I had no sooner stepped through the door than she leapt at me, giving me a tremendous bear hug…
* * * *
17
Wednesday
I had no sooner stepped through the door than she leapt at me, giving me a tremendous bear hug. She kissed me firmly on the cheek, her perfume wrapping around me like a comforting blanket, protection against the odours of frying that hung greasily in the air. “Guess what, Collie,” Connie Stone said excitedly, grabbing me by the hand and leading me into the kitchen area where Bernard was standing, grinning his familiar large white grin from under his unruly locks. He raised a mug of tea to his stretched lips, paused in his grinning to sip lightly then recommenced grinning as soon as the mug was removed.
“I don’t know, Connie. I can’t guess. What is it?” I said.
Connie Stone winked at Bernard, who reciprocated with an exaggerated dropping of the eyelid, grin unwavering.
“I’m so happy, Collie!” she declared, going through the ritual of kissing and hugging all over again. She skipped over to Bernard, linked her arm through his, and both of them stared at me expectantly. “You’ll never guess!”
I shrugged, but smiled all the same, their good humour infectious. “Put me out of my misery,” I said with a tone laced with interest that wasn’t really there. As it happened I couldn’t care less what so enraptured Connie and her partner, because I was still digging myself out of the trough of depression Max and Ruby had left me in.
“We’re going to get married!” she burst like a firework going off, all brightly coloured sparks and noise. Bernard nodded encouragingly, obviously enjoying Connie’s fervour. “What do you think to that then?” she said in quick gasps.
“I think it’s good,” I replied, my approval leading to another - dare I say more fervent? – kiss upon the mouth. I tasted sweet greasy lipstick and looked over at Bernard, faintly embarrassed, but the tiny incident hadn’t dented his grin in the least bit so I smiled broadly in return. “I’m pleased for you both,” I added.
She clapped her hands together. “I’m so happy, Collie!” she said. “I never ever thought I’d be so happy again, but Bernard has changed all that. It’ll be a register office wedding, mind you. But it’ll be just as grand for all that. We’ve booked the town hall already for the reception, and we’ll have a bar put on, and sausage rolls, and those little round pastry things with prawns and things in them.” Her slender hands worked energetically in the air, miming the various shapes. Her passion when she became fired was like a huge trawler net; it hauled you in bit by bit and there was no escape. “Bernard’s brother owns this lovely white BMW, and we’ll have cute little ribbons on the windscreen wipers, and white lace on the parcel shelf. It’s going to be just perfect. No, in fact it’ll be better than perfect!” She went and squeezed Bernard around the waist, causing him to slop tea over the rim of his cup, which dribbled onto his trouser leg. He didn’t seem to mind. “And of course I want you to be there. And your lovely mum and dad.”
“Try and stop me, Connie,” I said, a little cheered by this display of unfettered warmth. In spite of my foul mood I was genuinely happy for Connie. I was aware that somewhere in her past there was hurt, and she’d finally managed to escape it, to start afresh. I could read the relief and sheer joy of it in her wide, childlike eyes.
“But I need a favour, too.”
I looked at her warily. “Favour?”
“Well, you being a reporter and all that. I’d be ever so grateful if you’d take our photo for the paper and write a sweet little something about us. It doesn’t have to be a very big article, but I do so hate those tiny things.” She indicated the small size between finger and thumb. “It makes it look as if the day isn’t important, doesn’t it? And it will be important, it being jubilee year and all. Did you know my middle name’s Elizabeth? I’ll bet you didn’t. There, the Queen and I have something in common. I know it’s not much, just a name, but it’s there all the same.” Her lips clamped shut, and both she and Bernard looked expectantly at me.
I shrugged, scratched the back of my neck and swallowed. “I’m not really – well, I am a reporter, of sorts, but, you see, I don’t really…” I wanted to tell them I was the lowest of the low. I had no say in the content of the Chronicle. In truth I had no say in anything. But their eyes implored me to deliver something encouraging. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise much,” I said, for which I received the biggest, wettest kiss of gratitude that I’d ever had the pleasure to receive.
