by Ilsa Evans
I’ll echo that sentiment. But I’m a bit confused – it must be the tablets. And I still have a few questions. Like how long were they together? Why did he decide to break off the engagement? Why did he follow her up there? Where did he sleep on Friday night? And why is my stomach acting like it’s hosting the dance of the sugar plum fairies? I can’t think about this any more – apart from my damn stomach, my head is muddled, my nose is throbbing and the kitchen is beginning to look like it has been superimposed on itself. There’re two stoves, two benches, two fridges and four children. Now, that’s scary. There’s also a blue haze that’s settled in under the ceiling and is descending slowly but surely, inch by inch. I watch in fascination as it approaches the top of each of the children’s heads.
‘Mum? What are you staring at?’
‘Mum, you look really weird.’
‘Bed!’ I say majestically, pointing at each of the four children in turn. ‘Bed, dow!’
‘Okay, already!’ Sam puts her plate in the sink, wipes her hands on the tea-towel and comes over to give me a kiss. ‘I wanted an early night anyway. Do you want me to lock up and turn the lights out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay then. Goodnight. Go on, Ben, you too.’
‘Goodnight, Mum,’ says Ben, looking at me with a strange expression.
‘Goodide,’ I reply as I stand up and my head immediately disappears into the blue haze. I walk very carefully over to Ben and, holding his head still with my hands, deliver a big kiss to his forehead. Then I smile at him and walk carefully out of the room and down the passageway, putting a hand against each wall to ensure that I walk in a straight line. The blue haze accompanies me every step of the way.
When I get to my bedroom, I have to work out which door is the right one out of the three facing me. It’s a difficult decision and it takes me a few seconds to nut it out but on the second lunge I find the right one and through I go, straight across the room and onto the bed. Then with some difficulty I manage to fight my way out of my dressing-gown and fling the vanquished foe to the other side of the room. I dig my legs under the tousled blankets and pull the covers over me. Safe at last. And if I close my eyes I can’t even see the blue hue, just lots of rather attractive concentric circles which dance around the inside of my eyelids. So I shall now empty my mind and think of nothing but the circles while they lull me to sleep, and it’s working because they’re changing shape and becoming . . . becoming . . . is it little rabbits in wee shrouds? No, it’s not.
It’s beanbags.
SUNDAY
It doesn’t much signify whom one marries,
For one is sure to find next morning
that it was someone else.
Samuel Rogers 1763–1855
SUNDAY
12.41 pm
The familiar sound of the wedding march fills the small church as the organist gets into rhythm and every head cranes around to catch sight of the bride. I ooh and aah with the rest as I watch my youngest daughter begin her slow descent down the aisle. She is dressed in a knee-length, salmon-pink satin dress with a full skirt that billows out from the white-sashed, very high waist. A wide-brimmed hat, white stockings and little white-buttoned shoes with salmon ribbons complete the ensemble. Perhaps a bit over the top, but it actually doesn’t look too bad. She is carrying a large cane basket full of salmon-pink rose petals, some of which she dutifully flings to either side of the church as she walks down. I try to catch her attention by smiling maniacally at her, but she is too intent on the job at hand and so goosesteps slowly by with her face screwed up in intense concentration.
It is not until she passes that I turn my attention to my mother, who is following immediately behind her, and once again I am surprised. From everything I’d heard about this wedding, which admittedly wasn’t that much, I expected perfectly disgusting outfits (in fact, I was rather looking forward to them), but here is my mother mincing down the aisle as she smiles to her left, and then to her right, and looking really rather classy. She is wearing a very deep pink sateen number that hugs her tiny figure in a way that makes me extremely resentful that the genetic potluck didn’t favour me with a similar one. The dress is topped by a tiny little matching jacket with rounded lapels, which barely reaches below her chest region and she is clasping a simply glorious arrangement of white and pink blossoms. She tap, tap, taps past and I catch sight of Sam and Bloody Elizabeth, bringing up the rear. I gasp.
