by CL Skelton
‘Eh, Dad,’ said Geordie nervously.
‘I’m not your bloody damn Dad,’ said Sam, ‘and you’ve missed the point.’
‘It’ll have to wait. I think we’ve got to go.’ He had a terrified feeling that Sam, like Noel, was going to pass out at which point the cause, and his mother’s wedding, would be lost. Fortunately Sam got to his feet instead, still arguing about Anselm, and Geordie managed to sling Sam’s arm over his shoulder and his own about Sam’s waist, and staggered with him to the van. He dumped his future stepfather unceremoniously across the front seat, slammed the door, went around to the driver’s side, and got in. Sam was already thoroughly asleep.
Geordie shrugged, and drove slowly and carefully home, feeling the oldest and most sensible person around. When he reached Hardacres he managed to revive his companion enough to get him on his feet, and through the front door of the house. Sam was as cheerful as ever and re-embarked on his discussions on Anselm.
‘Sure, Dad,’ said Geordie, looking hesitantly at the broad sweep of stairs up to the gallery, and again at his charge, leaning drunkenly and happily on his shoulder. He decided the stairs were probably impossible and certainly dangerous and headed for the library. He didn’t know whether the best course, at four in the morning, was to get coffee and start the long process of sobering the groom now, or let him sleep for an hour or two first. Either way, Geordie had his work cut out for him tonight.
They made the library, Sam still talking as intently, and senselessly, as ever, and Geordie manoeuvred him past the desk to the sofa by the hearth. Then Sam solved the dilemma for him. He said suddenly, with a look of real discovery, ‘You know, Anselm was an idiot,’ and passed out cold. Geordie leapt forward, caught him, and deflected his fall enough so that he ended draped across the sofa and not the floor. Though it hardly mattered; Sam was so relaxed by then he could have fallen down the stairs without feeling it. Geordie stood rubbing his head, looking at the clock on the mantel and adding up the hours until the ceremony in Beverley. It made five and a half any way he tried. He shrugged, dragged Sam’s feet on to the sofa and then searched around, found Harry’s old laprug that yet lived in the library, and spread it dutifully over him before going to the kitchens in search of coffee. Somewhere he heard a cock crow and thought of Noel lying yet on the floor of The Rose at Kilham.
Sam got three hours of sleep on the morning of his wedding, and those only because he was so thoroughly sodden drunk that Geordie simply could not wake him, and doubted he’d have woken if the house fell down. Geordie thought of getting his guitar, plugging the amplifier into a socket in the library, and playing the Wedding March, but decided that if Sam did perchance wake, his own life wouldn’t be worth much in consequence. So he tried tender loving care and the offer of coffee and, at seven in the morning, with the house, frighteningly enough, beginning to stir, he finally got a reaction.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Sam?’ Geordie said, deciding it wasn’t wise to try the Dad routine just now, ‘Sam, you’ve got to wake up.’ There was no answer. ‘Sam?’
Sam opened his eyes a fraction and immediately drew the rug over his face and said, ‘Pull the damn curtains, there’s sun in here,’ as if sun were somehow poison.
‘You’ve really got to wake up.’
Sam rolled over on the sofa and buried his face in a cushion and put his hands over his head, blotting out sound and light. ‘Do you have to shout.’
‘I’m whispering. Do you want some coffee?’
‘I want a priest.’
‘Sir? You’re getting married today, sir.’
‘Married, hell, I’m bloody dying.’
Geordie rocked back on his heels, where he crouched by the sofa and wondered what to do. He could call someone for help, but he felt too loyal to do that. All the male members of the household were hors de combat, no doubt, and to call any of the female members just now would be like throwing Sam to the Amazons. He tentatively touched his shoulder and suddenly Sam turned and sat up, blinking, and said, ‘Jesus Christ, what time is it? I’m getting married today.’
Geordie collapsed in giggles of relief, and handed him coffee. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, still laughing, ‘you’ve got all day.’
