They could not fill in the time. The tables waited, the musicians waited, the Don Marches had done shaking hands and the reception was beginning to fall flat; for it was queer and depressing that Malfi had not yet come in but was sitting, nerve-shaken, prostrated by the heat, in a cloakroom at the end of the corridor.
In the moist heat which intoxicated them, and the expectancy, the groups flowed together again, friends together, and the boys and the girls in different circles began to murmur jokes. From each joke flew off a flock of relieved laughs. Their bodies relaxed wantonly, they shook their hips and pressed their shoulders together unconsciously. The gaiety started up again. They stood with their backs to the tables, trying to forget the claret cup, the home-made lemonade, the champagne, only turning back from time to time to see that they were not left out, that no one had sat down. The men, ashamed of their dirty turn of mind, looked around self-consciously and tried to keep their talk decent, and a silence fell on any unseemly guffaw; but the irritated lasciviousness of the girls, on whom the heat and the thought of the wedding-night worked as an aphrodisiac, their impatience, curiosity, and discontent, threw them into a fever. It was perhaps Aunt Bea who set the off, running round to each group with a busy gossip’s smile and naïve lecherous interest in the wedding only half-accomplished. She kept saying: “The new wife, the wife in name only,” and “A married woman de jure but not de facto”; and made remarks about the weather, “I hope it will get cooler for the poor things, imagine sleeping together for the first time in such weather.” She pushed these remarks farther than was her custom for the pleasure of hearing her nieces “go off into a roar”.
Teresa and some young cousin, awkward, flushed and astonished, stood on the outside of a group of four girl cousins listening to Madeline, the prettiest of them all, a golden-brown ringleted girl with blue eyes. She kept doing a dance-step, wriggling her hips, foxtrotting in and out of the group and singing quatrains, or reciting limericks and cracking jokes at which the girls cried: “Oh, that’s too raw,” or “How absolutely killing!” or “You’re vile,” or “Where on earth do you get these things?” They stood listening, unable to believe what they heard, with red cheeks, baited but ashamed. Madeline sang: “In the park, after dark, without pants in the park after dark”, her curls flopping, her face jovial. Aunt Bea had thrust her brown head in amongst them, its skinny stalk growing among all the satiny, round stalks, her young eyes gleaming. When the two sisters heard the conclusion of this song, Kitty turned her hot brown eyes quickly to Teresa and at this Teresa tried to walk off unobserved. Kitty followed. No one but Bea saw them go. A shriek of laughter burst from the group but was quickly hushed. Aunt Bea came after them at once.
“What is it, girls? Are you having a good time? You mustn’t mind what Mad says, she means no harm, it’s all innocent fun to her, there isn’t a lovelier, purer girl than Mad. I know you two are two little prudes but there’s a charm in a little fun. Of course, I think Mad oversteps the fine line between broad humour and the coarse, sometimes, but she’s so wholesome. But you can’t have too many prunes and prisms at a wedding, for, after all, what is a wedding about”—said Aunt Bea, excitedly, going far beyond what she would have said to the two little prudes at any other time. Bored with them she looked around, said: “I do think Malfi ought to make a little effort and not make her guests wait, I’m dying of thirst and that lovely claret cup, I’m so greedy for it—that’s a lovely turtle neck, dear! Just a sec”, and off she ran. The lonely girls passed by another group where a smart-looking girl of about seventeen was leaning forward, stuffing her handkerchief in her mouth, while a fat brunette declared: “Oh, it was awful but we simply shrieked and I never dared tell mother”, and farther on they dropped anchor by some older people who were talking about the wedding presents. “A cheque for fifty pounds from the bride’s parents.” Here they listened eagerly, the shame dropping from their shoulders and their eyes getting tense; for they had given two presents, Kitty a handsome tray cloth from her own hope chest and Teresa an electric iron. These were Bedloes however; instinctively they closed rank to shut out the Hawkinses, and Teresa heard the words “another electric iron” from some of their own people, right at hand. The girls moved forward. Tina Hawkins was there, the girl who had just got engaged, thick-browed, jolly Tina, sullen no more but convulsed with laughter as in the old days, Tina with her guttural voice and beside her fat Aunt Esmay holding forth.