We all fell into silence when we heard the sound of a motorcycle outside and the back door opening. Max lumbered into the kitchen and barely acknowledged our presence. The atmosphere froze, and all the good humour was sucked out leaving behind a vacuum of antipathy and distrust. I thought this was confined to me, till I glanced at Connie and Bernard’s stony expressions, their tight lips mirroring mine; they no longer appeared to be the same contented creatures of a few moments ago. No one had to tell me there was something wrong, though Max’s face never gave an indication that anything was amiss. He strode to the kitchen table and sat down. The silence grew painfully awkward.
It was broken by Ruby’s entrance, her hair mussed up by the wind, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. When she saw me she gave me the warmest smile and took my hand, kissing me on the cheek. I wanted to pull away, my jealousy burning savagely in my chest, but her warm body close to mine damped down the flames against my wishes and I relented, squeezing her hand.
“Hello, Ruby,” Connie said with her familiar sing-song ring. “How far did you get?”
“All the way…” said Max, rolling his tongue around his mouth as he glanced at me. My eyes narrowed. “…and back again,” he added.
“We’ve been all over,” Ruby enthused. “You really must get a motorbike one day, Philip,” she said.
I agreed half-heartedly. “Connie and Bernard are getting married,” I said.
“You are? Excellent! Am I invited?” Ruby asked.
Before Connie could answer, Max flew away from the table and slammed the back door behind him. We heard the motorcycle start up and the engine revving wildly before the Honda tore away. I had never seen Bernard’s face so cold. He was ordinarily such a cheerful man, nothing seemed to faze him; but right then a change deep inside him had twisted his features to one of … I guess I couldn’t be sure what it was, because it would be unjust to call it loathing, knowing Bernard to be incapable of such a base emotion. But it wasn’t far away. I could only wonder at what had gone on previously between them all. I had the inkling then that things didn’t bode well, and yet I hid my dark thoughts from the couple; like them, I did not want to believe that their buoyant planning for the future was all in vain. To break the chill, Connie offered the universal cure-all.
“Shall we have a nice cup of tea?” she said energetically.
* * * *
There is nothing guaranteed to bring out the best in bad taste than a working class marriage.
I can say this because I am working class. Where I lived, occasions of any note came far and few between. There were marriages, there were funerals, there were christenings, and there were boozy nights at the pubs or working men’s clubs. I had often seen droves of people heading for the latter, looking incongruous in the mean brick-lined streets, displaying their gaudy finery like prize turkeys. Friday nights in particular were the occasion to see troops of men and women decked out in jackets and trousers, in shirts and ties, in dresses and skirts, and hair permed, rollered, sprayed or greased for the night; they marched in line down the street to the nearest local, accompanied by the strong smell of Brut aftershave and Max Factor perfume that encased them in an invisible wall of almost nauseous pong.
As with people everywhere it is a show of feathers. But it seemed to me that Overthorpe just didn’t know which feathers to put together, so it dressed itself in every bright feather available, just to be sure. And Connie’s wedding was no exception. Bodies that had spent ninety percent of
life dressed in drab and baggy were now forced by convention to ‘look smart’. As I looked around me I caught sight of the usual figures, looking decidedly uneasy in their glad-rags; the usual array of light-grey suits with mauve shirts and blue ties; trousers that finished too far above the ankle revealing white socks; unfashionable shoes that had been dragged out of a cupboard for perhaps no more than their second occasion; hats that had been bought specifically for the day, immense and boldly coloured with lots of lace and silk-effect flowers to give the impression of expense. And above all hung the sickening pall of perfume and cigarette smoke, desperation fuelling a few last sucks on a tab before commitment to a smokeless town hall and the wedding reception, yet more perfume sprayed around female chests and necks to mask the smell of Woodbines.
