The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  Mrs Delaney laughs. ‘Of course you do, it’s not a fancy-dress party! Oh, I did love all the lace back then, though. So feminine.’ She sighs. ‘I suppose you want these off.’

  ‘Yes, please. And the collar. I haven’t got much money for alterations either, so maybe you could just let me know how much it’ll be to do that. I think the fit is nearly all right.’

  ‘Girl, I’m not about to let you walk up the aisle on your wedding day in a dress that fits nearly all right. All you really need me to do is take off those sleeves and the netting at the bust. It’s a very quick job. If I make other suggestions, that’ll be my doing, not yours, so stop worrying about the money and go try on the dress.’

  Later when I’m back in my normal clothes and about a million pins are holding together Mum’s dress, Mrs Delaney and I sit in the back of the shop with our cups of tea.

  I can’t stop smiling at her. To have a professional tailor rework Mum’s dress is beyond a dream. She’ll only take twenty quid from me to take off the sleeves and the top. ‘Look, girl, you could do it yourself with a pair of scissors,’ she’d reasoned.

  I haven’t mentioned my expanding waistline, but I did ask her not to take out the extra material at the sides, in case I eat too many pies between now and the wedding. If she’s got her suspicions, she’s keeping them to herself.

  Mrs Delaney talks about tailoring while we sip our tea. She learned from her parents, who learned from their parents. It must have been nice knowing she always had a skill she could get paid for, and a lot more stable than regular shop work. She never imagined that people wouldn’t always have their clothes made but times moved on. She’s got a real grudge against Biba for starting a mail-order business that made ready-to-wear cheaper than having something run up by a dressmaker.

  ‘Now everyone buys those disposable clothes. When fashions change, people chuck out the old and buy the new. But I suppose that’s progress and one little woman ain’t gonna stand in its way.’ She looks impish when she smiles because of her pixie cut and the way her eyes crinkle up. ‘I just wish I had something to pass on to my Patty and her girls like my parents passed on to me.’ She looks around. ‘I’ll hate to see this place turned into a bleedin’ Starbucks.’

  ‘We all would. Do you own this building?’ Mrs Delaney and her Patty could be in for a nice surprise. The shop is run down and her flat above probably hasn’t seen a renovation in my lifetime, but even derelict buildings round here are going for a fortune these days.

  ‘I wish I owned it! Do you know what this building is worth? I’d already be living on the Costa del Sol.’

  Of course Mrs Delaney isn’t naïve about that kind of thing.

  It’s always had a long-term lease, she says, signed between her family and the Goldings for three generations. There are twenty years or so left on the lease, but if she closes her business, they could re-lease it to some big corporation.

  We both stare round the narrow shop. ‘All right, maybe not a big corporation. But it won’t be a tailoring shop anymore and that would be a shame. I just wish people still made clothes by hand.’

  ‘But they do! Mrs Delaney, loads of tailors and dressmakers are making clothes now. Everyone wants vintage dresses, and there’s that Great British Sewing Bee on telly.’ I tap my phone. ‘I’m sure I read something about it. Here, that’s right. A new breed of tailor.’ I show her the article on my phone. ‘It’s all about how the tailors on Savile Row have started training apprentices and how it’s rejuvenating their business.’

  ‘This ain’t Savile Row!’

  Nobody would argue with that. ‘But maybe you could sell your business instead of just closing up,’ I say. ‘You’ve still got the connections to the big shops and all the alterations coming from that. That’s got to be worth something. If you did want to sell the business, instead of just closing, then you’d have a bit of money for yourself and Patty. I’m sure there’s a dressmaker or a tailor who’d love to make this their shop. It’s vintage.’

  ‘You mean old.’

  ‘Vintage sounds better. It just needs some zhuzhing up.’ I run my hands over the burnished countertops. ‘All this antique wood. It’s got so much character with these shelves and old brass hooks.’

  ‘You mean vintage brass hooks, not old,’ she says.

  ‘You’re getting the idea. If you want me to help you, I could. Really, Mrs Delaney, we could make the shop look great.’

  She rubs her bony knees. ‘I’d love to give it up, to be honest. I’ve only kept on this long to have the money coming in, but if I could sell the business then I wouldn’t need to keep working. My bones are tired.’