“Three electric irons and believe it or not, a pair of chamber-pots.”
“Oh, it’s impossible.”
“Call me a liar? I swear, I saw them.”
“But did they put them with the—with the—oh—other wedding presents?”
“Under the table,” said Tina solemnly, “of course.”
“Oh, I can’t believe it.”
“Why not?” said Aunt Esmay. “You need them even after you get married. You don’t stop wee-weeing.”
The girls shrieked.
A cloud of obscure references hung over the girls. Tina said:
“The girls and Madeline dared me to give po’s to Trix when Vic married; I said I would and she made me go buy them. I thought I would die when the man came up to me, a nice young man with hair plastered down. But I up and said: Two po’s.’ He turned red as a beetroot and then he laughed and Mad, the dusty bow-wow, said: ‘My sister wants them for a wedding.’”
They laughed heavily. The humour of the afternoon was already well launched and ploughing through a choppy sea.
“Oh, I could have died laughing, I never laughed so much,” said Tina.
“And you gave them to Vic?” one of the girls said, unwilling to give up the story.
Aunt Bea came rushing up.
“I don’t want to miss any of the fun, a family wedding doesn’t come every day and especially such a grand do as Aunt Eliza gives. Oh, girls, oh, girls, Tina, your sister Madeline, you two girls, you’re a menace to society. You ought to be put out. I never heard in my life such an awful,” she lowered her voice, “limerick. I flatter myself I’m open-minded, I relish humour, even broad humour, but there are limits, and Mad with those big innocent baby blue eyes wide open—oh, Mother Ida! But what were you girls giggling about ?”
“Tell us the limerick first.”
“I couldn’t bring myself to. Go and ask Mad.”
Instantly, there were some deserters. Aunt Bea, seeing them disband, quickly asked again what they had been laughing at. For the first time Kitty spoke and quite seriously:
“Chamberpots. Some awful presents someone, I mean, Tina, gave Vic.”
“Oh, let me die!” Aunt Bea swung on to Kitty’s shoulder. “Never!”
“It’s not so funny,” said Aunt Esmay. “I’ve seen po’s given twice. One pair, down at Mr Vetter’s wedding, some friends of his in the club gave them to him for a gag, when they gave him the bachelor dinner. This pair had eyes in the bottom.”
Some vile jokes followed, but “Eyes, what eyes?” said one.
“Yes,” said Tina seriously, “they had one pair with eyes painted in when I was down with Mad. They showed them to me. We nearly blew a rib when we saw them.”
They all became serious. “Why eyes?” puzzled Aunt Bea. “A big eye, with lashes, in blue,” Tina explained.
“I’ve seen them things,” said Esmay, “quite a few times. Maybe it means something. Mr Vetter’s friends said it was a masonic symbol.”
The girls came rushing back with the limerick and started whispering it, with side glances at the Andrew Hawkins girls, “Oh, we simply exploded.”
“Now you speak of it,” said Bea thoughtfully, “I heard of it a long time ago. Now what could it mean ?”
“Perhaps it is Egyptian, it is the eye of Ra rising,” burst out Teresa, then blushed. “It might be an old thing.”
“But why would the Egyptians have hieroglyphs on their po’s?” asked Aunt Bea.
“To see with at night,” Tina said, and yelled with laughter.
“Venus can s
ee at night without eyes,” said Teresa. At this strange remark, they all looked at her and fell silent; they even looked a little sulky or underhand. Teresa felt herself turn red slowly from soles to hair-roots. Aunt Bea came round to them, all bonhomie. “Teresa, dear, you oughtn’t to say things like that, a young girl like you, but of course we know, dear, that is just thoughtlessness. Now, you girls break it up, mingle with the others. What ever will Aunt Eliza think if we stand around in scrums? Now you two girls,” she continued, bustling Teresa and Kitty off, “come and speak to your Aunt Eliza and Uncle Don, I don’t believe you’ve congratulated them yet, and they’ll feel deeply hurt if you don’t. They’re so fond of you, now come along, and you look so pretty, I’m sure Aunt Eliza appreciates it—”
In the natural intermittings of the concupiscent fever which had them all, she needed some arid activity. But they did not reach the circle of froufrou and decency in which the parents of the young couple stood, for the bridesmaid came rippling in, her face bloated with heat and importance, stately, as the groups flowed back before her, and she reached the bride’s parents, saying: “She’s coming now.”
