Seven Week Itch

by Victoria Corby

  SEVEN-WEEK ITCH

  By

  Victoria Corby

  Copyright © Victoria Corby 2000

  First published 2000 by Headline Book Publishing

  Revised edition published by Victoria Corby 2013

  The right of Victoria Corby to be indentified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

  This story takes place in the late 1990's when computers were bulky, the internet was still unusual to many, passwords had eight characters and mobile phones were not considered an essential part of daily life.

  For Willie

  CHAPTER 1

  Joyce Grenfell, where were you? If I had to say, ‘Don’t do that,’ one more time I was going to have hysterics. I was a mother hen who’d lost it completely with the control factor. Though, frankly, if I’d been mother to any of this lot milling around restlessly on the steps of the church I would probably have slit my throat by now, that is after I’d done a few things you aren’t supposed to do to children in this enlightened age. I’m not lacking in maternal instinct, well not completely but I don’t think anyone, not even Supernanny, could have kept control of ten children aged between two and eight in moods varying according to sex from extreme overexcitement to excessive stroppiness.

  A suspiciously damp hand attached itself to my silk skirts. ‘Susie. When’s Wose coming?’

  That must have made it the fifteenth time in five minutes I’d been asked that particular question. I didn’t know the answer now any better than the first time I’d been asked. I forced my mouth into a semblance of a smile. The bride wouldn’t appreciate arriving and finding her bridesmaids in terrified hysterics. ‘Soon, I’m sure, um, um...’ Which one was she? ‘Clemmie.’

  A deeply reproachful gaze hit me from all of two and a half feet off the ground. ‘I’m Gwace,’ she said firmly. ‘Clemmie’s different. We aren’t dentical.'

  As near as damn it, as far as I was concerned. In my opinion, only a nursery school teacher can tell the difference between blonde four-year-olds, even when they aren’t twins, identical or not.

  ‘No, of course you aren’t, you’re taller, aren’t you?’ I said mechanically, hoping I’d got it right this time. I looked gloomily at my charges. The twins weren’t too bad, none of the girls were, despite their incessant need to go to the loo due to excitement, but marshalling the four boys, sulky as bears because they’d been forced into satin Gainsborough Blue Boy suits and buckled shoes, needed all my skills as a one-woman law-enforcement service. Though I had a feeling the only things that would truly keep them under control were heavy-duty handcuffs and a cattle prod. At the rehearsal yesterday one had locked three of the bridesmaids in a cupboard in the vestry and claimed he’d dropped the key down a grating. His mother, well versed in his ways, retrieved it from his sock. Another had been overheard saying he’d got his pet stink-bomb with him, which had resulted in forcible frisking of all the pages as they arrived at the church. The haul included the stink bomb, two catapults and a collection of marbles.

  The erstwhile owners of the catapults, their hell-born skills refined at the very best and most expensive schools, had their heads together and were whispering with many smothered giggles. I eyed them uneasily. It didn’t take much brainpower to realise this boded ill for the smooth running of the service. Rose must have been absolutely certifiable to allow them anywhere near her wedding procession. And I must have been even madder to let her to shanghai me into being her bridesmaid and chief whipper-in. I grabbed the twins before they sat down in frilly pink skirts on steps still damp from the morning’s rain. Thank God none of the pages had realised that a bottom covered in lichen would almost certainly mean they’d be banned from processing up the aisle.

  A smartly dressed woman hurrying to the church slowed down to smile indulgently at the children. Her son, I noted with rancour, barely glanced at me before letting his eyes slide by to rest on the generous rear of the lady photographer. So much for Rose’s promises that being a grown-up bridesmaid meant you were the chief centre of attention after the bride and, even better, it was obvious you were still available. You could virtually have your choice of any single man, she had said, and a lot of the ones who weren’t single as well.

  On current form, my choice was going to be limited to Rose’s Uncle Julius, who was notorious for making passes at any female over fourteen and under ninety-three, never mind her shape or quantity of teeth, or a fifteen-year-old schoolboy who had made a not quite sotto voce enough comment about ‘knockers’. Of course, it would have helped if I hadn’t been done up like a giant strawberry milk-shake. I had been intending to come to my best friend’s wedding in an enormous hat and a very expensive dress, then Rose’s mother had thrown a probably justified wobbly at the idea of ten small attendants without a chief marshal, and guess who was chosen for the post? ‘Because you’re so good with children, Susie.’ I was? It was news to me.

  Unfortunately, Rose had already conceived her vision for her bridal procession, with the bridesmaids wearing dresses in her favourite pink and copied from a portrait of her four-times-great-aunt posed in a charming bucolic fantasy with lambs and puppies frisking around her feet. Painted when four times Great-Aunt Harriet was six. The resulting costumes were absolutely delightful on Clemmie and Grace, considerably less adorable on me. Rose and her mother thought it would spoil the charm of the ensemble if I had a different outfit, though they graciously made a concession to my age and figure by lowering the neckline slightly and allowing me full-length skirts. They wouldn’t do away with any of the frills or draperies, however, not even the muslin apron which fastened around my waist with an enormous bow and drew, in my opinion, far too much attention to my derriere. As my younger brother had exclaimed while I was modelling my outfit for my mother, I looked like a demented Hollywood mogul’s vision of Bo Peep. All I needed was a couple of lambs. Luckily for him, he ducked just before my shoe got him on the head. Two brothers and many years helping them practise their batting means that I have a fine over-arm bowling action, not usually seen in women.

  A surreptitious movement from a page’s hand caught my eye and I snapped out a command to not even think about undoing Polly’s sash again. He eyed me speculatively to see if I meant it, and must have gathered somehow from the set of my jaw that this time it really wasn’t worth risking the retribution that was bound to result from what had been a very good joke the first and second times.

  The groom’s mother, resplendent in designer green, with a large hat, and the bride’s mother, in blue, with a slightly smaller hat but with several feathers, had disappeared into the church a good five minutes ago, and I looked impatiently up the road, as eager as any of the other bridesmaids to see the bride and seeing instead a flash of pink skirts disappearing around the corner of the church. Rose’s goddaughter, the youngest of the crew, had taken advantage of my momentary lack of concentration to dash off into the graveyard. With a sigh, I gave chase. To my relief, she’d been arrested before she could do anything like excavate a molehill and was now safely being held aloft by the best man, a tall, brown-haired man with heavily lidded eyes and a tense expression.

  He smiled briefly as I rounded the corner, the expression not meeting his eyes. ‘One of yours, I believe, Susie.’ His tone implied clearly that he was doing his bit and I could at least try to do mine and keep the bridesmaids safely corralled. Any words of gratitude that might have been trembling on my lips were swallowed as his eyebrows rose and he looked me up and down. ‘Striking outfit.’

  I could have sworn he was hiding a smile, not that it was likely, since my limited acquaintance of Hamish Laing hadn’t done anything to convince me he had a sense of humour. Though, to be fair, the
strain of making sure that Jeremy got to the altar on time, or got to the altar at all before he collapsed with alcoholic poisoning as a result of a week’s wake for the end of his bachelorhood, was enough to cauterise anybody’s funny bone.

  ‘Aren’t you two supposed to be in the church, rather than skulking around out here?’ I demanded.

  Hamish gestured with his head towards where the groom was leaning against the church wall. Jeremy was normally held to be quite good-looking, with the tall, beaky looks that come from hundreds of years of selective breeding amongst the landed gentry, though he had enough chin to escape one particular cliché, but right now I doubted if even his mother would find his greeny pale face attractive. It was bad enough to make me wonder for a moment if Rose would take one appalled look and bolt back down the aisle with a ringing, ‘Not on your life!’ when she was asked if she would take this man . . .

  ‘Jeremy found the church rather hot,’ Hamish said blandly.

  Jeremy must have a remarkable internal radiator, since despite the best efforts of the verger, and a heating system installed as recently as the nineteen-fifties, the church still held all the sepulchral chill of its six hundred years. ‘Susie, when’s Rose arriving?’ he asked, keeping his eyes tight shut against the pallid glare of the April sun.

  That made sixteen times. ‘Soon, I hope. When we left she was calling for a needle and cotton to mend one of her suspenders.’

  ‘Suspenders,’ he repeated slowly, as if he was unsure what the word meant. He opened a bloodshot eye. ‘Suspenders, as in suspenders and stockings?’

  ‘As in white silk stockings. With seams.’

  ‘Ah, seams,’ he said thoughtfully, in the manner of a man who has decided there might be some reason to live after all.

  A large black Daimler was turning the corner at the top of the road. ‘She’s here at last.’ I glanced at my watch, surprised to see she was only five minutes late. It felt more like five hours.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Jeremy, jerking into ambulant life. ‘If I’m not there ready and waiting at the altar when Rose reaches the church it’ll be a locked-door situation for the whole bloody honeymoon.’ He started patting his pockets. ‘The ring! The ring! Where’s the bloody ring?’

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said Hamish in a patient tone, thrusting young Amelia at me. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. If she’s anything like my sister she’ll spend ages on the steps, titivating for her grand entrance.’ He straightened the carnation buttonhole Jeremy had dislodged in his panic, ‘Come on, we can go in via the vestry door.’

  Unbelievably my flock didn’t appear to have caused any more mayhem during my brief absence, they were still clean and even had their shoes on. ‘Look, children! Here comes Rose,’ I called in an overly bright voice as I put Amelia down. The boys’ scowls deepened even further, the girls squealed and, as the car came to a stop, stood with desperate seriousness, gripping their flower-decorated hoops for dear life. At least I’d stuck to my guns and refused absolutely to carry one of those.

  Even the blasé little male monsters’ eyes widened a little as Rose stepped carefully out of the car, holding up her train to avoid letting it drag in a small puddle. In the softest and finest white silk trimmed with lace, her dark hair held back by her godmother’s tiara, she was tall, slim and ravishing, the epitome of modest English maidenhood. It was a true tribute to her dressmaker’s art, since Rose and virginal were not two words that came together naturally. I couldn’t remember anyone ever calling her modest either.

  ‘You look absolutely gorgeous,’ I said sincerely.

  I noticed that she didn’t return the compliment. I can’t say that I blamed her. It was just the smallest consolation that she looked slightly conscience-stricken as she took in the full impact of my outfit, muslin apron and all, down to the absurd topknot of pink roses on top of my head. Not frightfully conscience-stricken though. She grinned at me from behind her veil. ‘This corset thing is killing me! It had better have the effect that it’s supposed to on Jeremy tonight. I want him beside himself with passion and devastatingly grateful he’s managed to persuade me to take him on. Otherwise I’m going to complain to the shop. I’m not going to be able to eat or drink a thing. And I was really looking forward to the champagne. Pa’s splashed out on vintage.’

  ‘Surely you’ll be able to sip a glass or two.’

  ‘I was intending to do a lot more than just sip at a couple of glasses,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to get plastered at your own wedding reception.’

  ‘Why not? I bet Jeremy’s still paralytic from last night.’

  Remembering the groom’s pale-green face, I had a feeling if he wasn’t still blotto he was sincerely wishing he was. The vicar, a shy soul who lived in mortal terror of Rose’s father, the bully of the Parish Council, was hopping around in an agitated manner to indicate we ought to start lining up to process into the church. The organist pre-empted us all and began to play the opening bars of the Wedding March. I marshalled my charges, smallest in front, wiped a runny nose and hoped no one would demand to go to the loo again. The Hell’s Cherubs took their places as train carriers, still smirking in an ominous fashion. I nudged Rose. ‘I don’t want to spoil your wedding, but those two are up to something.’

  They were her nephews, so she had good reason to know the depths they could sink to. She turned around and eyed them thoughtfully. ‘Understand this, you two. If either of you is even thinking of a trick like holding up my train so everyone can see my knickers -’ they immediately assumed a wide-eyed never-thought-of-it air - ‘you can forget it!’ She waved a finger with its tip painted an unvirginal scarlet in their faces, ‘If you do anything to annoy me, Alexander, I’ll make you carry my flowers back down the aisle. And, Barnaby, I’m coming to see you star in your school play. If you put even one foot wrong I’m going to wear A Very Large Hat. With a decoration of plastic fruit. Got it?’

  Two of Satan’s finest reneged and went speedily over to the other side. Their behaviour transformed in front of our eyes into that of the very nicest sort of choir boy, and they picked up Rose’s train with the most discreet gestures, their halos almost dazzling.

  A bright-red sports car slew to a halt outside the gate and two men half fell out, faces falling as they saw they were about to compete with the bride for who got through the door first. The driver dithered for a moment, then shrugged helplessly, evidently deciding in favour of leaving the car half blocking the road and a chance of getting to the finish line in front. They sprinted for the church, the passenger still buttoning his waistcoat, as if he’d only started getting dressed at the top of the lane. Muttering apologies, they vanished into the body of the church.

  Rose swayed slightly on her perilously high heels and grabbed my arm for balance. ‘Susie, did you see him?’ she croaked, her face so pale that her expertly applied ‘natural’ make-up stood out like a child’s face-paints. ‘The man with the blue eyes.’

  ‘He was cutting it a bit fine, wasn’t he?’

  ‘It was Nigel. Nigel Flaxman. What’s he doing here? I certainly didn’t invite him.’

  ‘Haven’t got a clue,’ I said lightly. ‘I never met him, remember? But why does it matter? The church must be packed with your old boyfriends. What’s one more?’

  ‘He was a bit more than just a boyfriend,’ she muttered, as she stared into the church, looking distrait. ‘I thought he was living in the States. I haven’t heard from him for at least three years. And to come with . . .’ I clasped her hand, to stop it from shredding another of the white bud-roses in her bouquet. One had already been reduced to confetti around her feet. ‘Oh, Susie. What if…’

  Her face was a mask of indecision. Rose is notorious for the way that she changes her mind, but surely not even she would back out on the steps of the church, would she? I felt I’d do almost anything not to have to parade up the aisle behind her looking like a right prat in this ridiculous dress, but there were limits. I took a d
eep breath. ‘Rose, you’re about to walk into this church and marry Jeremy, remember? It’s hardly the time to start considering lost opportunities.’

  ‘I’m not! Not in the way you think. You don’t understand.’ She was right, I didn’t. ‘What’s Nigel doing here?’

  The organist had already run through the Wedding March once. I thought the vicar would have an apoplexy if he didn’t get Rose’s attention soon. I shrugged. ‘If you can’t wait until after the ceremony, you’d better go in the church now and ask him yourself, because I’m not doing it for you. And afterwards,’ I gestured towards six expectant and eager shepherdesses - ‘you can escort six little girls to the loo because they can’t hold out any more through nervous tension. In fact -’ I looked at them with the eyes of experience - ‘if you keep them hanging around any longer, they’ll all have to go anyway.’

  Rose bit her lip uncertainly, sending the work of an extortionately expensive make-up artiste west. Her father looked at us with the uncertain air of a man who fears he’s about to be subjected to a display of female temperament. He cleared his throat. ‘Rose, the vicar chappie wants to get on. You never know, he might have another do afterwards, funeral or something.’ He held out his arm for her. To the vicar’s, and my, immense relief, she took it. The vicar took off at army marching pace. I barely had time to take my place at the end of the procession before we were halfway up the aisle.

  I fell down slightly in my role as Universal Aunt after that. I was so preoccupied wondering what lay behind that strange little scene outside the church, and what it was about this Nigel Flaxman that sent Rose up the aisle looking as if she were about to be forcibly wed to Dracula, that I failed to notice our frisking hadn’t revealed that the third page was secreting a packet of extra-powerful bubble gum until a dangerously large sphere appeared in front of his face. Fortunately, when it inevitably burst, it splattered over a pew end and the decorative flower-ball hanging off it, and not over Clemmie or the woman in the Chanel suit at the end of the pew. The page spent the rest of the service peacefully occupied in trying to dig as much gum as he could out of the cracks in the wood and off the leaves of the posy.