  ‘Let me get Kelly over one afternoon, okay? She’s got a great eye for this kind of thing, and you can start to look at how to sell a business. I guess you’d need to transfer the lease too. I don’t suppose you know anyone who might know? Like a solicitor or an accountant?’

  ‘The only solicitors I know are the public defenders who keep our lads out of the nick.’

  We both laugh, but it’s completely true.

  I definitely feel like I might throw up as I make my way to Daniel’s flat later for dinner, but I can’t blame the baby. It’s my parents’ fault. They’ve been asking me weird questions about Daniel’s parents since we got into the Tube. Mum’s going on about their breakfast. ‘I bet their cabinet’s not full of Family Size Cheerios, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Is that how you’re judging them now? By their cereal choice?’

  ‘What about his lordship, Harold?’ she wonders. ‘What does he eat?’

  ‘Commoners,’ Dad murmurs. ‘They probably all eat bran. People like that do.’

  ‘What, regular people?’ I snap, smirking at my own pun. ‘Seriously, they’re normal. Stop making them out to be from another planet. You know Daniel. Imagine him with boobs. That’s his mother. Grey hair, that’s Hugh.’

  But Mum shakes her head. ‘They’re not normal. You said Hugh owns an insurance company. The prime minister doesn’t even own an insurance company.’

  ‘He doesn’t own it. He owns a share in it. That’s different.’ But even I know it’s not so different. ‘Please don’t embarrass me.’

  Mum glares at me. ‘This coming from you, who used to tell strangers in the supermarket that I’d abducted you. I had to carry round a photo album to prove I was your mother.’

  It takes forever to get from the Tube station to Daniel’s flat because Dad’s on his crutches. He says it’s because the Tube isn’t so good for wheelchairs, but I know he doesn’t want to meet Daniel’s parents in the chair. ‘Dad, do you want to rest?’

  His face is red from the exertion. He sets off down the pavement.

  ‘Are you in pain?’ Mum asks, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I’ve got painkillers.’

  ‘Stop fussing over me like old women. I’m fine. Let’s go.’

  Dad is still pretty fit, even with the MS. He was always sporty and never missed a run, sometimes doing it late at night after his taxi shift. He can’t run now, but he’s at the gym a lot working his muscles. The doctors say that’s probably why the disease hasn’t progressed as fast as they expected.

  Daniel didn’t want to make Dad climb three flights of stairs to his flat. Our discussion got quite heated about that. But I know my father. He’s got an independent streak the width of the Channel. He hates that we sometimes have to push him around in his chair when he has a relapse. He’d rather crawl than let someone help him so, as much as I hate watching him gripping the banister as he lurches up the stairs, I have to let him do it.

  ‘Do I look all right?’ Mum asks when we get to Daniel’s door.

  ‘Twiggy would be proud,’ I tell her. Her dress is gorgeous, from Twiggy’s M&S summer collection, a swingy sleeveless navy A-line dress that shows off her legs. ‘I like your new colour too.’ Auntie Rose did her hair in chestnut red this time.

  Philippa and Hugh are on their feet behind Daniel when he opens the door. I can tell by
his expression that he’s probably been fielding weird questions from his parents too. ‘Darling!’ Philippa booms, clasping me to her when we get inside. ‘And these are your wonderful parents. Hellair!’ She grasps Mum’s hands, pulling her in for air-kisses. Mum doesn’t seem sure how to react in the face of this Chelsea hurricane. ‘And you must be Jack. Hellair!’ She pumps his outstretched hand.

  Hugh’s and Harold’s greetings are more subdued, though still friendly. Daniel reaches for my hand.

  ‘You’re awfully kind to come all the way across town to see us,’ Philippa continues as we pile into the lounge, which doesn’t look small until you try cramming four parents and a godfather into it. ‘We did say to Daniel that we’d be perfectly happy to come to you. Next time! Shall we sit?’ Tactfully she steps around the seat closest to Dad so he can sit there.

  Hard as I try, I just can’t imagine what Philippa and Hugh would make of our council estate. Or what our estate would make of them.

  In seven weeks we’ll all find out.

  Mum and Dad keep sneaking glances at Harold. He may be a lord, but he’s not one of those stuck-in-aspic types. He doesn’t smoke a pipe or ramble around in a draughty mansion surrounded by his faithful dogs. He and his wife live in a townhouse in Chelsea and watch the Game of Thrones box sets just like everyone else.

