Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  Following the engagement, Davina insisted they invite Molly, Greg and the Cleggs over for celebration drinks, and Miles reluctantly agreed providing it take place in London, not Chawbury, which he believed made it somehow less intimate. So one evening when Miles was back from New York, Ross and Dawn strolled across the communal garden from their own house, Mollie and Greg came up from Hammersmith, and Archie made a rare appearance to make up the numbers. The seven of them stood stiffly around in the Strakers’ drawing room, regretting the fact that so many of their other children couldn’t be there. Peter and Samantha were both away, Miles said airily, not having a clue where either of them was. Ross explained Debbie was working in a five-star hotel in Paris, and Gemma was putting Mandy to bed in Roupell Street and hadn’t been able to get a baby-sitter. Just as well, thought Miles; an encounter between Gemma and Archie could have been awkward.

  Mollie, plainly, was ecstatic about her engagement. She bubbled over with happiness, telling everyone how Greg proposed in a pub near the National Film Theatre where they’d been watching a South American film. The children at school had made a card which she brought along to show everyone, with a crude crayon of a bride and groom, and bits of tinsel glued on, signed by the whole class. ‘Isn’t it so sweet?’ Mollie said, passing it round. Davina wondered whether it was her imagination or was Mollie more excited about everything than Greg, who seemed rather withdrawn and unanimated. When she asked, ‘Have you had any thoughts yet about a church? And what about setting a date?’ Greg replied, ‘I’m leaving all that to Mollie. I’ve told her it can be whenever she likes, except during council or mayoral elections.’

  On the Clegg side, the person who was most delighted was Dawn, who never stopped saying how she couldn’t have hoped for a nicer daughter-in-law than Mollie, Debbie’s best friend. She raised her glass to her again and again, remembering how Mollie used to come over to Chawbury Park for riding lessons, and what a lovely girl she’d always been, and how no one ever imagined she’d end up part of the family. ‘It must be fate,’ she declared. ‘I’m a great believer in fate, and if we hadn’t bought that little cottage in the woods which became the Park, we’d probably never have met and none of this would have happened.’

  Ross didn’t appear quite as elated as his wife, and gave Miles a couple of hard sidelong glances, but did his best to get into the party spirit. When Miles showed no sign of proposing a toast to the couple, Ross did so himself, saying how pleased he was to welcome Mollie as a daughter-in-law (‘And how old does that make me feel? Having a daughter-in-law?’) and how he hoped he might be allowed to provide Freeza Mart champagne at the wedding breakfast, unless Pendletons had got in there first.

  Watching Greg’s face during this little speech, Miles noticed a disdainful sneer on his lips at the mention of Freeza Mart and Pendletons, and a general antipathy towards Ross which surprised him. He hadn’t realised there was bad blood between the Cleggs. As for Greg himself, he seemed to have dropped a lot of weight recently. He was dressing differently too, less scruffy. Miles wouldn’t have chosen the single-breasted grey suit himself, and the red tie was ghastly, but the overall effect was a definite step up. Very New Labour.

  It was during the engagement drinks that Mollie told everyone they only wanted a small wedding. ‘Probably a civil ceremony at the Town Hall. And we can have our reception there too. Forty people maximum.’

  All things considered, Miles regarded this as a good result.

  The new Hammersmith and Fulham Town Hall, with its Speer-like architecture and acres of echoing, marble-encrusted Thirties corridors, struck Miles as a rum place in which to hold a wedding. But the happy couple had been set on it from the start, and managed to secure a special discount because of Greg being a councillor, so who was he to interfere?

  Greg and Mollie were married by a registrar in a council chamber known as the Mayor’s Parlour or Mayor’s Robing Room, Miles couldn’t remember which, with the names of past dignitaries chiselled into the stone walls. As he commented afterwards, it had been a bit like marrying on a conveyor belt, with the previous wedding party fifteen minutes ahead of them—a jocular Nigerian and his English bride—and a bunch of Poles following along behind. Miles assumed most of them were marrying for passports, in any case. You couldn’t say the Straker-Clegg wedding was the most fashionable of all time, but they looked more presentable than anyone else getting married that day at the Town Hall.

