A Twist of Lyme
Page 8
He would be the first to agree that his flat had no pretensions to a luxurious life style, but these were early as well as settling days. But it suited him, it was quiet and spacious and a few minutes’ walk both from the common and the station. The commute to ‘The Big Brash Guide to London’s offices close by Waterloo station was daily at first until he found his feet and structured his days to suit himself. No matter what time he left his flat, no matter how much time he allowed himself he was always late arriving at the office. He was always very quick to offer to go home early to make up for it, but oddly enough, he was never taken up on it. He had an endless stream of excuses for his tardiness, some of them even true, some even believable.
The railway system south of Waterloo lent itself particularly well to delays of all kinds and Michael adopted various excuses and further adopted them for his own use. It earned him the short-lived nickname, Reggie, from the character, Reggie Perrin[24] who would announce to his secretary each morning the reason for his late arrival (staff shortages, defective bogies and an escaped tiger at Chessington North to name but some).
His natural aptitude for reviewing which had blossomed in Oxfordshire now exploded fully into life in London. You name it, he reviewed it; restaurants, fringe theatre, experimental (very) theatre, art exhibitions, street food, street performances, street music, gigs, raves, museums....all were grist to his journalistic mill.
He took to London life in a way he never really had in the Cotswolds, Sarah Higginson notwithstanding. He recognised the city’s heartbeat as his own, its vigour as his own although there was not a recognisable equivalent of his dodgy knees. His trips home became rarer and rarer as the years raced by and Chipping Norton lost its one time relevance.[25]
There was the odd romance of course, one or two quite odd indeed, but on the whole his job tended to preclude such romances as many evenings were taken up with the obtaining and writing of his flamboyant yet at the same time understated reviews. Admittedly, London could have done with more Civil War battlefields, but that was just a small grumble. He did think about joining the Sealed Knot society,[26] but thought better of it; he enjoyed the Civil War best by himself. Of course if he had joined he may well have met a certain Miss Kennedy a tad sooner, but in the light of the future that is just a small grumble.
He felt fully in control of his destiny for perhaps the first time. He was content. He was happy, not deliriously happy, he doubted he would ever be that, but happy enough.
Meanwhile...
...over in East Molesey, Judith Kennedy was complaining once again to her mother about Miss Amanda Roseberry. Tyrant was one word she used, bully was another, there were others that are best imagined. Elspeth Kennedy paid no heed, her mind was elsewhere. On the delights that the WI years had brought her and the fact that she had been at the helm for some of those years brought her a special pride. But then she was the best woman for the job. Everyone said so, well not everyone, but certainly everyone who mattered.
With Elspeth leading them they had tasted wine, built birdhouses, made fascinators, quizzed politicians and gardeners alike. They had made hats, cocktails, canapés and mosaics. They had arranged flowers, decorated cakes, painted masterpieces, taken photographs, made each other up. They had learned the art of Indian head massage and they had danced! Not to mention taking part in Magical Molesey, organising craft fairs, decorating the Molesey Christmas trees, taking part in the Molesey Carnival, the Regatta, helping out local individuals and groups and even planting the local communal garden at Police Station green. She was the talk of the area; they sang her praises particularly at Molesey boat club although it’s eminently possible that may have been due to Tom’s influence and standing as vice-chairman. Life was a bed of roses she concluded.
“Sorry, what was that, Judith?”
“I said, life at St Botolph’s is hardly a bed of roses.”
“Stay with it, it may improve, you have to give these things time.”
“It will never get better; Miss Roseberry will never get better. It sucks.”
“Really! You know how I detest that expression. And Amanda is a very sweet lady. But you enjoy the work though?”
“Yes you know I do, but I just wish I was enjoying it somewhere else.”
For Judy, in spite of her battles with Miss Roseberry, really did feel she belonged in the classroom. It wasn’t the school that she disliked just the principal of it. The school and the extra-curricular activities she encouraged (line dancing, Rugby sevens, bird spotting, pastry making among them) were her whole life almost.
There was the odd romance of course, one or two quite odd indeed and usually involving the St Botolph’s teaching staff. The short-lived (in every conceivable sense) Graham Tasker, the history teacher who was frankly, past it. She dated the geometry teacher a couple of time, but he was out of shape and they just went round in circles. And the chemistry teacher, but he was not in his element. The maths teacher, Brian was very cute, but something about him did not add up. The geography teacher knew his way around all right, but the dates with the science teacher were a disaster, there was just no chemistry there. School was her life. It was just the wrong school, but there she stayed.
24 Created by David Nobbs, and the eponymous hero of four novels.
25 And of course its status as the centre of the universe.
26 I’ll explain later.
Chapter Fourteen
Wedding Day
Groom nervous in Clapham. Bride not there to comfort him. Bride nervous in East Molesey. Bride’s mother in tears. Bride’s father remonstrating with Molesey boatclub chief barman. Bride’s sister in tears (again). Groom’s mother fussing trying to ensure the groom is well-groomed. Groom’s father wondering why there are so few horses in London; was it a lack of grooms?