Why is it that some people (namely my mother, in this instance) fail to grasp the fact that what suits a six-year-old to perfection will not necessarily have the same effect on an eighteen-year-old, and certainly not on a thirty-four-year-old? Talk about serious mutton! I simply must get hold of a photo of Elizabeth in that dress and frame it – perhaps I can even use it for her Christmas present. But I do feel sorry for Sam. No wonder she’s been complaining so volubly all the way through the fittings. They look like a petulant pair of musk Alice in Wonderlands. In keeping with the theme I am now smiling like the Cheshire Cat, and Sam gives me a totally filthy look as she glides past.
‘What do you think?’ I whisper to Ben as the procession passes.
‘Hmm, yeah. Nice,’ he mutters back as he hunches further over in his seat.
I confiscate his Gameboy and then crane my neck to see what is going on up at the front. I catch sight of Harold’s face as my mother reaches his side and I can’t help smiling again. Because this is, quite obviously, a love match. I may not be able to understand the whys and wherefores, but there it is regardless, written all over his face. He reaches out and takes my mother’s hand and they proceed together to the front of the altar, where the priest stands gazing benevolently at them. The wedding march draws to a close and the organist leans back with a smile. Bloody Elizabeth goes to one side of the dais where the best man, a portly gent about Harold’s age, is standing proudly, and Sam walks over to the other, leaving the happy couple in the spotlight, so to speak. CJ has disappeared so I assume she is sitting up the front somewhere. I suddenly realise that there was no giver-away-of-the-bride, which I think shows remarkably good taste – taking into account the fact that she’s been given away three times already and just keeps bouncing back.
‘We are gathered here together, in the sight of God, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . .’
I tune out as the priest begins. After all, been there, done that, and got the papers to prove it. Instead I occupy myself by peering around the church and checking out who’s here and who’s not. The church itself is about half full, with around sixty or so people listening with varying degrees of interest to the monologue going on up at the altar. On Harold’s side I can see his mother, a wizened little old lady who, or so I am told, has not taken kindly to her only child’s choice of bride. I am looking forward to meeting her. Around her are seated an assortment of cousins and their off-spring who I am not interested in at all, and behind them are several pews of people of whom I recognise only a few, and those fairly vaguely. I’m guessing that these are the representatives from Harold and Mum’s bowling club, church group and, let’s not forget, the Richard III society where the happy couple met for the first time during a thought-provoking speech on ‘Sibling Rivalry: The Relationship between Elizabeth and the Princes in the Tower’.
I let my gaze travel over to the more interesting side of the church – my side – and start up the front. I can see Diane and David sitting in the first pew with a huge empty space between them so I’d hazard a wild guess that there’s two baby capsules positioned there. Either that or they have had a really big argument. Behind them are Nick, Bronte and my three other nephews, the males all neatly dressed in suits and looking rather surreal. Squished in with them is Sam’s friend Sara, who has been invited only because Sam argued very persuasively for her right, as an eighteen-year-old adult, to invite a guest.
Behind this rather jam-packed pew is my Great Aunt Pru, a woman for whom I have a lot of time (well, that is, if I had a lot of spare tim
e, then I would definitely allocate some in her direction but, as I don’t, I haven’t seen her since Christmas). This lady, although eighty-six and deaf as a post, still lives in her house and seems to manage better than many people of my own age-group. Myself included.
Next to Great Aunt Pru are my mother’s two sisters. The youngest, Auntie Annie, is as round and plump as my mother is tiny. She looks like she would be perfectly at home in a farmhouse baking bread, but she’s actually in senior management at an advertising firm in the city. The oldest, Auntie Emma, married an extremely religious man and had thirteen children. She is as thin, sour and bitter as her unmarried sister is plump and pleasant. Perhaps there’s a message there? Or maybe it’s the thirteen children who each, in varying degrees, have inherited their mother’s unpleasant disposition. The extremely religious man (who has a haircut that suggests his wife slaps a bowl on his head every so often and slashes haphazardly around it) and a couple of their progeny, and their wives and offspring, are sitting behind her. They have brought their own prayer books. I sincerely hope to be able to avoid each and every one of them at the reception because that’s a gene pool that could definitely have done with a little chlorine.
