The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ I said curtly, wishing I hadn’t been quite so sisterly with her in what had clearly been a rash, confidential moment. ‘Come on, let’s see the house.’

  Linking her arm with mine, I walked her back up the shore to the path through the woods, not wanting to lose the mood of a moment ago and have her sulking on me.

  We crossed the garden and went round to the front door, ducking under the little wooden porch as I dug in my pocket for the key. It was stiff in the lock, and for an awful moment I thought it wasn’t going to turn, but it did, and we went into the dark, flagged hall, gazing around, blinking in the gloom. If the interior was distinctly subfusc and cool, it was, in a way, rather comforting after the intense glare of the sun and sea without. Dark beams loomed low over bulging, cream walls, and bits of ancient Persian carpet made a poor fist at covering the plain oak boards. In the sitting room there was a scuffed old leather sofa, two upholstered chairs with exploding arms, and an oak bookcase which ran the length of one side of the room, groaning with books. We wandered on.

  The kitchen, with its chipped blue lino floor, yellow Formica work surfaces, glass cupboards on the walls and ancient Rayburn, was straight out of the 1950s. All I needed was a pinny and some rollers, I decided. There was also, we discovered, pushing open a heavy oak door, a rather austere dining room housing a long table with barley twist legs, and matching throne-like chairs. Off the hall was a small, surprisingly light study – which I made a mental note to make use of in bad weather – with a vast leather-topped desk, and a captain’s chair. Dotted all around the walls of the house, where beams permitted, were tatty prints, badly framed and almost exclusively of seagulls.

  One could, I thought, as I made my way back to the dark-panelled hall and watched Flora clatter up the uncarpeted wooden stairs in her flip-flops, have a decorating field day here, but actually, it could so easily be spoiled. The overwhelming sense of nostalgia, of bygone days, of holidays past, was this place’s charm. It reminded one of a gentler age, when cakes were made every week; when children pressed their noses to window panes on rainy days; when parents, in the evenings, listened to the gramo-phone with a book; when the pace of life was slower, less frenetic.

  Upstairs, Flora had discovered three bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor, and then right in the attic, where I followed her up to now, two more tiny ones with faded rose wallpaper, and another bathroom.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said, throwing up the sash window in the larger of the two bedrooms and sticking my head out. I looked straight across the creek to the other side, where cows grazed in a patchwork of lush fields, and where, in splendid isolation, a little grey church nestled in the fold of a hill. To the right, the creek flowed down into the estuary. A lone wind-surfer swept past. Rather nice to know someone was alive, I thought. He tacked to port and swept across the creek to the church. Perhaps it was the vicar, I thought idly, about to slip out of his wetsuit and don his cassock. I grinned. Shut my eyes, and breathed deeply.

  ‘Mmm … lovely. Smell that view.’

  ‘I’ll be up here then,’ said Flora decisively, flopping down on the bed behind me.

  ‘And I’ll be on the floor below,’ I said, turning. ‘In the main bedroom, overlooking the garden.’

  She sat up quickly. ‘Not the one right at the end of the corridor?’

  ‘No,’ I said patiently, ‘just below you. Literally just down the stairs.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  I sensed the relief in her voice and tactfully avoided her eye. She wanted to appear independent, but still wanted me close by. She’d never quite grown out of that. At nearly thirteen, a lot of her friends were going to boarding school – had done, some of them, at eleven – but there was no question of Flora following suit. The subject hadn’t even been broached, which had meant a new London day school, and because she was bright, an academic one. A hot house, where the only two girls she knew she loathed for the lipstick in their pockets and their smart-alec ways. I glanced at the eczema on her legs, which hopefully would abate in the summer sun. But then back to London, to start a new term … She saw me looking and scratched it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Come on, let’s go downstairs.’

  We spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking and making beds, and then I scrambled some eggs for supper. No garden furniture apparently, so we ate side by side on the warm stone steps which led down from the kitchen to the garden. As we sat, dreamily admiring our bucolic idyll and gazing into the last rays of the sun as the mayflies gathered, Flora scraped her plate thoughtfully.

  ‘Anyway, the others will be down soon, so I can cycle round to see them, can’t I?’

  ‘You can,’ I affirmed graciously. ‘I don’t mind that at all. Just no wandering about on your own.’

  ‘And if I’m over at Clare’s, you’ll have David. I mean, at the weekends.’

  I smiled at her attempt to give me some space. Let me have time with him on my own.

  ‘I will, my darling.’

  A silence ensued. ‘Will you miss him?’ she ventured, at length. ‘During the week? Yes, I’m sure, but you know I’ll be terribly busy.’

  Privately I couldn’t help thinking: Golly, what heaven. No man to cook for, no house to clean. We’d live outside mostly, I decided, and anyway, it was so dark inside no one would notice if I didn’t dust. Didn’t hoover. But then – suddenly I brought myself up sharp – that wasn’t the attitude, was it? The new attitude … I narrowed my eyes over the treetops to the glimmer of bright water on the horizon. A plan was beginning to form.

  ‘Flora,’ I said eventually, ‘would you mind very much if I nipped into Rock? Would you be all right here on your own?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, just for an hour or so. The shops will still be open. I thought I’d look around. Will you be OK?’ I challenged her briefly with my eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, rising to it. ‘I’ll raid the bookcase. I notice there’s no telly, but there are masses of books. Why? What d’you need?’

  ‘Oh, this and that.’ I smiled and took the plates inside.

  I left her humming to herself in the sunshine and nipped upstairs. Pulling open all the drawers I’d just filled, I threw the contents on to the bed. Ten minutes later I’d left the house, armed with a bulging black bin liner which I dumped in the dustbin in the garage. Hopping in the car and tooting cheerily to let her know I was away, I purred off down the long drive.

  And an hour or so later, I was back. The wind had got up a bit now and it was getting squally outside, heralding a storm, perhaps. As I blew in with a gust of wind, the front door slammed shut behind me.

  ‘Phew! Quite a storm brewing out there!’

  Flora didn’t look up. She was spread-eagled face down on the old leather sofa, her head firmly between the pages of Jamaica Inn.

  She grunted.

  I cleared my throat and struck a nonchalant pose. ‘Whadya think?’ I drawled. Still no response.

  ‘Flora, what d’you think?’ I resorted to finally, and slowly she turned. She gaped. Dropped her book.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Pretty hot, huh?’ I twirled.

  She got off the sofa, incredulous. ‘I’m not sure “hot” is the word. Preppy, or Sloaney perhaps but – God, you look like Clare. Clare on holiday!’

  I beamed down at the navy blue polo-shirt tucked neatly into crisp cream trousers with a smart leather belt. Flexed the squeaky new deck shoes on my feet and swung my bulging carrier bags.

  ‘I’ve got a whole wardrobe in here. Shirts, trousers, shorts, pleated skirts, all brand spanking new with lots of lovely logos on, and all my old summer clothes are in the bin.’

  She blinked. ‘All of them?’

  ‘Pretty much. Except the underwear. Crew Clothing didn’t quite run to that, but I’m sure somewhere in Wade-bridge will oblige tomorrow. Oh, and I bought a tennis racket too.’ I took it out of a bag and swung it jauntily.

  ‘Mum, could
you take that cap off? And untuck your shirt?’ she said, circling me nervously. ‘And take your hair out of that band. You really do look like Clare like that.’

  ‘Really?’ I beamed. ‘So why take it out?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh well.’ I shook my curly dark mane back over my shoulders. ‘Might get it all cut off tomorrow.’

  ‘No! Don’t,’ she said, alarmed. ‘I mean – not until you see what David thinks. He may not like it. Any of it.’

  ‘Nonsense, he’ll love it. And anyway, it was your idea.’

  ‘I know, it’s just you don’t look like you.’

  ‘Of course it’s me,’ I scoffed, marching past her and heading for the stairs with my bags. ‘The new me. The new, improved, organ ized, dynamic me. We’ll get the hoover out tomorrow, Flora,’ I warned as I bounced upstairs. ‘Just because we’re on holiday there’s no reason to let standards drop. That hall carpet’s a disgrace.’

  That night we fell gratefully into our soft, plumped-up little beds, tired after the long journey. The wind had whipped up into quite a storm, and the rain was beating a fast tattoo on the black windows. I lay there and listened for a while, loving that feeling of being snug within whilst it raged without. After a while though, I realized it would be quieter with the shutters closed, so I nipped out and shut them, sliding the wooden bar across.

  Up above me I heard Flora get into bed, and then, predictably, get out again. I listened as she rearranged the curtain – there had to be a carrot shape of light at the top – turned around twice, touched the floor, muttered a Hail Mary, turned around again in the opposite direction, and then got back into bed. A little ritual – amongst others – that had to be performed every night of her life, or who knew what horrors would befall her or her loved ones.

  Yes, I thought, turning on to my side, this was just what Flora needed: a break from the stresses and strains of London life. A break from keeping up, fitting in, getting on, being cool; a licence to be young and free, with world enough and time to enjoy it. In my mind’s eye I had her rambling the cliffs, finding gulls’ nests in the wind-tossed grass, picking wild flowers and exclaiming merrily at rare orchids, until my eyes closed and Morpheus led me tactfully away down the dark corridors of sleep before I spotted the cigar ette butt by the orchid.

  It was some time later that I heard footsteps in the passage. I opened my eyes, unsure why I’d woken, and then … yes. There they were again. I turned my head and peered at the illuminated hands on my clock. Two-thirty. Still the footsteps continued, slowly padding around the galleried landing. It was a deliberately careful tread, but in an old house like this, the floorboards creaked ominously. They were getting closer now, coming towards my door. I sat up in bed, my heart hammering. In the dark, I reached down and my hand closed over my new tennis racket. Slowly, the door handle turned. I held my breath. The door opened and, in a long white nightdress, her eyes huge and staring, Flora wafted towards me, looking exactly like a ghost.

  ‘Shit!’ I dropped the racket with a clatter. ‘Flora, you frightened the life out of me! What the hell are you doing creeping around like that?’

  ‘There’s someone downstairs!’ she gasped. ‘Mum, I’m sure there’s someone moving around down there!’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you stupid girl!’ I spluttered, terror instantly turning to anger. ‘I nearly brained you, for God’s sake!’

  ‘No but, Mum, there’s creaking and bumping and all sorts!’

  ‘Well, of course there is! There’s a ruddy storm raging outside and this house is three hundred years old. It feels it in its bones, just as I do, the poor old relic. Now go back to bed.’

  ‘No, Mum, I can’t,’ she whimpered, climbing in. ‘I’m too frightened up there. Can I sleep with you?’

  ‘Oh, Flora!’

  But it was a foregone conclusion and I knew it. I moved across as she fastened herself tightly on to me, like a flea on a frowsty old labrador.

  ‘When will you grow up?’ I fumed furiously.

  As ever, with Flora, I lurched between supreme patience and out-and-out frustration. I clamped an arm around her shoulders and glared at the ceiling. God, when would she grow out of this? She was nearly a teenager, for heaven’s sake. She’d be dating boys soon; would they be in bed with me too? Would she, at nineteen, be dragging some loose-limbed Lothario into my room, getting his hair gel all over the pillow, because something had gone bump in the night? Would I wake up with David on one side and Flora and Trev on the other? I sighed and turned over. And the worst thing was, I knew it was my fault. Mine and Adam’s. Knew that she was fall-out: a timorous casualty of our terminal marriage.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ she muttered. ‘It’s fine,’ I muttered back. ‘Not your fault.’ I squeezed her shoulder tight. We were silent.

  ‘There it goes again.’

  ‘It’s the wind, you wretched child.’

  A pause. ‘Well, what’s that then?’ She raised her head sharply from the pillow.

  I have to say that, even to my cynical ears, it sounded very much like a chair scraping back from a table. I sat up. Listened. ‘Probably Gertrude’s ghost.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘No, nothing. Probably just an old beam creaking. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘No, Mum, please! There’s definitely someone down there!’

  ‘Oh God!’ I threw back the bedclothes. ‘Right. Let’s go down and see them, shall we?’ I snapped on my bedside light but nothing happened.

  ‘There’s no power.’

  ‘Why not?’ Flora yelped. ‘Clearly there’s been a power cut, darling. These things happen in old houses in a storm. We’re in the country now.’

  ‘So how are we going to see?’ she whimpered. ‘How are we –’

  ‘Come on, we’ll manage.’

  I got up, irritated beyond belief, and groped for the door.

  It was pitch black in the passage outside, blacker even than in the bedroom. Together, we slithered along the landing wall towards the head of the stairs. Then with Flora behind me, gripping on to my T-shirt with both hands, we shuffled, like a pantomime horse, across the landing – me with arms outstretched and hoping to goodness I wouldn’t fall down the stairs – towards the banisters.

  I grasped them firmly. ‘Got them.’

  With Flora still clinging to me, I groped my way down slowly, slowly, step by step. Didn’t want to break my bloody neck. All the curtains were closed in the hall and, apart from a chink of light coming through a leaded pane in the front door, all was blackness. I kept my eyes firmly on that chink.

  ‘See, Flora?’ I said in a loud voice as we reached the bottom step. ‘There’s no one here. No one at all. Come out, come out, whoever you are!’ I sang jovially, as I’d done when she was small, rattling broom handles under her bed at imaginary monsters, stark naked on my haunches usually – and, come to think of it, when she was not so small either.

  ‘And there’s a torch in the car,’ I went on as we shuffled as one towards the door. ‘If I get that, at least you’ll have a light in your room.’

  ‘Your room,’ she corrected. ‘All right, my room, just for tonight.’ I patted the door, searching for the doorknob. ‘But, Flora, you really must get a grip, you can’t keep creeping into my – AAAAAGGH!’

  I let out a shriek of terror as a hand closed firmly over mine on the doorknob.

  ‘Not so fast,’ breathed a man’s voice softly in my left ear. ‘Hold it right there.’

  Chapter Seven

  The scream I emitted was worthy of a B-movie actress in a Hammer House of Horror. I snatched my hand away and leaped backwards into Flora, who was also squealing like a banshee and ducking down behind me as if under fire. In the dark, I could just make out a man’s shape, vast and looming, with a huge hunched back, black and mutinous by the door. I shrieked again, backing away furiously and pushing Flora back with me.

  ‘Get out! Get out of my bloody house, or I’ll call the police!’

  ‘Your bloody hou
se?’ drawled an American accent. ‘Some mistake, surely?’

  A yellow flame snapped up in the gloom. In the light of a Zippo lighter, I found myself looking into a pair of bright blue eyes in a brown, weathered face.

  ‘Where the hell are the lights in this place? Don’t they run to electricity in this part of the world?’

  ‘There’s been a power cut,’ I breathed, trying not to scream again. ‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?’

  I was still bloody scared, but not totally terrified. He didn’t have the face of an axe murderer: more of a Red Indian actually, with those slanty cheekbones; and the hunch turned out to be a backpack.

  ‘Your house again. Jesus. Well, what I’m trying to do is occupy the accommodation I took for my summer vacation. Listen, are you sure the lights have gone? Haven’t you got any candles or anything? And can’t we discuss this so we can see some faces and not just follow the dialogue? Seems to me that might be a little more civilized than standing around in the dark.’

  ‘There’s some in the drawer,’ said Flora. She fumbled over to the hall table. ‘I saw them while I was looking for some matches.’

  It occurred to me to wonder what she’d wanted matches for, but I had other things on my mind.

  ‘How did you get in?’ I demanded. ‘With a key, of course. How did you?’

  ‘With – a key,’ I faltered, as Flora produced a bunch of candles.

  I stood, bewildered and open-mouthed, as he expertly lit four or five, holding them in a bunch in his hand. He glanced about, then, seeing nowhere to put them, strode into the sitting room and set them carefully in line on the mantel-piece. A soft-focus glow developed as the room began to resemble a Renaissance still life. I scuttled in after him.

  ‘But where did you get the key?’ I yelped. ‘From Mrs Fetherston-Hall. She mailed it to me. Here.’ He whipped it from a pocket and dangled it on a piece of string in front of me. ‘Together with confirmation of the dates I booked, and handy hints on how to cajole the washing machine into life, and the location of the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker and other local amenities. I’m sorry, ladies, but it seems to me you’re in the wrong place. I took this house for a summer vacation and that’s just what I intend to have. I’ve also just got off a flight from Boston and driven five hours down your so-called freeways at some godforsaken hour because my plane was delayed, and what I didn’t expect to find when I got here was two shrieking females in white winceyette playing Lady Macbeth in stereo. Not only occupying my house, but giving me the third degree about what goddamn right I’ve got to be here. Now, before you shift your asses down to the nearest motel, perhaps you’d be good enough to show me where the fuse box is so I can get this place illuminated.’