Surprisingly, bearing in mind that there were none of Connie’s relations present, there was quite a number of people milling around, with cars drawing up almost non-stop, disgorging their brightly coloured loads. It was mainly Bernard’s relatives and workmates that made up the numbers, as far as I could tell; but there was a fair share of Connie’s friends, for what she lacked in relatives she amply made up for in pals. They were a badge to her popularity. Mostly women from the factory where she worked they chatted animatedly and excitedly with her, at times their voices ringing out like a gaggle of schoolgirls immersed in the sharing of a lewd joke. It was satisfying to think how far she’d come since first moving to Overthorpe with not a friend in the world save her son Max. And now, on this special day, she was the centre of a spinning vortex of ardent attention; and not, I add, without just cause. To top it all, I thought she looked stunning; amidst this desert of garish sameness she rose like an exquisite angel in her very trim two-piece suit in light-blue, with gold jewellery in evidence around her neck, on her wrist, but very understated for Connie. Gone was the flamboyance I’d come to expect and replaced instead by this gorgeous pillar of pure elegance and beauty. No wonder Bernard was grinning. I was ever so proud when she stepped over to me, took me by both hands and stared into my eyes.
“Isn’t it just wonderful, Collie?”
“It is.”
“I was going to cry at the register office.”
“So was I.”
She laughed heartily, her head flicking backwards with the force of it. She bent closer to my ear. “Bernard looks ever so handsome, don’t you think?”
I agreed, but I still wondered what it was that made him so special above others. I guess at that age I was still hung up on the physical, and Bernard and Connie made something of an odd couple in this department. He was standing like a huge black rock on the steps of the town hall, his mass of hair combed and lacquered into the queerest shape, shoes too new and shiny, his off-the-peg suit ill-fitting, the sleeves threatening to engulf his fingers. He was greeting guests, shaking hands, nodding. But his gauche, stilted movements, the way he tried to readjust his collar and kipper tie, or shrug his shoulders back into his jacket, all betrayed his discomfort. Dark hair, dark complexion, dark tie, dark suit – it was only his white teeth that broke his rather funereal aspect. In spite of all this it was obvious he was as thrilled as Connie, though I did think that his jaw was going to ache terribly with all that grinning.
“Where’s Max?” I blurted out, because he hadn’t turned up at the register office. I saw Connie’s face drop and I wished I hadn’t mentioned it. Everybody had noticed his absence, of course, but protocol demands sealed lips on these occasions. I’m afraid I’d spoken without first thinking, perhaps because inside it bothered me a great deal.
“Why don’t you go look at the cake that Bernard’s Auntie made for us?” she burst, circumventing my question and grabbing me by the shoulders, spinning me on my heels to face the large double doors of the town hall. “We’ve got birds on it as well as flowers. I know there are some people that insist birds are unlucky, but that’s all piffle. I like birds, and so I’ve got birds.” She propelled me into the doorway and abandoned me to join with another guest.
I paused in the sunshine, searching amongst the heads for a sign of Ruby. Call it insecurity but I became anxious that she wasn’t there with me, something nagging absurdly at the back of my mind that she was engaged that very moment in intimate conversation with another young man, and what’s more finding it decidedly more agreeable than being with me. What’s worse, the more I dwelt on the notion the more likely it seemed, till I just had to launch myself into the throng to find her. By the time I did – and she was quite innocently talking with my mum and dad – I had worked myself up into a lather, hot under the collar and wet under the armpits, all of which I was set to blame on her.
“You OK?” she asked, aware of my agitation.
“Yes,” I snapped, but then thought better of it. How on earth could I be angry with her for something that had never happened? I was baffled by my feelings, and put it down to the emotion of the day. Whatever, as far as I could tell it didn’t bother her, for she took me by the arm and all but dragged me inside the town hall to find a seat.