  Mollie wasn’t wearing a wedding dress of course, it being a registry job, but looked surprisingly nice in a cream suit and matching hat. Greg was dressed identically to the evening of the engagement drinks, in the same grey suit and red tie. He had shaved more closely than usual in honour of his wedding, and had razor nicks on his neck stemmed with flecks of cotton wool. Both Miles and Ross wore morning suits, and Davina and Dawn looked their best too, Davina in a smart new black and white Caroline Charles outfit, and Dawn in electric-green Ben de Lisi with a feathered beret. As for the rest of the congregation, they comprised of an uneasy mixture of family members, Mollie’s flatmates and fellow schoolteachers, and a dozen Labour councillors and party activists who were friends of the bridegroom. Just as the ceremony was about to start, James and Laetitia Pendleton turned up, to Miles’s horror, having not invited them himself but there as guests of the Cleggs. Both were impeccably smart, as if going to a society wedding at St Margaret’s, Westminster, and not remotely phased by the corporation surroundings of the Town Hall. Grouped around Mollie were her five little flower girls. Four of them were pupils from her class, dressed in the brightly-coloured multi-cultural outfits Mollie had made for them herself at her sewing machine, and which reflected the ethnic origins of her Turkish, Moroccan, Kosovan and Vietnamese attendants. The fifth bridesmaid was Mandy, Mollie’s goddaughter.

  Davina and Dawn stood side by side feeling proud, and relieved that the ceremony was at last underway. Although they never compared notes, both women had felt the strain as the day approached. You couldn’t disguise the fact that it was all rather awkward. Miles, needless to say, was no help, endlessly complaining about the arrangements and this unwelcome alliance with the Cleggs. Because of the engagement, Davina hadn’t felt she could pursue her divorce plans and put them on hold. She could hardly do anything else, she decided, with a family wedding looming. But once it was over, she was pressing the destruct button.

  There was no question about it, it was all very stressful. She didn’t relish the prospect of Archie and Gemma being in the same room together, especially as Gemma was bringing Mandy. She felt ashamed that Archie hadn’t seen her since her Christening, which Davina reckoned was at least five years ago. She felt tense at the thought of them meeting. She was thrilled to see Peter and Samantha. Both had flown down from Scotland the previous night and booked into a hotel, still being banned from Holland Park Square. Davina, of course, knew they’d been staying in Peter’s cottage, having received regular postcards she hid from Miles. It made her happy her two older children had become friends, which they never had been in the past. But she resented the turmoil Miles brought upon the family; she hated the schism. It was all so unnecessary, so wrong.

  Peter and Sam had turned up at the ceremony with minutes to go, Samantha looking breathtaking in a red hat and jewellery she’d bought at Accessorize at the airport. Blooming from fresh air and exercise, she looked like a model. Her skin was flawless and she’d slept-out the weeks of tiredness so the dark circles under her eyes had disappeared. Davina hadn’t seen her so pretty and healthy for years. An odd thing, she noticed, was that Miles and Sam didn’t say hello to each other. Sam seemed to be avoiding her father. It was disconcerting. She had hoped the Dick Gunn quarrel was behind them now, especially since Sam and Dick were no longer together.

  Peter looked well too, Davina thought, seeing her eldest son for the first time in five months. Like Sam, he was fit and sunburnt from being outside all day. It suited him. He seemed more confident too. The months in Scotland, working on something creative he e
njoyed, had transformed him.

  The registrar was concluding the civil ceremony and informing the bride and groom they were now a legal entity in the eyes of the State, and then everyone filed out of one door in the direction of the reception, while the Poles and their entourage filed in from the other.

  ‘What a lovely service, darling,’ Davina said to Mollie. ‘I loved the lady registrar, such a jolly person.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it,’ Mollie replied. ‘I did too. I felt so much joy and love surrounding us, everyone wishing us well.’ Then she said, ‘I hope the food’s going to be ok. I was up till midnight with Tina and Kerry, my flatmates, making it. Well, we made a lot of it anyway. Some we bought at Freeza Mart, but don’t tell Greg, he doesn’t approve.’

