.
‘Oven is plugged in, turkey delivered. Now what else can we do?’ The younger man leans in and mumbles something to him, distracting him, ‘That’s right lad, you get things sorted in the kitchen.
’ And with this, the smaller man makes his escape.
‘Not one for the pleasantries,’ the older soldier says by way of explanation.
‘But a great one in the kitchen with a knife.’
Malcolm rather boggles at this, imagining a culinary bloodbath.
The man holds out a huge paw. ‘Jim, pleased to meet you.’
Malcolm’s hand is gripped and, having introduced himself, he makes Padam known.
‘My goodness is that a kukri?’ Jim asks Padam, gesturing to the knife. ‘Gurkha?’ he adds, with a definite note of respect.
‘Retired,’ Padam says modestly, ‘and yes, this kukri has been part of my family’s long history.’
Jim then asks Padam about his service and the two men compare notes on where they have served, until Malcolm is feeling more and more like the retired tax analyst that he is. ‘May I have a look at your kukri?’ he asks, trying to break in on the conversation, and register his interest.
Jim lets out a big bellow of laughter, which makes Malcolm take a step back. Padam doesn’t laugh but, smiling, he puts a hand on Malcolm’s arm. ‘It is better not to take it out,’ he says mildly.
‘That’s for sure,’ Jim booms. ‘Can’t be re-sheathed until the kukri has tasted blood. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed,’ Padam affirms.
Jim lets out another blast of laughter, but Malcolm finds he no longer minds. In fact, he decides he likes the man. He also likes the fact Padam has left his hand on his arm. And he is undeniably thrilled by the thought that he is being held by a warrior.
‘Well, if you don’t need me, I’ll give Roddy a hand in the kitchen.’ Jim leans in and says quietly, ‘He don’t say much, but the lad is dead pleased to be here. And he’s got a real treat for us later,’ and with this he holds a massive finger against his nose.
Malcolm is left with Padam, still holding his arm.
Padam then reaches out and touches his own wrist, and Malcolm is reminded of the time in the bookshop when Padam had started fiddling with his cuff.
They look at each other for some moments.
Then Malcolm thinks of the Christmas Eve fox’s advice … ‘The rest is up to you.’
‘I am so glad you could come today, Padam. I had meant to ask you, but I am afraid I have never been a brave man, and I was afraid you would say no.’
‘There was never any fear of that, Malcolm,’ Padam replies, and Malcolm watches his eyes glow a deeper shade of hazel.
Flustered, Malcolm reaches for his coat which is lying over a chair. ‘I have a gift for you,’ and – breaking away from Padam – he rummages in his coat pocket, still aware of the residual heat from Padam’s hand on his arm.
Padam seems genuinely delighted with his scarf, and in turn he hands Malcolm a small scroll tied with red ribbon. ‘It is a poem that I wrote for you about a Yorkshire winter. The last verse in particular reminded me of your book.’
It is beautiful poem, and Malcolm has to fight tears that seem to be doing battle with the swelling happiness blossoming in his heart. When he reaches the last verse, he gives in and reaches for his handkerchief.
The fox buried deep in winter’s hedge,
Will watch with unblinking eye,
As the sounds scurry into the silence,
And the owl’s wing brushes the sky.
‘I hadn’t meant to make you cry, Malcolm,’ Padam smiles. ‘Now, help me here. I have brought copies of A Christmas Carol for everyone. Do you think I should put them in their places?’
‘My goodness!’ Malcolm exclaims. ‘We are meant to be laying the table. What was I thinking!’
‘Yes, what were you thinking, Malcolm?’ a laughing Rev. Ruth says, as she comes up behind him, dressed in a grey cashmere dress and a pair of sparkly red shoes. She wraps Malcolm in a massive bear hug. She then does the same to Padam. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she sighs happily. ‘And now I need a drink!’
Malcolm leaps into action, leaving Padam and Rev.
Ruth to lay the table as he heads off to mix his Christmas cocktail.
The little kitchenette is a hive of activity, Yana, Max and Roddy chopping, stirring and mashing.
Yana shows him a small area, back in the body of the church, where she has set up a makeshift bar.
‘There you go, and better make plenty of your drink. Jim has gone to collect the Three Disgraces.’
A few minutes later, he is handing cocktail glasses to Ruth and Padam, and admiring the table setting.
In each place is a small, gilded copy of Dicken’s Christmas classic, along with a place card.
Malcolm is delighted to see that Padam has put them sitting next to each other.
He picks up one of the cards. ‘Mrs Appleby has done a lovely job. It is just a shame that she has spelled Polly’s name wrong. ’
‘Says who?!’ comes a bark from behind him and, swinging round, Mrs Appleby is glaring at him. She is wearing a smart navy dress. ‘More hair than wit,’ she mutters. ‘I was right the first time.’
He cannot believe this is the same woman he danced with last night.
‘What have I got wrong?’ she demands.
Malcolm thinks there is no help for it, but to explain. ‘It really doesn’t matter Jean,’ he says placatingly, ‘It is just you have spelt Poole with a “u”.’
‘Idio—’ but Mrs Appleby is cut short by a cry from behind her.
‘Auntie Jean! I didn’t know you were coming!’ and the small woman is lifted from her feet by Polly Poule’s enthusiastic embrace.
Malcolm watches the two women hug.
‘Told you someone would be pleased,’ Rev. Ruth whispers jubilantly in his ear.
‘What? How come? I mean is Jean Appleby her aunt?’ Malcolm is completely confused.