They hadn’t actually. They had a very short, fleeting morning, but it was, somewhat miraculously, enough. By ten o’clock Sam, immaculately turned out in grey morning-dress, and nearly steady on his feet, was standing, with a more-quiet-than-usual Jan Muller, at the altar rail, awaiting his bride. And then suddenly, as he stood there, there came from nowhere a fleeting rogue remembrance of a young lady called Jeanette, upon whom, long ago, he and Terry Hardacre had played a most unforgivable trick. The solemnity of the occasion was suddenly assailed by a wave of hysterical humour, and he turned quickly and buried his face in his hand against Jan’s shoulder.
‘Hey, what’s with you?’ Jan whispered. ‘Why you laughing? This is Church you are in.’ He sounded shocked.
‘Nerves,’ Sam gasped, giggling yet. ‘Say something serious. Please. Quickly.’
‘I get yesterday the tax demand from Her Majesty. You cannot pay.’
Sam grimaced, straightened, and faced the altar, nodding gratefully. ‘Fine. Excellent,’ he muttered to Jan. He looked at the altar again and thought of Terry, and addressed him in the silence of his heart. I’ll sort you out later, mate.
The music began then, and he turned towards the aisle, and saw approaching him in a soft, flowing dress of peach-coloured silk, a young girl with honey-brown curls surmounted with flowers, smiling shyly. A girl no older than the young WAAF he had flirted with in the London of another world lost in time. He stared, hardly knowing her, this pretty stranger who could surely not have raised to manhood the son who had somehow got him to the church on time. He did not take his eyes from her throughout the ceremony, as if afraid that she might yet take fright and run, gathering peach silk around her, and leap into her red Mini and escape. But she didn’t, but made her vows to him, as he made his to her, and then knelt beside him for the blessing of his church, to the edge of whose forgiving boundaries he had so often strayed, and whose invisible walls comprised yet his one true home.
The wedding breakfast was laid out in the long, oak-panelled dining-room of Hardacres, overlooking green lawns and Mary Hardacre’s rose beds, still bright with summer colour. Long tables, covered in white linen, were set up in a U-shape, with Sam and Mavis at the head with Madelene, Geordie Emmerson and his wife, and the best man and matron of honour, Vanessa Gray, beside them. Vanessa was pink-cheeked and gawky, wearing the sort of hat usually reserved for Victorian pantomimes. But the favourite sight of the day was Noel Hardacre, who had not only sobered enough to actually turn up, but had arrived in formal finery dragged from the recesses of some forgotten cupboard, wafting the scent of mothballs after him.
Janet Chandler wore black, looked utterly stunning, and aside from that, behaved herself impeccably.
When Sam rose to say grace over the meal, looking down the long tables with their extraordinary mixture of humanity, all ages and types, each with their own histories, quirks and enchantments, he found himself almost too emotional to speak, so dear were they, suddenly, to him.
Before he could begin, Vanessa suddenly brayed, ‘Oh look, what jolly luck,’ and pointed out of the window.
Everyone turned, and Sam, turning with them, saw the little herd of half-wild fallow deer, choosing their moment to perfection, suddenly step out of their shelter of woodland and pick their way carefully, with delicate weightless steps, across the green lawn. They approached until they were scarcely a hundred feet from the house and stood for a moment, their fragile legs poised for instant flight, gazing into the tall windows of the room. Somebody suddenly cheered, seeing them as an omen, and the sound, even through the glass, sent them fleeing like a memory clasped too hard from the ungraspable illusion of time. Sam watched them until they were gone into the beech wood like shadows, thinking of Harry the while. Then he spoke his bened
iction over his wedding meal, quickly, and in Latin, so no one would hear him stumble over the words. He sat down again, put his arms about his wife, and buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair.
He felt blessed and sheltered by the old house, and was glad to bring his bride home to it, as Harry had done before him.
After the meal, and the speeches, Albert Chandler again provided music, as he had done for Jan and Janet, and there was a little dancing, with Sam and Mavis leading the first waltz. There was champagne, and the makings of a good party, though Sam was not quite up to another just then. Anyhow, the bride and groom left early, with her son sniggering cheerfully at their haste, but their reasons were less romantic than mundane. They had a long way to go that day.