  Daniel is hovering in the lounge doorway. ‘I’ll get us drinks. Elaine, Jack, what would you like? Beer, wine, gin, water, juice, something else?’

  ‘Beer for me, please,’ Dad says.

  ‘Me too,’ says Mum.

  ‘Yah, let’s all have beer,’ Philippa says, talking over Hugh, who’s just asked for gin.

  ‘Water for me, please,’ I say.

  ‘But you’re not watching your weight are you, darling?’ asks Philippa. ‘You have a lovely figure.’

  I blush, remembering too late that only Mum and Daniel know. ‘Well, actually I thought I’d stop drinking to be sure I fit into my wedding dress. I’m going to wear Mum’s!’

  ‘Right, that is marvellous!’ Philippa says. ‘What a lovely tradition.’ She turns to Mum. ‘You must be rahly thrilled. I doubt I could even find mine. It’s probably in one of the closets somewhere. That’s such a lovely dress, Elaine.’

  Mum blushes. ‘Thank you, it’s Twiggy’s design from M&S.’ She smooths the skirt. ‘Have you seen her collection this year?’

  ‘Yah, no, I’m afraid I haven’t. I detest shopping. I wear my clothes until they fall apart.’

  We all look at her cream vintage bouclé jacket. It’s still got a few good centuries left before it falls apart.

  ‘Hugh,’ Dad tries, ‘Emma says you’re in insurance.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he says, adjusting the legs of his brick-red chinos to try to cover up the blue and green stripy socks he’s wearing. ‘Commercial risk, mostly.’

  The silence stretches as we listen to the faint clink of glasses in the kitchen.

  ‘Football fan?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Rugby. I was a scrum half at uni. Harold is keen on Chelsea, though. You?’

  ‘I’m a Spurs supporter,’ says Dad.

  ‘If you’d ever like to come to a match, Jack, I’ve got season tickets,’ Harold says. ‘Though they’re in the Chelsea end, so probably not when they’re playing the Spurs.’

  Mum’s just worked out that Philippa’s jacket is designer. Chanel, she mouths.

  Talk peters out again.

  Finally, Daniel returns with a tray. I nearly tackle him to help, just to have something to do. ‘Jack, glass,’ says Mum when he tries to wave it away.

  ‘Cheers,’ says Daniel once everyone has their drinks. ‘To our families.’

  ‘Weddings are always such a good laugh,’ Mum says. ‘I remember ours like it was yesterday.’

  ‘Yah, me too.’ Philippa smiles. Then she goes on about how it poured with rain and they had to move the entire wedding breakfast into the house. That’s what she calls it: the wedding breakfast. Her mum was furious to have everyone tramping all over the Oriental rugs. Mum’s eyes get wider and wider as Philippa explains how they set up a band in their lounge. Their drawing room, she calls it.

  ‘Was it a big wedding?’ Mum asks, recovering slightly.

  ‘Not very. A hundred and ten. Luckily there was plenty of room in the house. Where did you have your wedding?’

  ‘Oh, just round the corner from my parents. It wasn’t nearly as grand as yours, I’m sure. Everyone just went to the pub after the ceremony.’

  ‘How quaint!’

  Philippa might mean that in a good way, but I can tell Mum thinks she’s taking the piss. ‘Well, we didn’t have much money for a fancy party.’ Mum’s twisting her ring round and round her finger. They haven’t said anything more about pawning it, but I don’t think it’ll leave Mum’s hand again.

  ‘I wish we’d gone to the pub,’ Hugh says, pushing his hand through the same thick hair that Daniel has, though his is grey. ‘Bloody nightmare, weddings. Everyone gets so worried about all the silly minutiae when none of it really matters. Good booze and friends are all you need.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ says Harold.

  Dad raises his beer glass to that, but Philippa tells Hugh he’s full of shit – not in those words exactly. Then she rubbishes his mother by calling her precious, which seems a bit out of left field, but I suppose they must have a history. I haven’t met that gran yet. It sounds like Philippa wants to keep it like that. Nobody uses the word precious in a good way to describe an adult. Her own mother was wonderful, according to Daniel, though dead, as I mentioned, so she won’t be coming to the wedding.