  They arrived at a community function room where the food had been laid out on trestles, with cutlery rolled up inside red paper napkins and bottles of wine, champagne and beer. Not Freeza Mart champagne, Miles noticed, but a brand he hadn’t previously seen, which looked very cheap. He was helping himself to a glass, sniffing it suspiciously, when a very pretty, efficient-looking young woman in a hat approached him and said, ‘I hope you had a pleasant stay at the Meurice recently, Mr Straker?’

  Miles almost dropped his glass.

  ‘I’m Debbie Clegg. Deputy Assistant Manager at the hotel. You’re one of our regular guests, I believe?’

  ‘Er, yes. I do stay there quite often.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Debbie. ‘You’re one of our special VIPs. They always give you a corner suite on the third floor. Anyway, sorry to bother you. I just wanted to introduce myself.’ And she handed him her business card.

  Surveying the reception, Miles couldn’t help feeling it was a thoroughly third-rate affair. It was a maxim in his business that, when arranging any event for their clients, it had to meet three distinct criteria: excellent location, excellent food and wine, and ‘A’ grade guests. Today’s party missed on all counts. The room, for a start, was unutterably squalid: stacks of plastic chairs piled up in the corner, and around the walls felt-covered partitions displaying vintage photographs of the borough, under the heading, ‘Hammersmith at the turn of the Century.’ The food, displayed on ceramic platters and laid out buffet-style, looked inedible, numerous brown-coloured dishes, rice and aubergine salads, curries, couscous and falafel beans, trays of naan bread and vegetarian pizza. A metal baking dish contained an Iranian delicacy of lamb and saffron rice, which Mollie said had been brought along by the mother of one of her pupils as a gift. Alongside these hot dishes was a selection of cold snacks and dips, some still in their Freeza Mart plastic boxes, including salmon pinwheel roulades, scotch eggs, and salad and vegetable crudités with Thousand Island dressing.

  And then, of course, there were the other guests. Miles cringed at the thought of James and Laetitia being made to rub shoulders with this unprepossessing shower. He could have killed Ross and Dawn for inviting them, it was so obviously inappropriate. He could see them now, talking to Mollie’s flatmate Kerry, the sports therapist, and couldn’t imagine they’d find much common ground. Greg’s Labour friends were getting into the beers and piling up their plates with carbohydrates. The parents of the flower girls, the Turks and Kosovans and the rest of them, were sitting round the edge of the room on benches, surrounded by Adidas bags and plastic holdalls, playing no part in the proceedings and looking like disorientated arrivals at an internment camp.

  Greg and Mollie stood side by side, fielding the stream of compliments from well wishers. Dawn’s friends from Droitwich, Vera and Naomi, were telling them they’d sent an Argos voucher as a joint wedding gift, since there were bound to be lots of household things they needed. And Laetitia mentioned she and James were sending a little painting she hoped they’d like, by a talented young artist shown by the Waddington Gallery.

  Greg looked at his wife—the new Mrs Clegg—and felt he’d done well. It was time he married, and he needed a wife to get through any selection committee for a constituency. One of the drawbacks of the Labour Party was its working class morality, especially in the safe seats up north. Other than Peter Mandelson, he couldn’t think of a single Labour Member of Parliament without a wife or partner. And Mollie would be a good constituency wife. She’d demonstrated that already with her leafleting and canvassing. At moments like this, Greg could feel a lot of affection for Mollie. He appreciated her unconditional support. Every leader needs a follower. He could boss her about, send her on missions. And he liked the way she was a schoolteacher, that was a further advantage; a partner working at the sharp end in the state education system was a definite plus in New Labour.

  There was another, less honourable, reason Greg had married Mollie. Turning Miss Straker into Mrs Clegg was one small victory for class revolution, reversing the usual order of things. It was rather satisfying having the daughter of a Tory grandee as your wife, at your permanent beck and call.

  Mollie and Greg made it clear they didn’t want any speeches at the wedding, nor would there be a wedding cake, but Ross felt there had to be a toast to the couple, it was traditional, and people were asking. On the other hand, Miles was the father of the bride, and Ross didn’t want to step on any toes. ‘I don’t mind which one of us does it,’ Ross said. ‘But someone should propose their health, don’t you think?’