No one other than Jane Macgregor had the faintest idea where they were going. She knew, because she had given them the keys to her home in Strathconon, and announced she was going to the South of France and wouldn’t be back for a month. So Mavis went off to change and stopped long enough to throw her wedding bouquet from the gallery of the great hall. It was caught by Ruth Barton, in attendance with Riccardo. He beamed, happy Italian paternalism, and Emily looked relieved, and Ruth looked sour. Sam was relieved as well, because he thought that Ruth, as well as sour, looked pregnant, and he was confidently relying on Riccardo to do the decent thing, assuming he wanted to live a little longer.
When Mavis returned, lovely in a tailored suit of bright green, with a small, matching hat, they made their farewells and left the house through the kitchen door, since Sam insisted on saying goodbye to the staff as well. Mrs Dobson got frankly tearful and kissed them both, and the little kitchen maid hired for the day from the village met Sam’s eyes with a look of remembrance and shock which was reflected in his own. She blushed, giggled and looked at the floor, and he leaned down just for a moment, and whispered ‘Happy Christmas’ as he passed. She blushed again, and showered him with a handful of rice, as he went out of the door.
They were suddenly alone, except for Jane Macgregor, who had walked with them through the house and out into the courtyard, thick with yellow falling leaves from the old ash tree. She had one arm around Mavis’s waist and put her other around Sam’s, and she said, as they walked in sudden silence, ‘Well, children, you’re on your own.’
Sam suddenly embraced her fiercely, and said, ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘For what?’ she laughed, lightly. ‘I’ve not even given you a wedding present. Surely you’ve noticed?’
Sam hadn’t noticed. ‘You’ve given me enough for a lifetime,’ he said.
‘Oh, but that’s all very well, you still must have something from me, for your marriage.’
‘You’ve given us the honeymoon,’ Mavis said.
Jane sniffed. ‘I’m charging B and B for that. Seventeen and six per night. That’s the going rate. No, my loves, that’s what I had in mind.’ They had rounded the corner of the house and she pointed with one long, regal finger towards the grey Jaguar which was parked directly in front of the door of Hardacres, festooned with white streamers of ribbon.
They stared, and Mavis said, ‘I thought Jan was lending his car?’
Jane sniffed again. ‘That was only to keep our favourite son from driving you off in his damnable lorry, with “Just Married” on the tailgate. But I had a better idea. The registration is in the glove compartment, Sam,’ she said, holding out to him the keys. She paused. ‘It’s in your name.’
Sam, who had thought she was merely lending it and had strong reservations about even that, stared, and then shook his head slowly.
‘Oh, no, Jane. No.’
‘What do you mean “no”,’ she snapped. ‘When are you going to learn how to accept a gift?’
‘I can’t, Jane. I can’t. It’s yours. I can’t imagine you ever without it.’
She shrugged, elegantly. ‘What else do you give someone who’s got everything including three tugboats? Of course it’s not new or anything, but it’s in fair nick. And anyhow, you like old things.’ She turned briefly to face him and said, ‘Besides, I know how you and your brother always loved a good car.’ Her eyes met his, and held them until she saw the sudden flicker of shock in them fade. She kissed the keys, impulsively and extended them to him. ‘Ego te absolvo, my dear.’
He stood for a long moment before he reached out a hand to take them. Their fingers touched around the keys for an instant and he nodded slowly, and faintly smiled. He took the keys from her, and then carefully helped Mavis into the low seat of the open car, and walked, with Jane at his side yet, around to the driver’s side. He opened the door, and hesitated once more. ‘Jane, I can’t take this from you,’ he said.
‘Of course you can. I’m getting a bit past it, anyhow, dear. A bit long in the tooth, you know.’
‘Oh, no, please. Don’t even think it,’ he said, with real anguish. She was the one, the only member of his family he couldn’t conceive of being without, and the thought of her advancing years was something he would not face.
‘Well, it’s true,’ she said as he, yet reluctantly, got behind the wheel of the beautiful motor car and started the engine. She admired the sight of them there, and said, ‘Perfect, it matches your hair.’ She leaned over him and caught Mavis’s hand and bent and kissed Sam, as she did.
‘Anyhow, I’ve just ordered an E-type,’ she said.