In Weybridge at the register office there would soon be the footfall of the fifty guests the office would hold. There was to be no comfort spared. It must be true, the brochure said so. Rylston was a splendid manor-house[27] and for the marriages that took place within its walls the county council had thoughtfully provided the imaginatively named Rylston suite, offering impressive flower arrangements, period leather and mahogany furniture and appropriate framed pictures. It also boasted stunning chandelier lighting. If that were not enough, the waiting area also boasted original oak panelling, stained glass windows and an impressive oak staircase. Shortly it would boast the Kennedy and Hamilton wedding party.
The spring weather was on its best behaviour. The sunshine may have been weak, but it was there in fits and starts competing manfully with the stunning chandelier. Cars were sweeping into the not so stunning car park A Mercedes here, a battered Land-Rover Defender there. One smelling of opulence, one smelling of horses. Uncles and Aunties appeared, re-acquainting themselves with relatives they had not seen since the last wedding. Oh yes, cousin Rachel’s, wasn’t that a hoot?
The two families took up their stances, standing twelve feet away from each other as if contamination would result from any closer proximity. The alcohol later would actively encourage inter-family mingling, much like it did (between the Kennedys and the Fortescues) at cousin Rachel’s wedding when the mingling was carried just a tad too far. The resulting divorces, children and law suits did nothing to further relations between the Kennedys and the aforementioned Fortescues.
Just around the corner in The Slug and Pellet, Michael and Fay his best man/woman were indulging in a swift drink (or two) to steady the nerves.
“Are you ok, Mike?”
“Yes, Fay. Are you ok?”
“Yes, Mike.”
“Nervous, Fay?”
“Yes, Mike.”
Occasions such as weddings tend to bring out the sparkling conversationalists in all of us.
“Shall we go? Is it time?”
“I think we should.”
“Like your mother dressed you.”
“How do I look?”
“You look beautiful, Fay. We are both just so happy that you agreed to be our best man/woman.”
“Yeah, well someone has to do it, might as well be me,” Fay replied as she turned away hurriedly.
“Why,” Michael said, “I do believe you are crying.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Michael ran the gauntlet of back-slapping family members as he entered the Rylston suite. His mother greeted him warmly and straightened his tie for him and glanced surreptitiously at his shoe-laces. His father greeted him warmly, slapped his back and glanced not so surreptitiously at his shoe-laces.
The murmur of voices went on unabated for some time, extolling the virtues of the flower arrangements and the period leather and mahogany furniture, when suddenly a hush descended upon the Rylston suite. A special kind of hush which is only noticeable when a bride to be is about to put in an appearance. Which Judy did. She was good like that.
If it’s an immutable law that all brides have to look radiant than Judy obeyed that edict perfectly. Her radiance radiated the length and breadth of the Rylston suite. Her father who was something big in the city seemed now to have shrunken to something small in Weybridge. Fay may have been the golden girl, the girl who ticked all the boxes, but Tom Kennedy was as proud of Judy as he had ever been or perhaps ever would be. Their slow, measured steps reflected their shared joy and their mutual if unspoken acknowledgment that this moment was to be savoured in its entirety. Their stately progress towards the front of the room where the groom, best man/woman, sister and daughter awaited them was punctuated by oooohs and aaaahs by those who recognised radiance when they saw it.
Michael gripped the back of his chair for support in an effort to disguise his shaking. This was not wholly successful for the three empty chairs next to him on the front row began a mad dance across the superior carpet. His next move was to hold on to Fay for support, but this just looked odd and entirely inappropriate. Come on, Michael. Would Johnny Norfolk be a quivering mess if taking a penalty before a hushed crowd at Wembley Stadium? Would Johnny Stevens lose his cool when plotting his escape from a Russian firing squad? Well, quite possibly, but he was marrying the beautiful Miss Judith Kennedy, an altogether different prospect.
Half the attentive audience had their eyes on Judy and half on Michael. To him it seemed like hours before Judy arrived by his side. But arrive she did with a smile that both instantly calmed and bewitched him.
A few minutes later, a delighted and delightful Mr and Mrs Hamilton were standing in front of the fifty guests that the Rylston Suite could accommodate comfortably. He with a smile as wide as the M25, she out-radiating the stunning chandeliers. They were oblivious to the comments and asides that were passing back and forth between several of those fifty guests.
“It’s only been a few months you know.”
“You’re right, they can’t really know each other.”
“Perhaps they had to get married.”
“Oh come on, no-one has to get married these days”
“It’s about time, our Liz.”
“What do you mean, Jack?”
“Well, she is twenty-nine.”
“Do you think it will last?”
“I’ll give it a few months.”
“Do you think there will be any cheese sandwiches?”
Oh, assorted guests of little faith, let them enjoy their moment before spreading doom and gloom like confetti (frowned on in the Rylston Suite and Rylston grounds).
The official photographer was Dave Wickham who was also the official photographer for ‘The Big Brash Guide To London’. His forte was photographing cuisine. He was a marvel with Lebanese breakfasts, Moroccan street food and Albanian pike balls. Everyone said so. No one was quite sure of his skills with wedding parties although they were tolerably confident that the cake and buffet would look sumptuous. Dave rose to the occasion superbly. Everyone said so. After shooting eighty-seven photographs, none of which included food there was a mass exodus towards Molesey boat club and the awaiting buffet supplied by the finest caterers this side of Chessington. The procession was led by a resplendent Mercedes bedecked with ribbons, followed by a battered Land-Rover Defender which not to be outdone, trailed straw from under its tailgate in a celebratory although entirely accidental manner.