I pause in my reverie as I suddenly notice that the congregation has begun to stand in front of me, sort of like a Mexican wave except without the sitting bit. I follow suit and stand, nudging Ben beside me to do likewise. This neatly interrupts my stock-take because I now realise that Phillip is right in front of me and I have no chance of seeing anything past him when he’s standing. Ben and I are in the last occupied pew as we were a little late – in fact we only just slipped in here before the bride, mainly due to a spot of trouble finding one of Ben’s good black shoes. Nevertheless, he is now dressed extremely respectably in a pair of tailored black trousers, shirt and tie. I smile proudly at him and re-confiscate the Gameboy.
And I look remarkably smart as well, if I say so myself. I spent a considerable amount of time shopping for the perfect outfit (one that makes me look like I have the same figure that I possessed as a nineteen-year-old), but as soon as I lowered my sights somewhat, I found this dress just hanging around waiting for me to bring it to life. It is a deep green (which, in theory, brings out the colour of my eyes), sleeveless number that is quite fitted around the embroidered bodice but then falls loosely down to my calves, thus cleverly disguising the midriff residue of my three pregnancies (and the evidence of a fondness for chocolate, wine and deep-fried chicken – not necessarily at the same time). I have completed the look with a new pair of strappy black high-heeled sandals and a tiny, totally useless, black shoulder bag. In fact, if it wasn’t for the large white dressing over my nose, I would look pretty damn good.
The Mexican wave completes itself and everybody sits down. I can see Terry a couple of pews in front of me with Fergus who, thank goodness, appears to be wearing a traditional type of suit. I breathe a sigh of relief and that’s when I notice that Maggie and Alex are sitting next to them. And I breathe another sigh of relief. So he did come – and he didn’t bring little Miss Linnet without a y. Maybe Sam is right and it really is over. How do I feel about that? Well, judging by the sense of well-being that just warmed my entire body like an interior heating-pad, I’d have to say I’m pretty damn pleased. But I don’t know whether I’m pretty damn pleased because I really didn’t want her living next door with him, or because I’d like to investigate the possibilities of an ‘us’ reliving the past, or because I would simply prefer him footloose, fancy-free and popping over every so often. I stare at the back of his head with fierce concentration, hoping that an answer will materialise somewhere around the nape of his neck.
One of the reasons I am capable of such fierce concentration is that I have limited my intake of the little blue hue tablets today. I have only had one this morning to take the edge off the throbbing (which actually isn’t nearly as bad as yesterday), because I am looking forward to a couple of drinks this afternoon and I’m guessing that, given their effect yesterday without alcohol, the combination of the two would make me the focal point of the party. As if my nose isn’t enough. But at least, as I discovered as soon as I opened my mouth this morning, the swelling is down and my diction is back to normal. Thank the lord for small mercies.
Suddenly I realise that Alex’s nape has turned into Phillip’s backside (and a most attractive backside it is too), because everybody, except me, has stood up again. This time to watch the bridal party proceed back down the aisle. It’s finished – and my mother is legally married once more. I stand and turn just as Bloody Elizabeth walks past and gives me a truly evil look. She must have seen me staring at her boyfriend’s butt and jumped to the wrong conclusions. I shrug philosophically and proudly watch CJ plod towards the door, still stoically flinging her rose petals this way and that. I do wish she’d smile.
And then everybody begins to disgorge themselves from the pews and follow the bridal party out through the oak double doors and into the sunshine. Once there, the vast majority remain sandwiched along the top step, thus making it impossible for those at the rear, including me, to get out. Ben has managed to escape, with his Gameboy, out of the other side of our pew and has joined his cousins in the queue. I wait patiently where I am standing, because it seems I have little choice.
‘Hey, I love the bandage! Are you trying to set a new fashion trend?’ Terry, dressed in a smart lemon skirt and jacket, slips into the pew next to me. ‘We might as well sit down, you know, and wait for this lot to sort themselves out.’