Chapter Thirty-one
The two young girls brought their matching red motor scooters to a halt at the side of the tall brick wall and dismounted, taking off their brightly-coloured helmets and shaking out their long hair. One was fair, the other dark, and both pretty in the elfin way fashionable now with the young. Their hair was worn smooth and straight, and as long as they had managed to get it to grow, with a long, silky fringe, so that each of them peered out with black-rimmed, heavily-lashed eyes, through a veil darkly. They giggled and looked at each other, and looked at the red brick wall.
‘We’ll never get over,’ said the fair one.
‘I’ll give you a leg up,’ the other said, eagerly.
‘But what of you, then?’ The fair one shrugged, touched the wall slightly reverently and said, ‘Perhaps we’ll find a gate.’
The girls trudged along beside the red brick wall for a while, pushing their scooters along the grassy verge of the road. Eventually they did come to a gate, tall and elaborate of ingeniously decorative wrought iron, but the gates were closed and padlocked. There was no one in sight. The fair girl leaned her red scooter against the curve of the wall and sank disconsolately down, cross-legged, on the ground.
‘Should have guessed,’ said the other. ‘People like that don’t leave gates open.’
‘I bet he isn’t even here,’ the fair girl said. ‘We’ve probably come all this way for nothing. He’s probably at Kilham.’
‘They’re never at Kilham any more,’ her companion said, ‘everyone knows that. I’m sure he’ll be here. They’re probably all here. Nick says they live here.’
‘Not likely,’ the fair girl said. ‘Bloody rich place like that.’
She cast an unkind glance through the locked gates, as she chewed thoughtfully on a grass stem. The dark-haired girl sat down as well. She was wearing a little short skirt of corduroy, an inch or two above her knee at the hem, and lacy patterned tights. She, too, sat cross-legged, oblivious of the length of long leg revealed.
‘Geordie lives here,’ the dark girl said. ‘His father owns it.’
‘His stepfather,’ the other corrected. She paused, running the grass stem through her teeth. ‘It’s really weird, Geordie having a stepfather like that. I mean Geordie’s so natural, you know. I mean, just like an ordinary person. The way he jokes between numbers, you feel you could really know him.’ She paused. ‘His stepfather’s really weird. He was a priest or something and ran off with this film star. It was really grotty.’
The dark girl was silent and then she said, ‘My dad met him once, in Hull, down at the harbour. He said he was really nice.’
The fair girl looked up wisely over her blade of grass. ‘Nobody,’ she said, ‘with that kind of money, is nice.’
‘Maybe we should go home,’ said the dark-haired girl.
Her companion shrugged, but said, ‘Let’s wait. If we stay by the gate, we’ll see them come in.’
‘If they’re not in already.’
‘Well, let’s wait anyhow. It’s a beautiful day.’ The blonde stretched out in the grass, spreading her long hair out over the wild flowers. She closed her eyes, and did not see the man approach, but her companion did. ‘Hey, Cathy,’ she said. ‘We’d better go. There’s someone coming.’
‘Oh, fab,’ said the blonde lazily. ‘Is it one of them?’
‘Hardly. And he looks really furious. Come on.’ She jumped up, and Cathy joined her, staring through the black gates. A man, short and wiry, and wearing old-fashioned tweed knee-breeches, was walking purposefully down the driveway from a parked car beneath the June shadow of the tall elms. He had a bunch of keys in his hand which rattled as he walked. He was grey-haired, with a spiky dishevelment about him that looked vaguely lunatic, and he looked to the girls terribly old.
‘Yes?’ he demanded. The dark-haired girl was terrified, but the fair one was bolder.
‘Can we see Paul Barton?’ she asked, grinning cheekily.
‘Not from here you can’t.’
‘Is he in there?’ the dark girl said, finding her courage.
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Is he with the family?’ the blonde Cathy said, bolder yet.
‘Damned if I know.’
The dark girl relaxed, realizing the man was only hired help, obviously, and said, ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right if we wait here. We just want to see him when they come home.’
The man shrugged. ‘Please yourselves,’ he said. He left them and wandered off again to the old black shooting-brake in which he had driven down, and got in, leaving the door yet open, put his feet half-up on the dashboard and appeared to go to sleep.
