Chapter 12 Christmas Day #2
‘No, but she was Polly’s mum’s best friend. She’s always called her Auntie.’
The two women all but tumble onto a nearby pew, chatting all the while.
Malcolm is astonished to find that Mrs Appleby can be so animated.
He thinks of Polly, here on her first Christmas without her mother.
He now understands why Ruth had been so keen to include Jean Appleby in their party, knowing that this would bring comfort to two grieving women.
‘I do believe you should mix a couple more cocktails,’ Padam suggests.
When Malcolm returns with the drinks, he rather nervously interrupts the two women.
Polly greets him with a delighted, ‘How lovely, thank you Malcolm, and a very Happy Christmas!’ Today she is wearing an even more vibrant lipstick and a silver-coloured jumpsuit.
Her earrings are tiny Christmas puddings.
Mrs Appleby grunts her thanks, and Malcolm apologizes, ‘I now see you must have the name correct, having known Polly and her mother for so long.’
‘Fifty years we were best friends.’
‘Oh, you were,’ Polly enthuses. ‘Even at the end, you always could make her laugh.’
Mrs Appleby making people laugh?
Well, life was full of surprises.
‘Do you remember …?’ Polly starts.
‘Last Christmas?’ Mrs Appleby nods.
Polly turns to Malcolm, ‘Mum loved to sing in the choir, but after her stroke she didn’t always get the words right.’
‘Didn’t stop her though,’ Mrs Appleby says, and her smile reminds him of the woman who danced to ‘Hound Dog’. And he’d been right – she did have a lovely smile.
Polly and Jean Appleby then launch lustily into song.
‘In the bleak midwinter,
Oh, how we did moan.’
Before falling about each other giggling.
Mrs Appleby giggling?
‘I am so glad you came,’ Polly eventually tells her mother’s best friend, a little breathlessly.
‘So am I,’ Malcolm whispers, more to himself than to the two women.
At this point the doors to the church are flung open and the Three Disgraces march in, three abreast. They are followed up by Jim, who is saluting them.
The women are all dressed in slim tartan trousers and red tops, with white fur trim on cuffs and around the neck.
On their heads they have small pillbox hats, also in red, with a sparkling brooch pinned to the side.
They remind Malcolm of a photograph he once saw of the Beverley Sisters.
They are greeted with applause and laughter, and the noise draws the others from the kitchenette – with the exception of Roddy, who watches from the doorway.
The party is soon in full swing. Malcolm mixing more cocktails and Padam pouring fizz.
Yana and Max hand around canapés, which the efficient Roddy is speedily preparing.
At one point, passing the doorway, Malcolm spots Ruth chatting to him.
So the young man does speak, then. He sees Ruth gently rub his back.
He wonders what had happened to Roddy that he wouldn’t join in with the party.
Had his Christmases been filled with more anguish than joy?
And he thinks of Rev. Ruth’s service in the church and of the haunting piano music.
He sidles up to Jim. ‘Is there no way we could persuade Roddy to join us? We do have a spare place, a spare chair.’
‘No lad.’ Jim shakes his head. ‘He likes it this way. He says by watching he feels part of it. But in the way he’s comfortable with.’ He winks, ‘And it keeps him out of fights.’
‘I just hope he doesn’t feel left out,’ Malcolm worries.
‘If you’ve been left out all of your life, being in the thick of it can be a bit much,’ Jim observes wisely. ‘But we look after him in the regiment, never you fear. And Roddy has a treat for us.’
‘You mentioned that earlier.’
‘Yes, I know it’s normally reserved for the haggis. But Roddy is a great one on the bagpipes and he is going to pipe the turkey in when the time comes.’
‘How wonderful,’ Malcolm observes, before fetching Jim another mocktail and circulating once more with drinks. The Three Disgraces are living up to their name and have surrounded Max and are clearly teasing him. His face is the colour of his hair.
It is a while before he realizes that Ruth is no longer in the kitchen, and yet, looking around he cannot see her in the church.
He checks in the vestry, but no sign of her there.
He is not overly worried, presuming she has popped home.
But after fifteen more minutes there is still no sight of her.
He asks Yana and Padam if they know where she is, but both shake their heads.
