by Laura Wood
Jack is there in a dark grey three-piece suit, looking lean and handsome. He doesn’t look nervous at all, and a smile splits his face as he wraps me in his long arms. I take a deep sniff of his lovely clean smell and allow myself one last pretend that I really am in love with him and that my heart is breaking as I have to watch him marry my very own sister.
(If you live in a sleepy little village, I have found that you have to be adept at creating your own drama, and I had a good run on the unrequited love scenario, developing a short-lived but hulking great crush on Jack when I was around fourteen. After Alice and Jack announced their engagement, this crush was briefly reignited and I drifted sadly about the house for a couple of days, draping myself in black scarves and sighing forlornly, while writing searingly tragic love poems about doomed lovers and beautiful but lonely young spinsters – but I kept forgetting all about Jack in my efforts to keep my face interestingly pale with Alice’s face powder, so ultimately I gave up the enterprise. Alice, very politely, ignored the whole thing.)
“Ready?” I ask Jack now.
“Can’t wait,” he answers with a wink.
And then we both realize that he doesn’t have to, as the unmistakable roar and splutter of Pa’s car can be heard approaching the church.
“Here they are,” Jack says, and he puffs his cheeks out before releasing a long, slow breath. Perhaps he is a little nervous, after all. I grin up at him in what I hope is a reassuring manner.
“See you in a minute, then,” I say, already tottering back up the aisle on my unfamiliar heels. The pews are filling up as I reach the back of the church and a low hum of chatter fills the air. I burst out into the sunshine.
Pa is helping Alice out of the car. Pa drives an old ABC, a small grey two-seater with a folding canvas hood and a dickie seat – an extra seat for two (very slim) passengers that folds out from the boot. The car is called Gerald and it is next to useless, but Pa loves it despite the fact it is temperamental and has to be dealt with very soothingly. Gerald is actually looking rather jaunty today, having been festooned in ribbons and flowers by a resourceful Freya. The sound of Mrs Bastion hammering enthusiastically on the church’s wheezy old organ drifts through the open door, and just like that it hits me. This is really happening. I think it hits Alice too.
“Oh!” She exhales the sound. I fling my arms around her and both of us show very little regard for our lovely frocks as we squeeze each other tightly. Finally, I break away, dabbing at my eyes and making a noise that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Alice is doing the same, and she carefully smooths the front of her dress and then adjusts her sash. Pa looks on with an air of befuddled pride.
I pick up my little bouquet of roses from Gerald’s back seat and stand in front of Alice.
“Well, go on, then!” she says, and her voice is still a bit wobbly. “What are you waiting for?”
“Oh, right!” I have forgotten that I am going to have to kick this shindig off by drifting gracefully down the aisle. That is what bridesmaids do, after all, though I am not sure that the unfamiliar high heels are going to lend themselves too readily to much graceful drifting. Suddenly I feel nervous about it, but Alice gives me a nudge in the back.
“Go on,” she repeats quietly, laughter rippling through her words. “Before Mrs Bastion pulls a muscle.” In fact, the music is reaching a rather vigorous crescendo and the organist has been known to overdo it in the past. (Mrs Bastion claims to have Italian blood and that it is impossible for her to live without great passion. I admire that in a woman.) The time has come. I take a deep breath and step through the door.
CHAPTER
THREE
The ceremony is over in next to no time. More than one person cries, and Alice and Jack stand just glowing at each other the whole way through. I have never seen two people so lit up in real life; it is as if we are all in a dark theatre watching a film where two radiant actors shine out from the screen. Afterwards, we spill out of the church, flinging confetti over the happy couple and making our way to the village green for a great big party. A long makeshift table has been set up, and it groans under the weight of the feast provided by Midge and other women in the village.
As I pile a plate full of food I bump into Mrs Bastion, who is wearing a very tight-fitting floral dress and a lot of rouge.
“Oh, Lou!” she exclaims, tears in her eyes as she looks at Jack and Alice. “Don’t they look wonderful together?”