“She’s coming now, the bride’s coming now, the happy pair is coming now, here they come!”
The guests crushed together and then like grains through a hopper began to stream and blend their flows, they turned, swarmed and reknotted their groups, pushed back, pressed forward; nearer the door vaguely moved back and those near the table confusedly bent towards it. Someone went to the musicians and the girls pushed forward with avid expressions. Here she was, with her bridegroom, standing a moment at the door, she a little pyramid of satin, with a small oval face, looking at them, as she paused as if they were all strangers, he in a dark suit, the veil over his arm, already disturbed by a husband’s worries, looking friendly. She made her way to the table, followed by him, forcing herself to speak amiably and call them all by their names. Andrew Hawkins’s girls, who hung back, presently found themselves at the foot of one of the tables, opposite them Aunt Bea.
“Do you see where Annette is?” asked Aunt Bea. “Malfi insisted upon having Anne beside her, because you know they were childhood playmates and Malfi has a loving little heart, bless her, whatever her quick temper may lead her to do,” and she went on, “Don’t think you’re left out in the cold, because you’re here. I’m here too, among the poor relations, but I’m lucky to be near my two fondest nieces, aren’t I? I always look on the bright side, because there always is a bright side; and when I look up there and see my girlie sitting there, so pretty in her blue—do you notice how lovely Anne’s hair is to-day? It’s the electricity in the air, I suppose—I can’t help the tears starting when I think that one of these days she will be a blushing bride and I will be losing my little girl for ever! I asked Eliza how she felt about losing her daughter, but she said: ‘I am not losing Malfi but gaining a son.’ You know, the old saw is true, I never thought of that. I thought, How should I like to have a son-in-law! Well, and you two girls—your time will come. Look at the chances Malfi had and she is older than you—stand up, girls, it’s the toast!”
The champagne had been passed round, a speech had been made by a bald, squat man at the head of the table, and he had said that though he was best man, he was only second best to-day, and he gave them the charming bride and happy groom. They were all standing now and Kitty whispered to Aunt Bea to ask whether she couldn’t have water, for Daddy didn’t allow them to drink wine and had made a point of it, in fact, just before leaving. Aunt Bea flushed and said angrily: “But you must drink Malfi’s health.”
“Not in wine,” said Kitty unhappily, the colour in her face ebbing.
“But you must drink the bride’s health, it would be awful——”
“Not in wine,” said Kitty several times. “Couldn’t we have water?” Aunt Bea was almost in tears, and whispered madly: “It’s unkind, it’s rude!” They were drinking, they half emptied the glasses. Kitty’s glass stood in front of her, while Teresa held hers in her hand, out of politeness.
“Silly little idiots,” hissed Aunt Bea with tears in her eyes, as they put down the glasses. The Hawkins girls stood feeling mean and stupid. When they sat down, Aunt Bea protested in an undertone, while they became red with confusion, and Kitty began to weep quietly.
“Your father’s not here, you billies,” said Aunt Bea.
“It’s wrong to drink wine,” muttered Teresa, raising her eyes.
“He made us promise,” said Kitty.
“It’s so rude, whatever will Eliza think, and your own cousin—do you wish her bad luck? It’s heartless, drink it, drink it, before anyone notices.”
Teresa frowned, Kitty raised her swimming eyes and looked about. Both were in the throes of cruel doubt; they alone had not tasted. The glasses had not been drained, but stood waiting for the toast to the bride’s parents, which was now coming up. When they rose again, Teresa, with an obstinate look, seized her glass, and saying: “It’s for Malfi too,” sipped it cautiously, and at once drained the glass. Kitty, with a startled look, sipped hers and then put it down. Aunt Bea smiled.
“Silly billies! You didn’t take the pledge after all!”
“Will we get drunk ?” asked Kitty.
Teresa put out her hand tentatively, seized Kitty’s glass, and drank what remained in it.
