by Helen Brown
I’d wondered how a hundred people were going to fit inside the tiny chapel, but they squeezed in four or five to a plain wooden bench. With bare floorboards and lofty ceilings, it was a simple space. More than a century of prayer had seeped into its honey-coloured walls. A trio of candles glowed at the altar alongside a splurge of ivory roses.
Thank goodness there were no windows apart from the stained glass images above the altar. We were insulated from the heat. With luck our more delicate guests would survive the ceremony.
A pair of guitarists plucked out Cole Porter while the room buzzed with anticipation. Standing at the altar in his well-cut suit, hands behind his back, Rob could’ve been mistaken for European royalty. His teeth flashed as he exchanged small talk with his best man.
‘I never thought I’d get married,’ Lydia whispered, taking a tissue from her evening bag and dabbing her eyes. ‘Or if I did I wouldn’t bother with any of this fuss. But weddings are lovely.’
Something inside my ribcage melted. The joy of seeing Rob about to be married was surpassed for a second by the possibility that Lydia hadn’t turned her back on finding fulfilment by conventional means. I toyed with an image of her sitting in front of a flat-screen television with a couple of kids and an adoring husband – but that was possibly taking things too far. Choosing furniture with an architect spouse for a flat in Montmartre, maybe? Or sipping prosecco with a devoted doctor of philosophy in an attic in Berlin? Anything was possible.
I’d been continuing to monitor the news in Sri Lanka, of course. Government troops had just captured the northern town of Kilinochchi, held for ten years by the Tamil Tigers as their administrative headquarters. Sri Lanka’s president was hailing it as an unparalleled victory and was urging the rebels to surrender.
Frisson rippled through the chapel when the musicians struck up the unmistakable notes of ‘Pachelbel’s Canon’. The stately piece that often features trumpets and other ‘serious’ instruments sounded more laid back played by a pair of guitars. Everyone knew what it meant. Heads swivelled. Eager glances were made toward the door at the back of the chapel. The door’s amber glass radiated a gold halo. There was movement behind the glass. The musicians charged into a second, more vigorous round of ‘Pachelbel’s Canon’. Guests fell silent in expectation. The door stayed closed.
The congregation became restless as the temperature edged up from pleasantly warm to stifling. Even Rob, his back to us, started twitching his left leg. Had the bride discovered some awful damage to her gown inflicted by our renegade cat?
Another round of ‘Pachelbel’s Canon’ started up, the notes wavering in confidence. The guests started whispering, then chattering among themselves. They’d almost given up hope the modern-day wedding march was going to produce anything. And if the bride was going to appear it would surely be at the start of yet another round of . . .
The door glided open. A dark-haired bridesmaid dressed in scarlet strode forward, her lips as red as her dress. Her legs, tanned and athletic, paced toward the altar. She was a ravishing young woman, but all eyes were on the vision several metres behind her.
We drew a single breath as Chantelle drifted past on her father’s arm. The gown Jonah had been so fascinated by shimmered pink and peach on her lovely body. Pearls and crystals on the gown’s bodice glistened in the soft light. It was as though the gown had been specially designed for this chapel. With her hair swept up and adorned by a single rose, she was perfection.
Unable to wait any longer, Rob turned to admire his bride. His smile trampolined off the walls as Chantelle’s blue eyes beamed back at him. No sonnet could’ve done justice to that moment – an electric nanosecond, gone in a flash but eternal as the sun. Everyone in the room felt the chemistry between the couple.
My vision blurred. Whoever invented waterproof mascara was a genius. The paper tissue guy runs a close second. Gallons of fluid must have leaked out of my eyes over the years. This time they were tears of happiness.
After the ceremony, guests poured into the reception area and found their seats. Doors were flung open on to the terrace. The warm evening breeze was gentle as a kiss. Food, champagne and laughter were followed by more food, champagne and laughter. And the speeches.
While I’d known Andrew, the best man, since he was about fourteen, he’d seldom said more than two sentences to me. He seemed such a reserved character, I’d wondered how he’d handle best man status. But when Andrew rose to give the traditional toast, he became Seinfeld of the Southern Hemisphere.