Yana offers to check in the rectory, just in case she has fallen asleep, but on her return she shrugs and shakes her head once more.
No one else seems to have noticed, and the drinks and canapés continue to do the rounds, and the chatter and laughter gets louder.
Malcolm tries his best to join in, but when he sees it is well past two o’clock, he cannot help it.
The worry settles over him like a cloak.
It is then that he remembers the sense of anticipation that he had felt on leaving the house.
It had been so strong it had almost winded him.
He had presumed it was the thought of the whole of the day stretched out in front of him, a day with friends and with Padam.
Now a lingering doubt sidles in. What if it had signalled something else?
He moves away from the others and stands apart, watching the door.
Where can she be? He checks his phone for messages.
Nothing. Then an unwelcome thought surfaces.
She is a woman with form. There was a time when she was the ‘Runaway Vicar’.
Hadn’t she once before in her life disappeared with no trace?
Stress causing her to up and bolt, leaving her kitchen looking like the Mary Celeste – a meal half-eaten on the table.
To distract himself, Malcolm moves around to check on the table.
He tells himself he is being ridiculous.
He will make sure it is all looking perfect for when his friend returns from wherever it is she has gone.
He rechecks his phone. Nothing. He straightens all the chairs.
When he gets to the twelfth chair he pauses, hands stilled on the wooden back.
Twelve chairs. Oh, how he wishes his mother could be the extra guest at this table.
He looks up at the others who are gathered together in groups, talking and laughing.
He had made this happen. Well, with a bit of help from the missing vicar.
Even through his residual worry, he is visited by the realization of why he has been missing his mother so much over the past days.
This is what he would love her to see. This is why he wants her at the table.
Because a man who could be part of this was no longer the shy, indecisive man his mother knew and worried about.
This man was settled and happy, and he would like his mother to know that.
He blinks away some tears and, looking down, he straightens one of the place cards.
Polly Poule
This at least makes him smile. Poule, not Poole.
Wasn’t poule French for something?
And then it comes to him.
Hen.
A French hen.
Malcolm feels his knees almost give way.
He looks up at the crowd of Christmas diners.
All are now gathered around the piano and Gracey is singing to them.
She is standing on a hassock, a small upright figure in red, Max holding her hand to steady her.
Her face is alight, and her clear notes warble into the air. She really does have a wonderful voice.
A calling bird.
Malcolm shakes his head, trying to clear it. But no. It comes in a flood now.
Yana; Ruth said she ran a herd of three hundred Holstein. A maid a-milking.
Max; the Canadian goose. What was it? Six geese a-laying.
Malcolm grasps the back of a chair and, as he turns it around to collapse into, he is no longer surprised by the next two consecutive thoughts.
Mrs Appleby, a lady dancing, with Malcolm Buswell.
A lord who had been a-leaping over the heads of the children in the church.
His knee still sometimes twinges. At this point Amazing Grace shimmies past his seat, moving to the song that Gracey is singing, accompanied now by the others.
‘Grace,’ he calls after her.
She turns, smiling, ‘This is a simply marvellous party, Mr Buswell.’
‘Grace,’ he repeats more insistently, ‘when you danced with the Bolshoi, what ballet was it?’
‘Tchaikovsky of course, darling. Swan Lake.’
‘And what part did you play?’
‘I was a cygnet. All of us in those delicious white tutus.’
He has his swan.
It comes to him he already has his piper. Hadn’t Sergeant Major Jim said as much? Roddy would pipe in the turkey.
It is unbelievable. He sits, rubbing his hands together, trying to remember the exact words of the song his mother sang for him.
The same song he had found illustrated as a print, which he has gift-wrapped for each of the guests.
Giving each of them a part of what for him had been a family Christmas tradition.
He barely notices Padam draw up a chair beside him.
He does notice him take his hand, ‘What is it, Malcolm?’ Padam leans his head forward. ‘Are you worried about Ruth? I am sure she will be here soon. She would not let you down.’
‘No, no, it’s not that.’ Oh, my goodness, how does he explain? Then he thinks, why on earth wouldn’t he? He is a man who listens to foxes and who believes in fairies.
‘It is just that I can see them all here,’ he starts.
‘See who?’