“Yes, they do,” I agree, watching Jack pull my sister’s hand to his lips and say something that makes her laugh.
“It reminds me of how I was with my second husband,” Mrs Bastion sighs. “That was before I married Mr Bastion, of course, may he rest in peace.”
I am not too sure what to say about this. It is widely believed that Mr Bastion’s heart attack may have been down to his wife’s more passionate behaviour. (The Italian blood did for him in the end, or so says the village gossip.) Luckily, before I can dwell too much on the unfortunate Mr Bastion and the finer details of his untimely demise, Mrs Bastion interrupts me. “And it will be you next, Louise!” She digs an elbow into my ribs and flutters her eyelashes coquettishly.
I try to keep myself from grimacing, although the thought of getting married and settling down, of following behind Alice as I always do, makes me feel panicky and short of breath. “Oh, I don’t know…” I say, but it turns out that she isn’t terribly interested in my opinion.
“Of course it will! You’ll be down the aisle in no time,” she exclaims. “No need to be downhearted.”
“I’m not—” I begin, but Mrs Bastion has already sailed away to talk to someone else.
I secure myself a glass of ginger wine. I don’t usually drink it as a rule, but I know that Mrs Bastion isn’t going to be the only one who wants to talk to me about my marital prospects and how I’d better be getting on with it. Besides, how often does your older sister get married? I take a furtive sip, and choke a little over its strength. Then a pleasing warmth begins to spread through my body and my limbs feel looser. I take another sip and decide that I am ready to get back to the party.
And what a party it is. The eating and drinking lasts all afternoon, and then the music begins. A group of lads from the village set up a rackety band, and someone rolls an old upright piano out into the sunshine. The music is a bit wheezy, a little out of tune, but it jangles cheerily through the air. I kick off my shoes and dance in my stockinged feet, tipsy and pink-cheeked. Alice and Jack are beside me and I am full of love for them, full of love for everyone.
Then, all of a sudden, the festivities are interrupted by a roaring sound that fills the air, humming and throbbing louder and louder. I turn to see a convoy of four sleek automobiles rumbling through the village towards us at a terrific pace. The music clatters to a halt and we all stop and stand, our mouths hanging open as we watch the cars tear along the road. Each vehicle has the roof pulled down, and men and women wearing gorgeous evening clothes seem to be spilling out of them as they holler and cheer and wave on their way past us. As the final car drives past, a girl hangs out of the back with an open champagne bottle in one hand. She is dazzling, clad in a dress of silver fringe, a jewelled headband wrapped tightly around her perfectly shingled hair. Her eyes meet mine, and her crimson mouth curves into a wicked smile. “Cheers, darling!” she calls, raising the bottle to her lips. The cars disappear as quickly as they arrived, the only clue that they were ever here a cloud of dust, and the faint roar as they make their way down to the causeway.
I feel something leap inside me.
The appearance of the convoy of automobiles is like gasoline on a flame. Gossip and speculation fill the air, and it is as if a little bit of the glitter and glamour has rubbed off on us all, adding a frenzied feeling to the festivities that only grows as the ginger wine flows faster and faster. A cry goes up – is it, possibly, my own? – that we will show those Cardews a thing or two about throwing a party. Cheers ring out, and the night will be one that Penly
n talks about for years to come.
Alice and Jack’s wedding celebrations last well into the early hours of the morning, and the sun is beginning to burn up the edges of the sky as I wind my way home, carrying my impractical shoes in one hand. Walking along the coastal path in the smudgy light of dawn, I can see the Cardew House blazing with light. A flutter of excitement dances in my stomach and I stand on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the water and straining my eyes to make out any details I can. After spending so much time imagining what the house could be, I am itching to know what is going on inside. Is it all I hoped for?
Except for the lights and the cars crammed on to the gravel drive I can see no immediate signs of life. “I know you’re there,” I whisper. Unfortunately, the silent house remains aloof, no longer quite my friend but not exactly a stranger. I stand for a moment longer, my arms wrapped around my chest, watching and listening as hard as I can.