Andrew enlightened us about a few things Rob would’ve preferred kept secret – including the illegal removal of a neon strip light from a gentlemen’s convenience. Chantelle’s brother gave a speech on behalf of her family. Philip stood and said a few words, followed by Steve.
With the speeches over, people lifted their forks and spoons to dig into their desserts, but Chantelle’s uncle, who was MC, called a halt. There was to be one more speech, he said.
We examined the room curiously to see who the unexpected orator was. A chair was scraped back and Lydia stepped forward as gracefully as her unaccustomed heels would allow.
Smiling at us all, Lydia announced she didn’t want to make a speech so much as give a blessing. It would be a chant to invite celestial beings to take part in the celebration, and to share our happiness with those who had departed. Guests fell silent as the unfamiliar language rolled over them. It was the same sing-songy chanting I’d heard in hospital.
As it died away and Lydia returned to her seat, there was a pause while people wondered what to do next. My cheeks turned hot with embarrassment. Chanting in private was one thing. If she’d asked me beforehand, I’d have said inflicting it on a group of revellers was inappropriate. Fortunately, the musicians took charge. Joined by a drummer, they morphed into a dance band. The new Mr and Mrs Brown, who’d rejected the idea of a bridal waltz, invited everyone to join them on the floor.
Fuelled by champagne and romance, couples surrendered to impulse. A silver-haired pair circled cautiously, creeping like crabs in a half-remembered quickstep. The bridesmaid crossed the room and took the hand of a teenage boy. His embarrassment was quickly surpassed by delight at being chosen by the second most beautiful woman in the room.
Self-consciousness melted away as teenagers shimmied, and strangers asked each other to dance. Looking around, I realised almost every living person we loved was there in one room, dancing, kissing . . . and, oh no, the bride grabbed me, turned around and slapped my hands on either side of her waist – forming a conga line! A pair of hands grabbed my waist from behind. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Lydia beaming back at me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her dance.
I thought conga lines belonged to 1950s movies. But as more and more people joined the human snake, all of us stamping and swaying to the same rhythm, a primal sense of belonging took over. Any separateness we’d felt as individuals evaporated. On this night, for this incredibly joyous occasion, we were one pulsating creature, a tribe. I never wanted the conga line to end.
After the cake was cut and feet turned numb, people retreated to a bar downstairs. Reclining in a bean bag, I was joined by a relative who’s a devout Catholic and just the sort of person to be offended by our non-conformist occasion.
‘Do you know what I thought was the most special part of tonight?’ she asked, sipping a bright green cocktail. ‘It was that blessing Lydia gave. She changed the atmosphere of the entire room. Did you feel it?’
Several others echoed my relative’s sentiment throughout the night. I was relieved our guests had taken Lydia’s blessing in the spirit it had been given. I should have trusted her more.
The clock had run out of numbers by the time we collapsed on our bed in the holiday cottage. Philip and I agreed it had been a wonderful wedding, possibly the best we’d been to – apart from our own.
I’d hardly been able to believe my luck that day I walked down a medieval aisle in Switzerland to see my handsome husband-
to-be waiting at the altar. ‘Til death us do part’ had rolled lightly off our tongues. The idea of having to part some day was the last thing on our minds. But the mastectomy had made us both run through the scenario – one of us trying to sleep in an empty bed while the other floated away into stardust. Such a powerful reminder of the fragility of our relationship had made us appreciate each other more; made us less afraid to express affection. It was strange to think cancer could enhance a marriage.
Rob and Chantelle delayed their honeymoon to take a trip to Vietnam later in the year. We put on brunch at the convent cafe next morning for guests who were reluctant to leave. A surprising number showed up, competing for the shadiest corners in which to devour croissants and coffee. The sun scorched a hole in the sky while the air buzzed with stories from the night before.
One by one, they kissed our cheeks and crunched down the gravel path. As our guests turned and waved goodbye I felt a touch of sadness . . . but only because one of the happiest twenty-four hours of my life was over.