‘True.’ I sit next to her and watch as the queue parts courteously for Auntie Annie, who is helping Great Aunt Pru along. Not that she needs much help. She uses her walking stick not merely for walking but for tapping hard against any shins that happen to be in her way. Needless to say, she manages to get out into the fresh air in double-quick time.
‘Like your dress. How does the nose feel?’
‘Sore. But not as bad as yesterday, thank god,’ I reply as I feel my nose gingerly.
‘It could only happen to you,’ she says with a remarkable lack of sympathy. ‘I just shook my head when I heard.’
‘Speaking of that, how’s young Fergus shaping up?’ I inquire courteously as Aunt Emma and co pass by the end of the pew. ‘Have you worn him to a bone yet?’
‘Several times,’ Terry replies with an irrepressible grin, ‘but he keeps coming back for more!’
‘You’re hopeless.’ I shake my head in mock disgust. ‘So tell me, what are you planning to do with him? And I don’t mean in a physical sense.’
‘Look, does it really matter?’ Terry looks at me seriously. ‘I really enjoy his company and for the first time in quite a while I’m actually having fun, and he’s having fun, so what the hell!’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Besides, I read somewhere that men who have pierced ears are better prepared for relationships with strong women.’
‘How do you figure that?’ I ask curiously.
‘Well, because they’ve obviously experienced pain and bought jewellery.’ She grins at me and then turns to watch the procession filing past. ‘It stands to reason.’
‘Very good. I’ll have to remember that.’ I watch Ben saunter past with Diane’s youngest boy, Michael, and then turn back to Terry. ‘So, where is the boy wonder, anyway?’
‘Oh, he slipped out for a smoke when everybody started getting up.’
‘He smokes?’
‘Yes,’ says Terry ruefully. ‘It’s his only vice. Well, his only vice that I don’t enjoy, that is.’
‘Wait till he makes you rabbit stew,’ I comment dryly. ‘And what about his relationship with our friendly downtown brothel owner?’
‘That too,’ she replies shortly.
David nods to Terry and me as he passes with a baby capsule swinging precariously from one hand. Diane is on his other side with her capsule held tightly across her chest. She is still dressed in maternity gear but is looking remarkably well for someone who just gave
birth to twins six days ago.
‘Hey, Di!’ I call as I lean across Terry. ‘How’s it all going? Did you get any sleep last night?’
‘Oh, there you are! And look! Your poor nose!’ And then she is gone, swept out the doors by the force of her three eldest sons and Bronte, who crowd behind her and grin at me as they pass.
‘Love the nose!’
‘What have we told you about fighting?’
‘Hit with the left, protect with the right!’
There are only a few stragglers moving up the aisle now so Terry and I stand and prepare to exit. I haven’t seen Alex and Maggie pass (despite keeping a rather close eye out), so they must have been one of the first ones to escape. By the time we emerge blinking into the sunlight, the bridal party has been whisked away by limousine to Harold’s house, which incidentally is only one block away. Most of the guests have followed, either on foot or by car, and the only ones that I know who are still hanging around are Phillip, who is talking to Fergus at the bottom of the steps, and Nick and Bronte, who is wringing her hands and looking out for her mother impatiently.
‘Mum! I forgot the present! I left it on Nick’s dining room table!’
‘Well, calm down, Bronte. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘That’s what I told her, Terry,’ says Nick casually, ‘but she won’t listen.’
‘What do you think of your mother’s new flame, Bronte?’ I ask curiously. ‘You know, Fergus over there.’
‘Weird,’ says Bronte, sending Fergus a dismissive glance before turning back to her mother in agitation. ‘I have to have it! I spent ages picking it out!’
‘Well, why don’t you and Nick just go home and get it?’ I ask reasonably.
‘Because we came with Nick’s dad, and he’s already gone!’
‘For god’s sake, Bronte!’ Terry looks at her daughter with irritation. ‘If it’s that important, I’ll simply swing by Croydon and pick it up. Not a problem. After all, it’s only half an hour out of my way!’
