Chapter 11 Christmas Eve #2
Ruth sits down on a nearby pew, and Malcolm joins her, looking around at the banks of glowing candles. ‘Oh, I don’t mind, Malcolm. You will see. There really is something special about midnight mass.’ She tilts her head to one side. ‘I wonder if Ed Sheeran will be back.’
‘Should I know him?’
‘Singer. Jo likes him.’
‘And he came to midnight mass?’
‘Yes, he did one year, and brought a house party. My goodness, they could sing. They all did the descants.’ She rises, nodding towards the door. ‘I’d better go; more church wardens and retired clergy are arriving. Oh, and some of the choir.’
Malcolm reaches out a tentative hand. ‘You are looking forward to tomorrow’s lunch too, Ruth? And you will still come and stay and let me look after you?’
Rev. Ruth bends down and kisses his cheek. ‘I’m looking forward to that more than anything,’ she assures him.
Midnight mass was everything Rev. Ruth had said it would be.
The singing nearly took the roof off, the gentle words soothed his soul, and the church looked beautiful in the candlelight, filled with ruddy faces from the cold and, in some cases, from the drink.
There was much laughter, and he spotted that the choir had a quiet giggle when Ruth’s voice rose to a crescendo, waking the elderly Norman.
Malcolm knew he would never be a religious man, but he could appreciate that this ancient building held something within its stonework, which told of a town that had welcomed in Christmas Day for hundreds of years.
He thought Rev. Ruth had been at her best, and that Jo had been right: he might not believe in God, but he did believe in the Reverend Ruth Hamilton.
When the doors were flung open at the end of the service, a quiet hush fell over the congregation followed by a round of applause.
Outside, the snow was falling in soft plump flakes.
He waves off Yana and Max, and eventually Glen, then loiters to speak to Ruth.
It seems that they are the last ones left.
Just as he is about to embrace her and congratulate her, Mrs Appleby emerges from the shadows, muttering, ‘… and the mayor had more than was good for him. The smell off him! If he’d sat any closer to that candle, he’d have gone up like a Christmas pudding … ’
This surprises a cough-like laugh from Malcolm and a positive giggle from Rev. Ruth.
Mrs Appleby glares at them.
He is not sure if it is his imagination, but Ruth appears to be swaying slightly.
‘You head off, Mrs Appleshbury,’ Ruth slurs, ‘I’ve got a few things to do here.’
Mrs Appleby narrows her eyes and watches them, but Ruth turns away and grabs Malcolm’s arm, ‘Oh Malcolm. I’ve just downed the chalice in one.
’ She stifles a burp. ‘We have to drink what is left; you aren’t allowed to put consecrated wine down the drain.
’ She hiccoughs, ‘Pardon me,’ she giggles.
‘You never know how many are going to take communion, and you can’t run out, so I always ensure we have plenty. ’
Malcolm thinks his friend has certainly had ‘plenty’. And wasn’t the wine more like a port? It must have knocked her for six. He stands looking down at her. ‘You head home. You have a busy morning tomorrow. I can tidy up here for you, if you tell me what to do.’
Rev. Ruth sighs, and he thinks she looks exhausted. ‘The church wardens have done pretty much everything. I was just going to put the chairs up for our lunch tomorrow. And take some of the boxes into the kitchen.’
‘Well, I can do that.’
‘No you can’t!’ Mrs Appleby is back in force.
‘I’m sorry?’ Malcolm looks around in bewilderment.
‘You ain’t got keys. You won’t be able to lock up.’ Then she startles him even more by adding. ‘I’ll do it with you.’ She turns to Rev. Ruth, ‘You get yerself home or you’ll be no good to man nor beast tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Appl … thank you, Jean, dear,’ Ruth says meekly. And even in the candlelight, Malcolm can see that Mrs Appleby has flushed with gratification.
Rev. Ruth waves a grateful farewell in their direction and heads for the door.
Mrs Appleby stands with hands on hips staring at him. ‘You up for this? You’re no spring chicken, are you?’
‘I believe, madam, I can carry a few boxes to the kitchen area and erect a few chairs,’ Malcolm says with dignity.
Although the same thought had been going through his mind.
He is very glad he’s worn his most comfortable walking boots.
It looks like he will need them too, to get home through the snow.
‘Hmmph,’ is the only response he gets from Mrs Appleby.
He waits in silence for what is coming next.
She appears to be studying him consideringly.
She then says the most extraordinary thing.
‘Like a bit of Elvis?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You ’eard. Find it helps me move a bit quicker with the King singing.’ And as she fishes her phone from her pocket and selects a track, she adds with what is close to a smile. ‘And Christmas be the time for kings, all said and done.’
Which is how Malcolm comes to be dancing with Mrs Appleby around the small church kitchenette to the strains of ‘Hound Dog’ at 1.
