Chapter 4 The light of Christingle #2
The service is over and most of the congregation has dispersed.
With the emptying of pews, Malcolm is able to see more of the church – the Christmas tree with its glimmering lights, the advent candles, the rich purple of the altar cloths which always remind him of Ruth – her favourite colour – and the displays of festive flowers and foliage.
Malcolm moves forward, waiting to have a word with Rev.
Ruth, and Padam seems to be waiting too – for what, Malcolm has no idea.
However, he is more than happy to stand with him at the front of the church, chatting, while Ruth and churchwardens collect up carol sheets and lost property.
‘I gather you were a high jumper then, Malcolm,’ Padam says, with just a hint of laughter.
‘Hardly that,’ Malcolm insists modestly. ‘But it was the one thing that I excelled at in school, and I suppose one doesn’t forget the technique. But I was not good enough to carry it on after I started work.’
What had he done then? Not a lot, really.
He walked pretty much everywhere in London.
And there had been a time when he liked to dance.
But that seems like a lifetime ago now. Still, there had been that time dancing with Ruth and Jo in Uncle Wilbur’s flat.
And there had been Ruth’s ‘Tarts and Vicars’ party.
Ruth in fishnets and him as a vicar. Oh, he had danced that night.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Padam asks.
‘Nothing. Indeed, nothing,’ Malcolm says hurriedly. ‘Did you enjoy sport, Padam?’
‘Yes, very much so. Being a Gurkha was pretty physical, so I think it was rather a good thing that I enjoyed running and climbing.’ He pauses, ‘Although my true love was archery.’ Padam mimics pulling a bow.
‘Now, that was a sport I enjoyed immensely. My father was exceptionally good, and in the end, I like to think that I made him proud …’
He seems reluctant to say anything further, so Malcolm says pleasantly, ‘Yes?’ He is sure there is more.
Looking self-conscious, but standing straighter, Padam continues, ‘I did represent my country at archery. Twice in the South Asian regional championships. I did not win any medals, but I felt it was a great honour, and I like to think my family were pleased.’
‘I am sure they were,’ Malcolm exclaims. He is about to ask more when his elbow and quite a lot of his body is pushed aside by a small middle-aged woman barging down the aisle.
Her back view reminds him of a belligerent bulldog.
A bulldog wearing an apron and a small pink hat, pinned upright to a rigid cap of ebony hair.
He looks at her in consternation. He had nearly knocked into Padam.
Half under her breath, the woman is keeping up an audible monologue in a broad Yorkshire accent.
‘Bloody kids, always make more of a mess. And wax! I ask you, who thought it was a good idea to give candles to kids. Daft idea. Surprised they didn’t burn the place down …’
Despite himself, Malcolm thinks she has a point.
‘… there will be wax dropped everywhere. And who’s going to clean it up? Yours truly, of course.’
At this point the verbal flow is interrupted by Rev.
Ruth’s greeting. ‘Mrs Appleby. How are you?’ Ruth does not wait for an answer.
Malcolm presumes she knows Mrs Appleby of old and, even on his short acquaintance, he knows the answer is not going to be good.
‘Thank you so much,’ Ruth continues, warmly, ‘for coming in again this week to do some extra cleaning. We do really appreciate it.’
‘Hmmph,’ is the only response this receives.
Rev. Ruth continues to beam at the small woman.
Malcolm watches them. Mrs Appleby looks like a bulldog facing off a bird …
but he still can’t think what bird Ruth reminds him of.
Mrs Appleby then shakes herself (a bit like a disgruntled dog) and grumbles, ‘Well, better get on, nowt to be gained hanging round here, or I’ll be here all night. ’
‘Malcolm!’ Ruth exclaims, heading in his direction. ‘I always knew you had hidden depths. I’m sure you must have been a ballet dancer when you were younger.’
‘No, no,’ Malcolm flushes, keen to deflect the attention away from himself. ‘You know Padam,’ he politely introduces his companion.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Rev. Ruth responds.
A bit pointed?
‘We are old friends.’ Rev. Ruth reaches out her hand to Padam, who clasps it.
Malcolm feels wrong-footed – how does Ruth know Padam?
Has she gathered him up like she does so many others: friends, colleagues, townsfolk?
He senses a blurring of the lines between his bookshop world and the community he has become part of thanks to Ruth.
He doesn’t know why this bothers him and makes him feel exposed.
Malcolm experiences a rush of embarrassment and is suddenly tongue-tied.
He spots a church warden, Glen, who is an acquaintance from the Historical Society and, excusing himself, he moves away to greet him.
From behind him he can still hear Rev. Ruth.
‘Do you dance, Padam?’