The band had been hired by Tom Kennedy on the strength of testimonials from Elspeth’s fellow members of the Molesey WI who had bopped the night away to the Surrey Seven on the occasion of Miss Sprigg’s eightieth birthday bash. Although Tom had difficulties imagining any of Elspeth’s (Elspeth herself was not present on that evening due to a prior engagement which consisted solely of washing her hair) friends bopping or indeed having a bash of any kind, he acted on their recommendation and duly booked the Surrey Seven. The band were already, if not in full swing, then a passable imitation of swing as the guests arrived, their numbers bolstered by those who had lost out on attendance at the ceremony itself.
Their first number, in an outbreak of gross insensitivity or a perverse sense of humour (a humour they had singularly failed to display at any time since 1965 when they were formed in a coffee bar in Hook) was a cover of Tammy Wynette’s D.I.V.O.R.C.E. No one present took it as an omen, not even those doubters who were purveyors of doom and gloom in the register office.
Dave Wickham was busy snapping happily away, catching guests both on and off-guard. Every few seconds a section of the hall was illuminated by flashes from his camera. The final count was; two hundred and sixty five photographs of bride, groom, family members and guests and three hundred and twenty-one pictures of the buffet and cake. All were superb; it was felt he had captured the very essence of the occasion. Everyone said so.
Fortunately for all concerned the food provided was delicious as well as photogenic. The vol-au-vents were generally agreed to be the tastiest this side of Esher and the sandwiches of a standard never before seen at the Molesey boat club. The Surrey Seven continued to plough their own inimitable musical furrow with Hook’s finest vocalist (as voted for by the Hook Gazette in their 1967 poll) Eddie Fox exhorting all and sundry to take to the dance floor, an offer which no one seemed enthusiastic about taking Hook’s finest up on. The repertoire was as old hat as the old hat the drummer wore and the patter (step forward Hook’s finest once more) as dated as the rhythm guitarist’s brylcreemed hair which evoked memories of Denis Compton among the older guests.[28]
Michael was no great shakes as a dancer, not with his dodgy knees, but when invited by Eddie Fox to take to the floor with his bride he felt unable to refuse. Michael and Judy were out of step with the band, but then, the band were out of step with themselves as they gamely re-worked ‘When I Fall In Love’ to a point where even Nat King Cole would be hard pushed to recognise it. Tom Kennedy who had never been something big on the dance floor took over from a relieved Michael and the Surrey Seven in a burst of improvisation launched into a less than spirited rendition of ‘Isn’t She Lovely’, the harmonica of Stevie Wonder’s original being replaced by erstwhile saxophonist, Richard ‘Dicky’ Ruskin on his kazoo. It didn’t quite come off. Everyone said so.
For three people, the afternoon/evening held out a terror of its own, notwithstanding the Surrey Seven’s ‘Pop goes the Sixties’ medley. The speeches. The bride’s father, the best man/woman and the groom; all of whom were unaccustomed to public speaking and would have much preferred to have remained in that particular state. The tradition of joke-telling and anecdotal episodes from the happy couple’s lives was proving to be beyond the collective imagination of our intrepid trio. Would Johnny Norfolk have been struck with fear at the thought of giving his acceptance speech at the Footballer of the Year award ceremony? Would Johnny Stevens have been tongue-tied at the Spy of the Year award ceremony? But t
he two normally reliable Johnnies could do nothing to help Michael on this occasion.
Tom Kennedy (who had not even one Johnny to help him) knew the gist of what he wanted to say, but what was worrying him was how to go about translating that into words. Being something big in the city has never been (and never would be) a guarantee of skills in oration. Fay Kennedy had written down in the smallest detail what she intended to say, but her problem was the simple fact that she had lost her notes; she knew not where. For all three of them time was running out.
But now that time had arrived. Tom Kennedy got to his feet and surveyed the room. He re-arranged his face to display confidence although the consensus amongst those present was that it displayed the countenance of one who has just spotted the firing-squad (Johnny Stevens would know) lined up against him. His nervousness meant people were generally kind to him when his ordeal was over. After all, it was fairly easy and therefore understandable that he should confuse his daughters, one with the other. Tom’s detractors on the other hand could quite reasonably point out that only one of these daughters was enjoying her wedding day. He knew no jokes so told none; everyone agreed that this was a relief indeed. He praised Judy’s passionate nature as evidenced by her boy-band stage, her geeks stage, and her teachers stage. He evinced the hope that Michael could cope with her passion and duly received Michael’s perhaps over-vigorous nodding in confirmation that he could and indeed had. After remembering to thank everybody he concluded by saying that Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address was only ten sentences long and suggested that if anyone present wanted to know about Judy’s pea stuck in a nose incident then they should see him later. He sat down with the conflicting thoughts that he had both said too much and too little.