The wedding party had been delayed and it was now nearly time for the bride to dress. The sun was going down behind the buildings opposite, so that the glaze on the plates shone and blood-red spindles went through the drops of claret in the jugs. The velvet air, full of moisture and dust, clung to their faces and was palpable when they moved their hands. The seats were hot to their bodies. The bride rose and the crowd with her. A fuss began round her and as she jumped up she found the tall heel of her white satin slipper caught in two rungs of the chair. Impatiently, she wrenched it and suddenly the slipper itself flew out into the room with a devil-may-care swoop, while the heel remained in the chair. Several were bending down, pulling it out, one ran for the slipper and while the bride stood one-legged by the chair with a grimace, her father and husband worked over the heel, wedging it back into the slipper. Without a word, she took it from them, slipped it on and walked smartly round the table, with an angry shrug. Then she noticed her cousins standing, round-eyed, disorderly, half-scared and half-laughing at her mishap. She walked back and took her cousin Anne by the hand.
“Keep close to me, Anne,” she said, “I want you to get it, I want you to be the next to go,” and she took her bouquet from the bridesmaid and carried it to the door.
“Get me a chair,” she said to her father, “I’m too small to throw it.” He smiled down at her and then at the crowd of relatives driving towards him, mothers and aunts, elderly women, Aunt Di, pushing the young girls forward towards the bouquet. Don March bent down and lifted Malfi who put one arm round his neck and with a “Well, here it is, girls!” threw the bouquet towards Anne Broderick.
What a scene! They had nearly all discarded their hats and posies and stood breathing upwards, their eyes darkly fixed, with pain, not pleasure, on the bouquet. As it left the bride’s hand, involuntary cries burst from them and they leapt at what was falling towards them, jumping sideways, knocking their neighbours out of the way, pushing, and if they fell back too soon they leapt again with open mouths and eyes and not a smile, their red, damp faces flushing deeper and taking on hungry, anguished and desperate expressions, as in the fatal superstitious moment they struggled for the omen of marriage. Anne, a plump, soft, timid butterfingers, only touched a spray of maidenhair fern with two fingers; the bouquet fell lower, was batted dextrously away from her by Madeline, a tennis-player and cousin Sylvia Hawkins, the eldest of Rodney Hawkins, the rowboat-owner, a thin, tall girl, grabbed it, pushing her way through the darting, jostling mass, when it was wrenched from her by a long thin freckled hand on a bony wrist which protruded without its owner being seen. The arm to this hand, in a poor flowered stuff, was squeezed and rel
eased the bouquet; at this moment, Kitty, who had been hovering miserably, all indecision as usual, snatched the bouquet and as she did so it fell to pieces.
“A foul,” said Uncle Don, laughing slyly.
The bouquet had disappeared. The slippery thing had found its way down between tossing plump shoulders, sparring elbows and tumultuous thighs. Where was it?
In the fear of having ruined the beautiful loose spray of lilies, roses, larkspur, and fern, the girls parted, billowing away from the spot like swans. Anne, desolate, stared down at the dusty floor and cried: “You’ve got your foot on it!”
On the farther edge of the circle stood Teresa, her long lavender dress creased and the hem dusty; from under the skirt a long branch of budding roses strayed out. She looked down, moved her foot a little and murmured: “I have not.”
She had not jumped for the bouquet, though pushed forward by Aunt Bea with her sister Kitty, because in that blink of the eye she had seen the awful eagerness of the others and the smiling, waiting circle of adults, witnesses of their naked need; and so she had drawn back a bit, with a thumping heart, disappointed but grim, at the very moment the bouquet was thrown. She picked up her skirt now and retired, not daring to pick up the branch which she so much wanted. A slight pause followed.
“Toss for it, girls,” said a boy’s voice. Everyone burst into a laugh. They were laughing at them, at her, because they had been struggling for a husband. But Aunt Bea came forward, picked up what remained of the flowers and saying: “Is it all right, Malfi dear?” she went among the cousins, giving a flower here, a spray of buds there. “A star-burst of weddings, it will be,” she said happily, saving the situation. The girls smiled timidly at her and took the offering. Malfi, having seen this distribution, picked up her skirt without a word and ran to the stairs, clicking her little high heels, but half-way up she paused again and looked curiously at the girls, getting her flowers. When her thick dark lashes flew up, her eyes could be seen, of medium size, clear grey and keen.
For Love Alone Page 5
