Chapter 5 Tales of childhood
Tales of childhood
With Christmas fast approaching, the bookshop is exceptionally busy. Padam has asked Malcolm if he would be happy to work two full days instead of his normal half-days. Malcolm agrees with alacrity, despite the pain he is still experiencing in his knee.
During a lull in customers, Malcolm moves across the shop to collect some extra paper carrier bags from the cupboard, trying hard not to limp.
He has to admit he is feeling his age. Despite the memory of the balletic jump and the thought of Christmas with Ruth keeping him brimming with joyful anticipation (he already has her bed made up), he feels all of his seventy-eight years.
He watches Padam, who is busy wiping condensation from the window and reorganizing the display there.
Today Padam is wearing a very nice Fair Isle vest in kingfisher blue and gold.
Malcolm had been particularly pleased to see it, as it will match the Fair Isle scarf he has bought him for Christmas.
Malcolm mentally shakes his head. He is acting like a teenager.
He is far too old to be thinking of romance, and anyway, Padam is a good seven years younger than he is. And he doesn’t even know if—
His thoughts are interrupted by the shop bell; the Three Disgraces are back in the bookshop.
It seems they have come in especially to take Malcolm to task for not coming to the Christmas Operatic Society performance.
With the preparations for Ruth’s Christmas, his shop work and his extra trips to church, it had gone clean out of his mind. He apologizes profusely.
‘You missed a rare treat,’ Amazing Grace – well, he thinks it’s Amazing Grace – tells him. ‘Our Gracey did us proud.’ She wags a finger at him, ‘You should have been there, Mr Buswell.’
He tries to distract them with a question that has been worrying him. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you not find the walk into town rather hard work, up that hill? I myself find it quite tough going,’ he adds, not wanting them to think he is making a point about their age.
They draw together, glancing at one another, ‘Shall we let him in on our secret?’ one of the Graces asks the other two. They all nod. It is Gracey with the very blue eyes who speaks, ‘We have a secret admirer in the shape of Stan.’
‘Taxi Stan?’ Padam asks, emerging from the window.
‘That’s the man,’ Gracey says.
‘Yes, Stan’s the man,’ they all chorus.
‘We think he has a bit of thing for Amazing Grace,’ Gracey confides.
Malcolm blinks. If it is the Stan he is thinking of, any of the Disgraces would be old enough to be his mother, if not grandmother.
‘He lives next door to us, and we only have to mention that we are thinking of tackling that hill or popping over to the Georgian Theatre Royal to catch the latest production, and there he is, doors open, ushering us into his black Mercedes.’
‘The only way to travel,’ they chorus happily.
‘Going home isn’t so bad, as it’s downhill all the way,’ one of the Graces comments.
‘Especially after a few G her nose is pink, and her greying hair looks decidedly windswept. Malcolm can’t decide if this is a result of the weather or just because Ruth is moving so fast from one thing to the next.
‘Hello you two. I’m sorry to do this last minute, Padam, but is there any chance of a raffle prize for the coffee and craft morning tomorrow in the church? We’re raising funds for the pensioners’ lunch, and the raffle’s looking a bit sparse.’
Padam immediately reaches for a celebrity chef’s cookery book, ‘Would this do?’
‘Oh, perfect. I like him,’ Rev. Ruth enthuses, reaching out and taking the book. ‘Someone was telling me his recipe for sprouts with lemon and parmesan is fabulous.’
Padam exchanges a significant look with Malcolm.
One more for the recipe list.
‘And you, Malcolm,’ Ruth whirls around to him, beaming, ‘come and run the raffle for me. Marjorie’s gall bladder’s playing up again.
’ Malcolm has no idea who Marjorie is, but Ruth doesn’t explain or wait for his response; she simply waves her thanks with the book, adding just before the door closes behind her, ‘Tomorrow at eleven o’clock, Malcolm.
Wear something warm, the church heating’s on the blink again. ’
‘I don’t believe that woman ever stops,’ Padam reflects as they watch her dart out into the street.
Curiosity keeps them both staring out of the window as Ruth makes her way across the road to the gift shop.
It is run by a woman called Joyce, who has the reputation locally of being so mean she would begrudge you the steam off her tea.
Malcolm and Padam are joined at the window by a couple of late-afternoon shoppers – it seems they are just as intrigued to see how Rev.
Ruth gets on persuading Joyce to donate a raffle prize.
It is not long before Rev. Ruth emerges, carrying a handsome peacock-blue cushion scattered with pink butterflies.
Padam raises surprised eyebrows at Malcolm.
‘Well there you go then,’ the middle-aged customer beside him offers. After a thoughtful pause, he adds, ‘Buried her mother, and the reverend always did do right by the old soul.’
‘Aye, visited the old woman right up until the end,’ his wife confirms.
This does not surprise Malcolm.
‘And her mother was even more of a nip farthing than that one. Always on the make,’ the woman adds, nodding towards the gift shop, as they watch Joyce rearrange the items on display in her shop window in the absence of the peacock-blue cushion. ‘Her Ma would have sold St Peter a new pair of gates.’
‘And taken the old ones away for scrap,’ her husband finishes phlegmatically.
As the customers leave the shop, Malcolm reaches for another copy of the cookbook that Padam donated.
Sprouts with lemon and parmesan.
Interesting.
They are just shutting up when Padam calls from the back of the shop. ‘A rep left me a bottle of mulled wine and I was thinking of having a glass. Would you like to join me? I have a bit more tidying up to do before I can leave.’
‘Well, that would be very nice.’ Malcolm pauses from wrapping his red scarf around his neck.
‘I could pop across to the deli and fetch a couple of slices of Christmas cake,’ he suggests, wanting to contribute to the occasion.
Something about this snags at a memory. Isn’t that what Jo and Eric the Viking used to do when she ran the stationery shop, Eric popping in from his optician’s practice next door?
The thought of this warms him. He and Padam have never shared an alcoholic drink before.
He has wondered if Padam even drank. He realizes there is so much he doesn’t know about him.
He still wants to ask him about when he represented Nepal in archery.
‘No need,’ comes the cheerful response from the kitchenette which, along with the stock room, is situated off the back of the shop. ‘Mr Roberts gave us one of his wife’s cakes as a thank you for helping track down all those out-of-print Trollopes for his dad.’
Soon they are both holding steaming glasses, plates balanced on the counter.
Padam is studying the noticeboard to the side of them.
‘I haven’t had time to sort this out.’ He pauses, ‘I think most of the notices are still up from earlier in the year.’ He pulls down an out-of-date flyer.
‘Oh, you can definitely go!’ He puts down his glass and places an orange leaflet advertising an autumnal charity sale in the recycling pile.
‘And you,’ he adds, and takes another notice down.
‘Could you pass me those leaflets to your right?’ Padam asks Malcolm, and swiftly pins up the more seasonal notices.
Looking down at one of the older notices now lying on the counter, he hands it to Malcolm.
‘Do you still need this?’ It is an appeal from the conservation group that Malcolm is part of, asking for volunteers to help clear an ancient woodland burial plot.
Malcolm shakes his head, ‘No, that can go too.’