  ‘Jack’s mother is a nightmare too,’ Mum says, and while I’m pleased to see her bonding with Philippa, I wish she’d do it over something that didn’t make Dad squirm. She’s right, though. We hardly ever see his parents, even though they live only a few streets away. Now I know it’s not just because of how badly they reacted when Uncle Barbara became Uncle Barbara. The senior Liddells are about as tolerant of differences as they are of pregnant brides.

  I suppose I shouldn’t complain, as long as our parents are finding something to talk about. It’s not like they’ll have to spend a lot of time together. Just the wedding. Maybe they can exchange Christmas cards after that.

  Just as I’m starting to relax over dinner, Dad says, ‘You should come out to ours some time. I think you’d like our pub.’

  ‘Oh, yah, that would be marvellous,’ says Philippa. I catch Mum’s terrified look. ‘Name the day and we’ll be there! Only not on Tuesdays because that’s my spa day.’

  I just know Mum’s going to want to redecorate now.

  It’s nearly last orders by the time we get to the Cock and Crown to pick up Auntie Rose after dinner. There are a few regulars in and Dad says hello to them all.

  ‘How did it go?’ Uncle Barbara asks me. He leans closer, whispering, ‘Your auntie’s been dying from curiosity.’

  Auntie Rose is sitting with her ladies and doesn’t look like she’s dying from anything. ‘Oh, she’s been dying from curiosity? I suppose you’re not at all interested,’ I tell Uncle Barbara. ‘It went okay, but I’m glad it’s over. Dad’s offered to have them round here and Mum’s panicking about it.’

  He looks around, at the worn carpet and the duct tape that Uncle Colin had to use to cover a crack in the fake leather on one of the benches. ‘In ’ere? I don’t blame your mum,’ he says, oblivious to the impression he’d make on my future in-laws, with his strawberry-printed dress complementing the week-old stubble on his chin. ‘Did everyone get along? What did they talk about? How’d Jack do on the crutches?’

  I wince, remembering. ‘He was okay, but I think he’s in more pain than he’s letting on.’ We both look across at my dad.

  ‘He usually is,’ Uncle Barbara murmurs.

  ‘Was Auntie Rose put out that we didn’t take her with us? She said no, but I didn’t believe her.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nah. She said she didn’t want to eat your uppity mu
ck anyway.’

  I sigh. ‘That’s what she told me. She knows it was just roasted chicken and rice.’

  ‘You’ll never get her to eat rice. It’s forrin,’ he says.

  I wander over to where Mum is telling the ladies about Philippa. ‘She goes to the spa every Tuesday, don’t you know,’ she says to their chorus of jeers. ‘And she wore a Chanel jacket. To tea at her son’s house!’

  ‘Mum, don’t make fun of her, she was perfectly nice to you.’

  ‘Perfectly nice, pffftt. She called our wedding quaint.’

  ‘I think she meant that as a compliment.’

  ‘Oh, how sweet it must be to be poor,’ she mimics. ‘We rahly must try it some time. Rahly, yah.’

  The ladies all laugh, and I know it’s no use trying to defend Philippa against this crowd. I’m not a hundred per cent sure I should defend her anyway. For all I know she’s making fun of our accents right now.

  Chapter 10

  At least they don’t completely hate each other. Not like the grudge Mum still holds against that Sheila Larkin, who lorded it over everyone when her husband started driving a Mercedes. She came down a peg or two when we found out it was only leased, but Mum still blanks her if they pass each other at the market, and that all happened before I reached puberty.

  So it may be some time before Mum gets over Philippa’s quaint comment.

  The Cock and Crown has lost some of its sparkle now that I’m not drinking. On the bright side, everyone seems to accept that I want to lose a few pounds before the wedding. On the less bright side, it makes me wonder if I’ve been eating too many takeaways lately.

  Urgh, just thinking about takeaways is making my tummy churn. Morning sickness, ha! It’s nearly 9 p.m. I sip my lime and soda. It’s not just the sickness, either. I never thought a person could be this tired. ‘I’m just glad I’ve finished my exams,’ I tell Daniel. ‘I couldn’t keep my eyes open to revise.’

  ‘You can relax now that you’ve finished,’ he says.