An enormous yawn that seems to reach up from my toes takes me by surprise, interrupting my reverie and leaving me swaying on tired legs. Bright young things will have to wait – I need my bed. I stagger the rest of the way home, and to my foggy brain the walk seems to take at least three times as long as it usually does. When I reach the farm, all is still and quiet, and I drag myself upstairs before collapsing fully dressed on my bed and promptly falling into a dead sleep.
When I wake up several hours later – though how many exactly, I have no idea – I think that my head is going to explode. My mouth is dry and the bright afternoon sunlight that filters in through the window makes me hiss like an unhappy vampire. There is a knock at the door and Midge sticks her head in. My eyes are bleary, but there is no missing the grin on her face. It’s the same gleeful look that the triplets get when they think they are getting away with some mischief.
“Oho!” she exclaims with something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “I thought you might be needing this.” And she hands me a large glass of water.
Gingerly, I sit up. The room swirls a little and then rights itself. I reach out gratefully for the water, taking a long, cold draft. I feel like a dry sponge. “What happened?” I wheeze.
“Well,” Midge begins, perching on the end of the bed, “I think what happened is a good deal of Cath’s ginger wine.”
“Oooooooh,” I moan, clutching my head. “Yes, I think you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Midge gives me a long look. “I should be cross, I suppose,” she muses, “but you are almost eighteen now. Besides which, seeing the state of you, I think you’ll be staying off the ginger wine for a while.”
My stomach lurches at the mere mention of that devil brew. I whimper, burying my face in my pillow.
“When I left you were … singing,” Midge continues gleefully, and I can’t help but think that she’s enjoying this all a bit too much for a responsible parent figure.
“No!” I groan, though it is all coming back to me. Someone had been plonking away at the piano and I stood on a chair and, “Oooooh!” I moan again.
Midge starts humming then, the melody to “Building a Nest for Mary”, the song that I now realize I performed with some enthusiasm the night before. I have been singing it to Alice for weeks, teasing her with its lyrics about a man who wants to build a little bungalow and a little nursery for his sweetheart, Mary. At one point I think I tried swapping out the word “Mary” for “Alice” and the crowd cheered. My head crashes back into the pillow, and I understand, wincingly, that sudden movements are not my friend.
“What … what is in that stuff?” I ask weakly.
“It’s your aunt Cath’s secret recipe,” Midge says, and she pats my arm. “And it’s taken down stronger folk than you. Absolutely lethal.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I mutter. The pounding in my head is relentless. “I think I’m dying,” I croak, snuggling towards her.
“I don’t think so,” Midge says without a pinch of sympathy. “You’d better wash up and come and eat something. That’ll sort you out.” With that, she stands and makes her way out of the room, leaving me alone to deal with what feels like waves of rolling seasickness.
Summoning all of my effort, I struggle to my feet. Squinting back at me from the mirror is a very sorry-looking individual. My hair is sticking out in every direction, my dress is crumpled, my stockings are torn to shreds and there is lipstick smeared around my mouth. It is then, staring at my own terrible reflection, that I remember that the Cardew party have finally turned up. I remember the beautiful girl hanging out of the back of the car, and I wonder if she ever looks this bad in the morning after spending the night partying. No, a voice in my brain says very firmly. Absolutely, definitely not.
It takes a lot longer than it should, thanks to many rest breaks along the way, but eventually I end up in the kitchen, washed and dressed and looking almost presentable.
Midge makes me a steaming mug of tea and some thickly buttered toast, which, much to my surprise, I manage to eat and keep down. I have to admit that I am feeling much better. Perhaps things aren’t so bad, after all.
Freya drifts in, a book in her hands. She appears to be dressed as Queen Elizabeth, and she has a stiff paper ruff tied around her neck. “Gosh, you look terrible,” she says, peering closely at my face. “You’re all … green.”