Hostage
The glower can be mightier than the claw
We pulled up outside Shirley in the late afternoon, anxious to learn if Jonah and Ferdie had survived their honeymoon weekend. Rob and Chantelle, eager to collect their beloved cat baby, were only ten minutes behind. We wanted to present a picture of feline harmony by the time they arrived.
As we climbed the path we heard insistent meowing from behind the front door. Good, I thought, at least one cat’s alive. Philip turned the key and opened the door cautiously. Jonah thrust his head through the crack and glared up at us. (‘You took your time!’ he seemed to be saying.)
The house felt oddly tense and silent, as if it’d been the scene of unspeakable drama. Lydia gathered Jonah in her arms and inspected him for signs of damage. Eyes, ears, nose and feet were all intact. Not bad after two days with a cat double his weight. We called for Ferdie. No reply.
Vivienne had probably separated the boys and put Ferdie in the cat run, I thought. We went outside and peered into the towers and through the tunnel. No sign of silver fur.
The floor was littered with unfamiliar cat toys, along with some handmade contraptions including six empty toilet rolls cellotaped together in the shape of a pyramid.
Lydia found a note under a house key on the kitchen table:
Hi there. Hope you had a great wedding. The boys got along fine, though Ferdie tried to eat Jonah’s food as well as his own! Jonah still thinks he’s boss. He wanted me to spend all my time with him. Whenever I tried to cuddle Ferdie he got jealous, so I had to give Ferdie hugs when Jonah wasn’t looking. I lent them some toys, and made a few as well. Hope you don’t mind.
Vx
P.S. Jonah loves playing hide and seek for cat treats inside the toilet rolls.
Ferdie had obviously been in residence while Vivienne was staying. But where was he now? The girls searched for him upstairs while I scoured downstairs, calling his name. Jonah sat like a prince on top of his scratching pole nonchalantly licking his paws.
‘What have you done with Ferdie, boy?’ I asked.
Jonah swished his tail and narrowed his eyes as if to say it was none of my business.
‘Do you think he ran out the front door when we opened it and nobody saw?’ asked Lydia.
Impossible. One of us would’ve noticed. Besides, Jonah had filled the entire entrance hall both physically and personality-wise.
‘Rob and Chantelle will be here soon,’ said Katharine. ‘What are we going to tell them – Ferdie’s got an invisibility cloak?’
If their beloved cat had disappeared it was going to be their worst wedding present. And I’d spend the rest of my life feeling responsible. No, worse. Guilty.
‘Did you hear that?’ asked Philip, whose ears are differently tuned to mine.
‘No. What?’
‘Meowing. It was coming from . . . over there,’ he said, pointing at the fireplace.
‘You mean that muffled . . .’
‘There he is!’ said Philip, crouching on all fours and peering up the chimney. ‘He’s hiding up here!’
I’d heard of Santas up chimneys, and the occasional bird and chimney sweep. But never a cat.
The girls and I watched, astonished as Philip reached into the void. After a few grunts and groans, Ferdie emerged. His fur was daubed with soot. His pride had taken a bashing. Apart from that he was unharmed.
Jonah was a lightweight compared to Ferdie, and a failure as a fighter. We were amazed he’d managed to frighten his weekend housemate up the chimney.
Ferdie was ecstatic when the newlyweds arrived to collect him. We weren’t going to say anything, but Chantelle noticed the soot marks on his fur. Her eyes widened as Philip described the chimney rescue. For all our good intentions, Ferdie was desperate to escape Jonah’s psychological torture. I’d never seen a cat spring so gratefully into his carry case.
Rob and his bride climbed into their car with their precious cargo on board. We stood with the girls on the verandah and waved goodbye.
‘What a great weekend!’ I sighed, as Philip put his arm around me and we turned to go back inside.
‘Apart from the finale,’ he added.