  Miles was wondering which was the lesser of two evils, to speak himself or allow Ross to take the limelight, when Dawn’s friend Vera, evidently slightly drunk, came up and joined them. ‘This has been a lovely occasion, Ross,’ she told him. ‘I thought you’d have forgotten about us, you’ve become so famous now, you’ve done so well.’ Miles recoiled as she invaded their space with her over the top pleasantries.

  ‘It’s lovely you’re here, Vera. We couldn’t have had a family wedding without you,’ Ross said.

  ‘I do all my shopping at Freeza Mart, you know, I wouldn’t go anywhere else.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera. Much appreciated.’

  ‘I’ve been talking to the Lord too, Lord Pendleton. He seems like a nice man. We’ve been yattering away for hours.’

  ‘That’s grand, Vera.’

  ‘Wait till I tell everyone I met you and Lord Pendleton. People aren’t going to believe it. Two celebrities. And you are a celebrity, you know, Ross. I love you on that advert on the telly. I say “Look everyone. That’s our Ross.” ’

  ‘Thanks, Vera. And have you met Mollie’s dad, Miles Straker? Miles, this is Vera, who used to live next door to us in Droitwich.’

  But Vera couldn’t have cared less about Miles. ‘I’ve a good mind to ask for your autograph, Ross. And the Lord’s. Otherwise people won’t believe it.’

  Miles decided that, for the sake of his self-esteem, he must make the speech and re-establish himself as top dog. So he tapped a spoon against the side of his glass and called for silence. Slowly the room came to order, gathering around him. Mollie came and stood next to her father, dragging Greg behind her, and the little bridesmaids reformed on the floor at their feet. Davina was standing next to Peter, and Dawn between Ross and the Pendletons, and the Labour councillors carried their beers from the bar, and Mollie’s flatmates and the schoolteachers carried their glasses of wine.

  Miles stood at the centre of the circle looking handsome, confident and rich, waiting for absolute silence before beginning. He had decided to make a short but unimpeachably charming speech, which rose to the occasion, but at the same time signalled that the occasion fell somewhat short of the occasions he usually attended. He was puffing himself up in readiness, when Mandy the brides-maid’s little voice rose into the room. ‘That’s my mummy,’ she said, pointing to Gemma. ‘And that man’s Archie, her boyfriend. Archie stays in our house every single night. And he sleeps in Mummy’s bed.’

  An audible gasp went up round the room, and Miles, who could see everyone’s faces, didn’t know who was more astounded, Ross, Dawn, Davina, Peter, Samantha, Debbie, the bride and groom or Gemma and Archie themselves, both of whom looked ag
hast and hideously guilty.

  51.

  By the following weekend Miles’s fury with Archie had lost none of its heat. If anything, it had increased. That his favourite son—the son he regarded as most like himself—had got back together with the gormless Clegg girl, left him lost for words. It was the duplicity that shocked him most. If Archie had been man enough to admit what he’d been up to, maybe he’d have understood. Though, frankly, there must be hundreds of prettier girls only too willing to be rogered by Archie, which was what this was all about. Sex! Miles had no problem with Archie wanting sex. God knows, he was his father’s son. But with Gemma! Clearly the sly little minx had seduced him back by offering it up on a plate. And Archie had fallen for it, the bloody idiot.

  Seeking to lift his mood, he drove into Stockbridge to buy wine. He didn’t need any wine, the cellars at Chawbury Manor were full to the rafters with the stuff, but he knew the purchase of excellent claret—claret shipped in proper wooden cases—did wonders for the human spirit, as did the respectful conversation of his wine merchant. He placed his order and was discussing delivery when the wine shop man said, ‘And what about Matt Marland’s shoot then? I never thought that day would come, Matt selling up at West Farm.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard.’ Miles felt uncomfortably alert.

  ‘It’s all the talk round here. No one thought it would happen, Matt lives for his shooting. But farming’s not what it was, with all the subsidies coming to an end, and Mr Clegg offered him such a price. He said he’d have been mad not to take it.’

  Miles listened in disbelief. Could this really be happening a second time? How often had he discussed buying Matt Marland’s farm? Never with Matt, it was true, because a sale had seemed inconceivable. Matt ran a thriving shooting syndicate with a long waiting list.