12 a.m. on Christmas Day. He can’t deny he is enjoying himself.
Although he feels Mrs Appleby joins in with a little too much gusto when the song refers to him not being able to catch a rabbit and not being a friend of hers.
He is sure he could catch a rabbit if he really put his mind to it.
But by then both of them are laughing. They shimmy together back into the church and collapse onto the chairs that are now erected ready.
The table is also up, but pushed to the side.
Neither can speak for a moment and Malcolm, trying to catch his breath, counts the chairs.
‘Ah, I think we have one too many,’ he declares, trying to regain some hold on normality.
‘Twelve, that’s the job,’ Mrs Appleby counters, her belligerency reemerging.
‘I think perhaps there are eleven of us,’ Malcolm suggests mildly.
‘Ruth and myself, Padam …’ he likes the sound of that name on his tongue.
‘Your good self, Yana and Max, the Three Disgraces, Polly Poole, and Jim from the Royal Yorkshires. I believe Jim has told Rev. Ruth that Roddy wouldn’t eat at the table.
That he hates that sort of thing and would want to sit in a pew at the back. ’
‘I know all about that,’ Mrs Appleby counters. She pulls the place cards towards her that are lying on the table and lays them out in front of Malcolm. They really are very attractively done and have a pattern of holly, mistletoe and robins around them.
‘My goodness, how lovely,’ he says, trying to regain some of the camaraderie he had felt earlier in the kitchen, when ‘Jailhouse Rock’ had first got both their feet tapping.
‘Ta, very much,’ Mrs Appleby says shortly.
‘But there are eleven cards, why the twelve chairs?’
‘That’s the vicar’s call. She says you ’ave to have one empty chair at the table for …’
‘Jesus?’ Malcolm suggests.
‘That’s the one. Although she said summat about always being ready for the unexpected guest.’
Well, this evening had certainly been unexpected. Malcolm hauls himself to his feet and politely wishes Mrs Appleby a good evening.
‘Good morning, more like.’
‘Indeed.’
‘May I escort you home?’ he enquires politely.
‘No, you’re grand, my son’s just finished his shift on the ambulance and he’s coming to get me. I’ll wait here.’
‘If you’re certain,’ he says, pulling on his coat and taking his torch out of his pocket.
She surprises him by adding grudgingly, ‘You’re not so bad for a mop-headed southerner.
’ And she grins at him. It really is a most attractive smile.
Malcolm thinks he may be warming to Jean Appleby.
However, he still thinks this is probably not the time to tell her that she has spelt Polly Poole’s name wrong on her place card.
‘Good night then, my dear,’ he says, bowing his head.
Outside the snow has stopped falling, but it has settled in gentle folds, and his feet sink into it with a soft crunch.
He is dreadfully weary, and he thinks most of his bones ache, but Malcolm is uplifted by the day, the evening, and now this strange episode with Mrs Appleby.
And tomorrow, he will be having lunch as part of what he now believes will be a happy gathering.
Even if the unknown Roddy chooses to sit in the pews.
Perhaps Rev. Ruth has the twelfth chair in mind for the reluctant Roddy?
And Padam will be there.
What is he going to do about that?
Looking down, he sees that his bootlace has come undone.
He gingerly lowers himself, holding on to a nearby headstone and laying his torch on the ground.
The last thing he needs to do is trip and fall and end up being taken to hospital by Mrs Appleby’s son.
As he begins to pull himself upright again, he catches sight of the words that are carved on the grave beside him.
They stand out stark, illuminated in the beam of his torch.
Still I love thee without art
Ancient person of my heart
He thinks of Padam. And of himself. Two old men. Was romance, love, ever too late? He remembers the words written by George Eliot, after whom Jo and Eric’s son was named: It is never too late to be what you might have been.
He stands motionless, rereading the words on the grave.
He is startled by a noise to his left, deep in the graveyard.
For a moment he wonders if it is Mrs Appleby’s son, come to collect her.
But why would he be coming this way? And he can’t see anybody moving around.
Then close to the ground is a rustling. He has a strange sense of déjà vu.
He picks up his torch and turns it in that direction, heart beating fast.
Emerging from between two headstones is a fox.
Gleaming copper bright in his torch beam.
They survey each other for a moment, the fox’s eyes luminous, and then the animal turns and trots back the way it has come.
Malcolm is taken back to watching a fox trot away in an alleyway.
His breath comes out in a cloud of mist in front of him, hanging like smoke in the beam of light.
Then he hears it, emerging from the gap where the fox disappeared. A quiet voice, but nonetheless a voice.
‘Malcolm Buswell. The rest is up to you.’
Above him the church clock sounds the hour of two, and he realizes it is that time: the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning.