The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Right.’ I gripped the steering wheel hard. ‘Any other areas I should clean up on? I mean that’s easy, the superficial stuff: wash hair, buy new pants, or even a cropped leather jacket worn with the collar turned up like your father’s,’ I added sarcastically. ‘God, we can all do that,’ I scoffed.

  ‘Why don’t you then?’ She turned in her seat to look at me. ‘And actually, I thought Daddy looked great last week. I like him in cool clothes, and Cozzy’s got some great stuff too. So what if they don’t want to look old yet?’

  I gaped at the injustice. ‘Oh, and I do?’

  ‘No, I’m just saying you don’t care, Mum, and you could look terrific. I just don’t want …’

  ‘What?’ I turned sharply. This fun trip to Cornwall was turning sour on the A4. ‘What?’ I repeated. ‘For it to happen again? You think that’s why your father and I divorced? Nothing to do with his tatty morals but everything to do with my tatty underwear?’

  ‘You know I don’t mean that,’ she muttered.

  And I knew she didn’t, but it was too late now. She’d backed me into a corner and I was going to come out fighting. I was going to have it out. She slumped defeated in her seat, knowing the tables had turned.

  ‘So what else?’ I insisted furiously.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she muttered. And then rather bravely: ‘Well, OK, the house.’ She sat up. ‘You never bother to tidy up, just wait for Yvonne to come in once a week, and all the washing-up in the sink builds up, all day long –’

  ‘But I do it, eventually. It does get done.’

  ‘I know, but in between, it’s such a mess. And David’s so immacu late, and … well, I mean look around you. Look at this car, Mum.’

  I looked. Sweet wrappers and old magazines rolled luxuri- antly on the floor; an empty McDonald’s carton basked in the sunshine on the back seat; a shrivelled apple core festered on the dashboard. All my detritus. Nothing I could blame Flora for, who was scrupulously conscientious about throwing litter away. Caught and shamed, I retorted angrily.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so prissy, Flora!’ I roared. ‘D’you want a gleaming four-wheel-drive that’s never seen a spot of mud? Is that what you want? One of those, hm?’ I jerked my head angrily as an immaculate Jeep whizzed past driven by a coiffed, middle-aged blonde. ‘D’you want to be as genteel and scrubbed as that?’

  ‘No, but you deliberately go the other way,’ she persisted. ‘As if it’s two fingers to people like Adam, and Clare, who take such pride in their cars.’

  I swept a despairing hand through my hair. Couldn’t believe we were having this conversation. Couldn’t believe I was being unfavourably compared to my sister, my to -tally anal, control freak of a sister who shined her bath with a duster and whom Flora and I joked about constantly, and my ex-husband, whose desperate attempts to recapture his youth I openly ridiculed. Although I had noticed recently Flora didn’t always join in. Declined to comment when I railed against him. Had she really begun to wonder if it was all my fault?

  ‘Right?’ I said, fury mounting. ‘Well, I’m glad you spoke up, darling.’ I swung into a BP garage and joined the queue for petrol, fuming. ‘Clearly I’ve got some thinking to do if I want to keep a man. Clearly I’ve got some drawers to tidy, some cushions to plump, some freezer bags to label and date.’

  ‘Mum …’ she muttered miserably, picking at the seam of her jeans.

  ‘Oh no, I’m obviously totally out of touch with my feminine side. Instead of trying to write a novel in the attic, I should be languishing between designer sheets painting my nails! I should be buying pot-pourri in John Lewis and arranging it in chi-chi little bowls in the sitting room. I should be wiggling my pert little backside as I vacuum the car with a Dustbuster! Well, let’s start now, shall we?’ Furiously, I leaned across her, grabbed a grotty plastic bag from the floor by her feet, and began madly stuffing it with rubbish.

  ‘Mother, chill.’

  ‘In fact’ – I raised my head from the floor as I threw in an old sock, glanced about wildly and spotted it – ‘let’s get this whole flaming shooting match sorted out now, shall we? Look, there’s a car wash!’

  I shunted triumphantly into reverse gear, lurched backwards, and then roared towards it. I jerked to a halt in front of it.

  ‘Mum, no.’

  ‘No? NO?’ I turned to her with mock incredulity. ‘Why not? Golly, perish the thought we should drive to Cornwall in a dirty car! Come on, money in!’

  I pulled a tenner from my bag, leaned out of the window and tried to stuff it in the slot.

  ‘Mum, you need a ticket. And you’ve never been in one of these things before so why start –’

  ‘Heavens, darling, that’s not the attitude! There’s always a first time for a bit of spit and polish.’ I jumped out and dashed to the kiosk. Happily there was no queue so I quickly secured my ticket and raced back.

  ‘Right, in it goes!’ I panted, flopping back in the driver’s seat and shoving the ticket in.

  The little light on the control box flashed to green and I sped grimly up on to the ramp. Over the ramp. Was that right? Or had I gone too far? I reversed up a bit, revving madly.

  ‘You’re supposed to put the aerial down,’ muttered Flora. ‘Most cars have a button to retract it, but since ours is practically pre-war, it’ll get snapped off.’

  ‘So be it!’ I barked, all reason gone now. God, even my car was too old.

  She shook her head in wonder, folding her arms. ‘Right. Fine. Leave it. A five-hour drive to Cornwall with no radio. Perfect. I’ve got my CD player, of course, so I’m all right. Your lookout, Mum.’

  I glanced at her. Her arms were folded, eyebrows raised. A triumphant little smile played on her lips. She knew she’d won. Well, bugger that. I jumped out of the car.

  ‘It’s too late, Mum, you’ve put the ticket in!’

  Bugger that, too. Quickly I nipped around the bonnet, reached up and deftly pushed the aerial down. The concrete was wet and slippery underfoot though, and as I started back I lost my footing and fell to my knees with an agonizing crack. A white light of pain shot through me and I swore furiously, just as jets of water shot at me from every direction in great horizontal sheets. While I shielded my face from the onslaught and tried to breathe, huge rolls of blue polyester fabric lunged towards me, fringed and whirring, advancing and converging on me, knocking me flat to the ground. More and more water was fired at me as I struggled to my knees, gasping, grabbing at the front bumper and trying to breathe through the deluge.

  The blue rolls retreated for an instant, and I saw Flora’s horrified face, mouth open, eyes huge, gazing at me through the windscreen. Struggling to my feet I clutched the streaming bonnet, my fingers desperate for some purchase, ridiculously imagining I could struggle round to a door, get back in, but no sooner was I up than the buffeting rolls returned – from behind, this time – whipping me with their sodden fringes and biffing me over again like a skittle.

  As I clawed my way back on to the bonnet and clung there, spread-eagled like a sacrifice, I wondered if I was going to be killed. Was that possible? In a BP service station in West London? Had a precedent been set, or would I be the first? And what would the papers say? Housewife drowned en route to beach?

  As I eyeballed the streaming bonnet, struggling for air, the machinery miraculously halted for a moment. Gasping, I lurched upright, turned and staggered, arms outstretched blindly, towards the drier concrete of the forecourt. I made it by a whisker, just as the mechanical rolls whirred up again, helpfully smacking me on the back of the knees for luck. I faltered, but boy did I stay upright.

  On the forecourt, all business had come to a standstill. On this swelteringly hot, busy day in West London, people stood transfixed as a woman, pouring with water, staggered out of the car wash. Some had been lucky enough to witness the whole episode, and were standing by their cars having unloaded the entire family to watch, open-mouthed, nozzles limp in petrol tanks. The water was gushing from me in rivulets; as I
glanced back, I saw Flora shrinking down in her seat and pulling her hair over her face.

  A young Indian attendant in a turban came running out of the kiosk.

  ‘What happen!’ he shouted, gaping at me. ‘You no supposed to get out!’

  ‘I thought I had time!’ I gasped, shoulders heaving, legs planted wide apart for balance.

  ‘Time? You have no time! Once you put ticket in, you had it! Bingo! Curtains! Kaput!’

  ‘Clearly.’

  I turned back to the car just in time to see it being deposited by the ramp, gleaming, on to the forecourt. I lurched towards it, swinging my wet legs wide like John Wayne, the water squelching out of my shoes. I went to the boot and opened it. Found my case. Flora shot out of the passenger seat and ran around to me.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she shrieked. ‘I’m fine,’ I muttered grimly.

  She gaped at me, speechless, as I rooted for a towel and some dry clothes. Then: ‘What are you going to do?’ Her voice was very shrill.

  Aware that I still had a large captive audience, I cleared my throat and regarded her squarely.

  ‘Do?’ I said loudly. ‘Why, Flora, I’m going to strip naked. Then I’m going to dry myself with my towel, and change into some other clothes.’

  ‘Here?’ she squeaked.

  ‘Of course.’

  Her face paled. A palpable frisson rippled around the forecourt. This woman was mad. Clearly certifiably bonkers. And it’s not often one meets one of those, is it? Collectively they held their breath and settled in for some street theatre. I seized some clothes, rolled them efficiently into a towel, and slammed the boot.

  ‘Please, Mum,’ Flora whimpered.

  ‘Relax,’ I growled at her out of the corner of my mouth. ‘I’m going to the loo.’

  ‘Oh.’ She gulped with relief. Then, with a quick, terrified glance around, shot back into the car.

  With my togs rolled up under my arm, for all the world as if I’d had a pleasant dip in a public pool and was off to get changed, I made sodden progress, head high and with as much dignity as I could muster, towards the kiosk. As I passed by the car, I paused at Flora’s window. She buzzed it down.

  ‘Don’t ever, ever, tell David,’ I hissed.

  Chapter Six

  I cried aloud at my first view of Taplow House. Although to be fair, of course, it wasn’t my first view. I’d spied it, as I’d told Gertrude, years ago, when I was about twelve, on a family holiday, and on other holidays since.

  The first time was in a little boat that Dad had hired to take us up the estuary. I was leaning over the edge, trailing my fingers in the water and Clare and Mum were chatting in the bows with Dad at the stern. As we floated past the mouth of the creek, I caught a glimpse of an old stone house covered in creeper with a slate roof, up a secret, green alley.

  ‘Look!’ I’d pointed. ‘Mmm. Lovely spot,’ Dad had murmured, his eyes gleaming with envy, hand on the tiller, puffing his pipe as he guided us past.

  Later in the week I persuaded Clare to go for a bicycle ride with me, not telling her where we were going. I was longing to see the house again, but not for the reason I’d seen in Dad’s eyes. We’d cycled down the narrow country lanes, the high banks and hedges rearing over us, a riot of cow parsley, red campion and wild honeysuckle as we freewheeled past, and I’d stopped at the end of the long drive. ‘Taplow House’, said the sign.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’ panted Clare, planting her feet wide apart.

  ‘I don’t know, I just thought …’

  ‘We can’t go down there, it’s private.’ ‘I know.’

  I got off my bike though and climbed the five-bar gate, craning my neck. Yes, just. I could just see the edge of the creeper-covered façade, a gravel sweep, and a lawn with croquet hoops on it.

  ‘Come on!’ Clare was already on her saddle, wobbling on. Reluctantly I followed and we pedalled on, heading back to the campsite in Trebetherick, where Dad towed the caravan for a week every year.

  Later, much later, I remembered my astonishment when David described the house his aunt owned.

  ‘She owns it! What, Taplow House? The one up the little creek, the one all on its own – are you sure? Sure it’s the same one?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘But, David, that was the house I dreamed about! As a child! I made up stories about it, fantasized about the people who lived there, the family who owned it. I imagined all these brothers and sisters, you see, and a beautiful mother who was an artist’s muse, constantly draped over chaises longues in little bits of chiffon, and a domineering father who ran the house with a rod of iron and was terribly jealous of the French artist who painted his wife. And I made friends with one of the sisters – Tabitha, she was called, with long red hair – and went to the house and played croquet on the lawn with them. Oh, and there was this tall, frightfully attractive brother who wrote poetry and –’

  I’d stopped at his astonished face. Yes. Steady on, Annie. You’ve only just met the man. And a lurid imagination, coupled with what could wrongly be construed as a covetous nature stemming from an upbringing diametrically opposed to his South Kensington one, were not necessarily the first traits one should be exhibiting.

  Now, though, as I got out to swing open the five-bar gate at the end of the drive, my heart was pounding just as fast as it had twenty years ago. We purred down the gravel drive, Flora and I, around a bend and, as the rhododendron bushes parted, it appeared out of a sweep of gravel. A long, low, stone house, its crumbling grey façade almost entirely covered by wisteria, its bay windows so low they almost touched the ground, whilst the upstairs windows, under deep eaves, glinted in the sun like sharp eyes under brows. I stopped the car and my eyes feasted. I gazed at the overgrown garden: a tangle of weeds which gave way to a lush lawn, almost field-like it was so strewn with daisies and buttercups and cowslips, which swooped down in turn to thick undergrowth and trees, and then gave a glimpse of the sea beyond. Hidden among primeval green, here was a beautiful, forgotten time-warp. For a moment I couldn’t move.

  ‘Pretty,’ commented Flora, scratching her leg. ‘Pretty!’ I squealed, reaching for the door handle and flinging it wide. ‘Flora, it’s heaven!’

  ‘Bit neglected though. That lawn could do with a mow. I’m surprised Gertrude hasn’t got someone down here to do it. Great setting though.’ She peered around. ‘Did you know it was going to be like this?’

  ‘I had an idea, but I was willing myself not to be disappointed. I’d only ever seen a glimpse.’ I shielded my eyes with both hands against the sun, taking in the peeling green shutters at the windows, the little wooden porch with its seat where I imagined I’d sit in the morning sun, cup of coffee and book in hand. Greedily I drank in every detail.

  ‘So how do we get to the sea?’

  ‘Down there, through those woods, I imagine.’ I pointed. ‘Come on, let’s see.’

  We walked quickly across the mossy gravel and the overgrown lawn. I was practically running, and actually, Flora was too; both tacitly agreeing to deal with the cases and interior later; hurrying to explore, each wanting to be the first to exclaim.

  ‘Oh, I can see where, because look, there are steps!’ She ran ahead of me, and I revelled in her excitement. On the cusp of her teens, but happily still such a child. Still longing to kick off her shoes and run down the steps, to show me first.

  Sure enough, the thick undergrowth at the bottom of the garden yielded to granite steps, and then a track leading downwards, twisting and turning sharply through the woods. As I hurried to follow her, plunging into sudden shade, steadying myself occasionally by hanging on to tree trunks to stop myself falling headlong, she cried out.

  ‘Except it’s not the sea, it’s a river! Mum, look. Our own river, and a beach!’

  I hastened to join her, loving the excitement in her voice. As I reached the shore, I caught my breath. It was indeed a very private little beach on a slip of a creek which snaked in from the main estuary. The late afternoon sun away
in the west cast ribbons across the water, which, full and limpid with the tide, lapped against the sand, accompanied by all the scents and sounds of midsummer. Gulls whirled and cried overhead in the sailor-blue sky and, higher up the creek, a heron stood motionless, only to rise as we approached, gliding away over the trees with his great soundless wings.

  I gripped Flora’s shoulders from behind. ‘Like it?’

  ‘Totally love it,’ she murmured back. Then: ‘So quiet!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And so private.’

  ‘Isn’t it,’ I agreed, glancing about. No one, literally no one in sight, not a house, not even a boat. ‘Almost in -decently so. When you think of Daymer Bay, heaving around the corner.’

  Flora considered this. Bit her lip. ‘Perhaps we could ferry people across? Take a boat round and get them to pay to come here for the day?’

  I laughed. ‘A philanthropic gesture with a touch of commercial zeal thrown in for good measure? Admirable, but no. No, I have no problem being selfish about this place. This solitude is what I came for. I can see myself sitting on that rock with my notebook, sunhat on, words flowing copiously, inspired by the glorious seascape – oh, I can’t wait.’

  ‘While I, meanwhile?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘You, meanwhile, will … you know. Skim stones, paddle, make castles –’

  ‘Castles! I’m not six.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know …’

  ‘Cycle round the lanes? Pop into Polzeath and hang out at the beach café like you and Clare used to?’

  I hesitated. I had heard tales of the Rock youth, streaming down from Robbie’s campsite, patronizing the Oyster Catcher, leaving spliffs – and worse – on the beach. ‘Flora, there were two of us, remember.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And times were slightly different then. Safer.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ she scoffed. ‘You told me you slipped away from Grandpa and had a whale of a time with local boys on the beach. Smoking and partying and –’