Heroes in Wheelchairs
Cats don’t understand the meaning of self-pity
I’d hoped Rob’s wedding might have proved a turning point for Lydia. Like any beautiful young woman, she’d basked in the admiring looks and flattering comments she’d received that night. But to my disappointment she was soon back in her white pants and pale tops, complete with shoulder-hugging shawl.
Three days after the wedding I could stand it no longer and asked if she was returning to Sri Lanka. To my relief, she announced she’d decided to stay in Australia for a while and change her study course to Psychology.
Seizing the chance to update her looks, I dragged her around some shops. But my attempts to interest her in hairdressers and clothes nearly always failed. Whenever I tried to bully her into letting me buy a dress that showed off her figure, Lydia would examine herself in the shop mirror and put her head to one side. It’s lovely, she’d say, but she really didn’t want me spending money on her.
Shop assistants would shake their heads as we left empty-handed. Some said they’d never seen a mother begging her daughter to let her buy her things, and not the other way around.
She often went out to meditation sessions or Buddhist society meetings at night, never to anything requiring lipstick and heels. The absence of men, suitable or otherwise, was noticeable at first but then we grew used to it. When I asked what’d happened to Ned, Lydia said he’d fallen in love with an actress. I scanned her face for signs of emotion, but could find none.
Sometimes I peeked through her door to see her sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, in front of her homemade altar, Jonah looking at her quizzically under the gaze of the laughing monk.
Desperate for a hint of what was going on inside her head, I took the sneak’s option and interrogated her sister. Katharine’s response wasn’t entirely satisfactory. She said Lydia was still thinking about becoming a nun. Or writing a book, or opening a retreat centre. While I’d always encouraged Lydia to dream, her ideas seemed as floaty as a Chagall painting.
As well as going back to university, Lydia resumed her work with disabled people, graduating to a wider range of clients. The bus she drove turned up regularly outside the house. One day she called me out to meet a group of teenage boys. Preparing for some masculine banter, I followed her out to the vehicle where she slid the door open. Three wasted figures swayed like plants on the seats, their mouths open, their hands locked into claws.
‘Say hello to my mum,’ she said so naturally she could’ve been talking to friends. One boy responded by rocking violently backwards and forwards. Another rolled his eyes back in his skull. I felt proud of her.
When I asked how she was able to do the work, she said her clients reminded her how to live. They hardly ever felt sorry for themselves, and they existed to
tally in the now. Unshackled by the burdens of keeping up appearances and worrying about the future, they were free to be authentic. Being in their presence made her happy – though lifting them sometimes hurt her back. While she didn’t mind drool or feeding people through tubes, she wasn’t always so keen on changing adult nappies.
The more saintly my vegetarian, meditating, caring daughter became, the more tainted and self-centred I felt by comparison. Sometimes when she sat with us at dinner, carefully skirting the bolognaise sauce (traces of meat), for the salad and spaghetti, spikes of tension radiated from both sides of the table.
Philip and I felt judged for not selling our house and donating the funds to an African village. He shifted uncomfortably when Lydia suggested he might have a more rewarding career working for a non-profit organisation. I felt equally awkward when it was hinted I could do more charity work.
She wasn’t the only one doing the judging, of course. Sometimes we thought she’d set herself apart on a throne of untouchable purity. On other occasions Lydia and I seemed engaged in a game of chess – with her three moves ahead. Her selfless behaviour made her invulnerable to criticism. Her ideals were impeccable. The work she did was invaluable, underpaid and hardly recognised by society.
And yet in my darker moments – and this puts me in such unflattering light I hesitate to commit it to print – watching her with the wheelchair-ridden, wiping and wheeling, carrying and cajoling, I couldn’t help wondering if looking after the weak gave her a power kick.
‘Where shall we go today?’ she’d ask brightly, aware most of the unfortunate souls in her care had no hope of answering. ‘I know a place where they sell the best custard tarts in the state. It’s just a two hour drive away. Let’s go!’
Her disabled charges were in no position to argue. They had to comply with being wheeled into the bus and carted off. But who was I to have an opinion? If the only alternative was to be shut away in front of television all day, a custard tart odyssey would’ve been fantastic.