“Yes, thank you, there’s no need to shriek like that, Freya,” I whisper, resting my forehead against the cool, cool tabletop.
“Are you remembering when you fell over trying to show everyone how to do the Charleston on top of that table?” Freya’s voice rings out. I groan again. That explains the bruise on my leg.
“I think I’ll go for a walk,” I say, pressing a hand to my forehead.
“Good idea.” Midge nods. “Some fresh air will do you good. Go and get blown about on the beach a bit. Freya won’t mind taking over your chores this morning.”
I think I hear Freya muttering something to the contrary under her breath, but I don’t have the energy to argue. I shove my seat back, wincing at the noise it makes, and stumble outside. The sun is blazing as I scramble along the coastal path as fast as I can, taking great gulps of the salty breeze blowing in from the sea. It’s as if I can feel the cool air spreading through my body, flowing right into my fingertips and my toes.
Rounding the bend, the view opens up so that I can see the Cardew House. I release a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. The tide is well in and so the jewel-like building seems almost to float, suspended between the water and the sky. The sun beats down on the sea, turning it a beautiful turquoise. The cars are still on the drive but, like last night, there are no other signs of activity.
I pick my way down to the beach, which is currently little more than a thin band of golden sand standing between the sea and the lumbering sea wall. At either side, the cove is hemmed in by dark, sea-smoothed rocks, and I clamber across them. The rocks feel warm beneath my bare feet and I jump on to the damp sand. With little concern for my clothes I plunge into the water, wading out until it laps somewhere around my knees. It is bracingly cold, and the shock of it clears some of the stubborn cloudiness in my head. I stand for a moment, feeling myself sinking, the fine sand closing in around my ankles, anchoring me to the seabed.
My skin is itching with the need to know what is going on at the house. It is so close, so tantalizing, that other world of glamour and excitement. I glimpsed it as it sailed through the village last night, and remembering the image of that convoy of cars speeding past me makes my head buzz again, but this time for non-ginger-wine related reasons. Knowing that they are all over there, knowing that the house is really, truly alive after all this time, fills me with a sense of longing so powerful it is like a kick to the stomach. I dig my toes further into the sand. I have to see it. I have to see them all for myself.
My heartfelt longings are interrupted then by the sound of someone calling my name. I turn quickly, wobbling as I lift my hand to shield my eyes, and realize that the shouting is coming from the top of the
cliff. It’s Tom, and he looks agitated as he scrambles down towards the beach.
“The dragon’s arrived!” he exclaims once he reaches me, coming to a screeching halt that sprays sand in the air. His body quivers like an exclamation mark. This is dark news indeed.
“Already?” I ask with a sinking feeling. The dragon is Midge’s other sister, our aunt Irene. She’s a gaunt, disapproving woman who looks rather like an overgrown crow. She has been positively swathed in black since the death of our uncle Art over four years ago, and will probably remain so for evermore because Queen Victoria is her role model in all things, despite the fact that she’s been dead for almost thirty years. Aunt Irene likes to come and look in on us fairly regularly, just to remind us in a very loud way that we are living like heathens. Presumably, she has arrived to share her thoughts on our behaviour at Alice’s wedding. I have a feeling they will not be positive.
Tom, it seems, has had a lucky escape. “I heard her coming up the drive,” he rattles out, and the shuddering breaths he is taking make it clear that he has legged it all the way here. “She was already moaning to herself. She didn’t even need anyone else there to have an argument with. I think she was quoting the Bible … something about gluttons and drunkards.” He rolls his eyes. “And I was there in the kitchen, innocently enjoying a piece of my beloved sister’s wedding cake,” he continues, and the outrage in his voice is real, even if his claims that any of us are suddenly beloved seem a bit of a stretch, “and her voice was getting louder and louder, and then she appeared in the doorway and started screeching about how I should be using a plate and cutlery and how I had been raised wild…” He finishes with a shake of his head. “I just stood up and made a run for it. I could hear her shouting all the way down the path. Thought I’d better let you know.”