Ruby loved occasions. She was a party animal, as they say, a real people person, who derived a great deal from just socialising. She had an immense energy for it. It was for this very reason that I loved her, and, rather ironically, the very reason I began to distrust her. Her ability to converse with undeniable ease, her genuine affability, the fact that people generally liked her (strangely those kind of attributes that drew me to Connie), worked insidiously on me on two different levels.
I was envious of popularity, for I was never popular except when my services were needed; and I began to wonder what kind of relationship she had with others with whom she spoke so warmly. Too warmly at times, I thought. I did not see it then as a kind of disease that was starting to eat away at me. I thought it was because I adored her so much, and that these feelings were a natural, and therefore quite legitimate, consequence of love.
“It’s all so lovely,” said my mother. I looked at her. She had a tear in her eye. She was always given to emotion. “I think they’ll be very happy together. Very happy.” She sighed wistfully, while my father nodded sagely. They smiled and looked over Ruby and I, no doubt visions of churches, bridesmaids and wedding receptions coursing hotly through their parental minds. “I love a nice wedding,” she said ominously.
They must make wedding receptions to a universal plan, because you walk into one and you walk into them all. At least, all the ones I’d ever walked into had that same unnerving ring of familiarity about them. Large hall. Small tables lined up around the edges. Top table with food and cake on it – the only table with a white cloth. To the left of the wedding cake, gateaux and fancies. To the right, savouries. In front of the cake a pile of cards. Behind the table bride and groom, parents, grandparents, hangers-on etc. In front of the table a pile of presents, and running and screaming kids swinging each other about and slipping and sliding on the polished boards that’s already had a few cheese and onion crisps squashed onto it. Music blaring out, without fail the DJ would put on Band of Gold’, which I’ve often thought odd, as it concerns a marriage break-up. And noise. Then more noise.
We found a table round which was gathered someone we knew, and stuck with them. In this manner tight little communities sprang up around the circumference of the hall to which we weren’t invited and which would remain persistently aloof and suspicious, guarding chairs and tables with alarming alacrity for the remainder of the day and deep into the night, abandoning their stakes only when it was certain that it was too late for anyone else to want them.
But this would be so different to any other reception I’d been to, because Max eventually arrived.
The speeches were all speeched-out, the toasts all toasted, and the various savoury dishes dished-out. There was a frenzied scurrying in process to secure a half-decent helping of black forest gateau and double cream when Max finally showed his face. And the face of his new girlfriend.
It didn’t take long to realise he’d been drinking. Heavi
ly. He looked the worse for wear, dishevelled to say the least in stained jeans and a torn T-shirt with ‘Mien Kampf’ emblazoned across the front in day-glow lettering. But it was his girlfriend who caused the biggest stir, especially amongst some of the elderly conservatives in the gathering, which were out in force that evening. She was a dedicated punk.
OK, so years on it sounds positively quaint. Bless her, she was a punk! Remember those days, darling? Where did we put our Clash records? Well back then they were something to be troubled by, especially by those in bungalow-land who lacked an upstairs in more than one sense of the word. She wore the usual spiked hair-do, fluorescent green and red, the usual dark vampire-look eyeshadow and black lipstick, the usual home-made slashed fatigues sprinkled liberally with zips and safety pins, the usual vinyl-covered spiked heels; and she received the usual horrified stares. If the intention was to evoke offence, offence was suitably evoked. “Sick,” someone muttered behind me, but it was impossible to tell at which of the couple it was directed.
Half the hall lights were on because of the buffet, so Max easily spotted me and chose to stagger my way accompanied by a wave of turning heads as he did so, yet remaining totally oblivious to the stir he caused. There was a steady purr of muttering as various thoughts were verbally exchanged around the room. He stopped by our table, looking down on me, his eyes rimmed red, almost vacant with his intoxication. “Penny,” he said, throwing his partner a thumb. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them extra wide, blinked two or three times, trying to focus. “Enjoying yourself?” he slurred, aiming this at my mother, who nodded quickly. She didn’t relish being the centre of attention.
Blood Bonds: A psychological thriller Page 13
