The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Ooh!’ I bristled when I’d finally found my tongue. ‘Mrs Fetherston-Hall – how impertinent! Mrs Fetherston-Hall just happens to be my fiancé’s aunt, and she has kindly lent me this house, not just for a vacation, but for the entire summer! Clearly there’s been some mix-up with your dates, but I think you’ll find that if there’s anyone’s “ass” that needs shifting, it’s yours!’

  He frowned. ‘She’s your aunt? Mrs Fetherston-Hall?’

  ‘My fiancé’s aunt,’ I hissed. ‘And you’ve paid good money?’

  ‘Well, no,’ I faltered. ‘Obviously I haven’t paid money –’

  ‘Because I have to tell you’ – he whipped a letter from another pocket and waved it rather rudely in my face – ‘that a financial transaction has taken place here. It’s here in black and white. Clear and binding.’ His blue eyes challenged mine.

  ‘Clear and … Oooh!’ I seethed, and snatched the letter. I began to read it: ‘Dear Mr Malone …’ Then I glanced up warily. ‘That’s you? Mr Malone?’

  ‘My passport is only moments away in the car, lady,’ he said testily.

  ‘My name is Mrs O’Harran,’ I snapped back, wishing I had a dressing gown over this stupid short nightie. I tugged it down and read on.

  Further to your letter of the 4th, I’m writing to confirm your stay in Taplow House. The key is enclosed. Do have a marvellous time. The place is a little haphazard, as you’ll discover, but charming, and I think you’ll enjoy it. I’ve enclosed a list of reliable local shops, and an inventory. If you have any problems, please don’t hesitate to telephone.

  Yours sincerely,

  Gertrude Fetherston-Hall

  I sat down slowly on the arm of a chair and shot a despairing hand through my hair. Oh God. I recognized her spidery hand and the thick, headed, Onslow Gardens writing paper. Oh God. I licked my lips. Took a moment. Then I glanced up.

  ‘She’s made a mistake,’ I said defiantly. ‘She’s getting old and rather doddery, and clearly she forgot she’d promised the house to me. I’m sorry, but I think you’ll find that when we iron this out in the morning and speak to Mrs Fetherston-Hall, you’ll appreciate the situation. I’m sure she’ll refund you in full, Mr Malone. Meanwhile, I suggest you drive back down the road and follow it into town. There’s a very pleasant hotel called the Priory Bay on the corner; I’m confident they’ll accommodate you tonight, and perhaps for the rest of your stay. We’ll speak again when I’ve contacted her tomorrow. Good morning.’

  His blue eyes, in the candlelight, looked dumbfounded. Then they hardened.

  ‘I’m not driving anywhere, Mrs O’Harridan, or what- ever the hell your name is. I told you, I’ve just driven five goddamn hours from London. It’s two-forty-five in the morning, for Chrissake. I’m not going to some Priory Bay, I’m staying right here, in this house, that my family and I rented for two weeks!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I retorted, ‘of course you can’t stay! We’re here, my daughter and I. This is our house. We’ve unpacked, made up beds –’

  ‘Mum, we can’t just turn him out in the middle of the night,’ muttered Flora at my elbow. ‘He’s got a letter. From Gertrude. Something’s obviously gone wrong.’

  I glanced down at her, astonished. ‘Finally, the voice of reason,’ he snapped. ‘Something has gone wrong, very wrong, the bottom of which we will get to in the morning, be sure of that, Mrs O’Have-a-go. Meantime, since you ladies are presumably occupying the first-floor accommodation, I will unroll my sleeping bag on this couch. That is unless you want some strange man prowling around the upstairs corridors.’

  ‘Certainly we don’t!’ I bristled. ‘I don’t know you!’

  ‘Neither you do, but unless you get your butts back to your beds and let me get some sleep down here, you’re gonna know me a whole lot better, because I tell you’ – he unhooked a sleeping bag from his backpack and threw it on the leather sofa – ‘I haven’t put my head down in thirty-six hours and I sure as hell could use some sleep.’

  ‘But I can’t have a perfect stranger down here while my twelve-year-old daughter sleeps upstairs!’ I spluttered. ‘You can’t just –’

  ‘Watch me.’ He unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers.

  ‘Oh!’ I yelped and hurriedly turned Flora around. She giggled and glanced back. He winked.

  ‘Now. Bathroom?’

  ‘Mr Malone,’ I seethed, ‘there is a downstairs lavatory which I suggest you use. As you so rightly pointed out, I do not want you prowling around upstairs while my daughter and I are asleep. Kindly do not take one step in the direction of my quarters.’

  ‘Mrs O’Harrods,’ he said, looking me up and down, ‘I swear to God your quarters are the last thing on my mind.’

  ‘Oh!’ I clenched my fists impotently. Glared at him. He grinned back.

  Seething, I snatched up a couple of candles, handed one to Flora and pushed her ahead of me, towards the hall and up the stairs. ‘Go on, Flora,’ I hissed. ‘Up, up!’

  God, the nerve of the man. Barging in here, sending us back to our beds – oooh. If the china were mine I’d throw it at him. I strode – as defiantly as I dared in a T-shirt that just about covered my bottom, horribly aware that he was watching me – on up the stairs. And Jesus, what the hell was Gertrude up to? Had she really got her wires so comprehensively crossed? No, of course she hadn’t, I decided as I hustled Flora ahead of me along the gallery. It was unthinkable. And she’d get rid of him, too, or David would. Golly, yes, it was practically David’s house, I thought with a start, since it was Gertrude’s, which made it … yes, as David’s prospective wife, almost mine really! My house. I stopped. I had a good mind to shoot back downstairs and order him out, but actually – I glanced over the balcony and caught a glimpse of a brown chest in the candlelight as he whipped his sweater over his head. I hurriedly looked away. Actually, the thought of those steely blue eyes and those bulky shoulders made me think better of it.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I hissed as Flora went on, up the next flight to the attic.

  ‘Back to bed.’

  ‘But I thought you wanted to sleep with me?’

  She turned on the stair to look back at me. ‘Oh, that was when I thought there was a crazy mass murderer lurking downstairs. I’m fine now.’

  ‘But, Flora –!’

  ‘Mum, don’t fuss.’ She grinned. ‘Looks a bit like George Clooney, don’t you think?’

  I stared at her, horrified. ‘Nothing like George Clooney!’ But she’d gone on, up to her room.

  Except perhaps in that TV horror movie I’d seen him in, way before ER, I thought suddenly. The one where he’d played the neighbourhood nutter. That sinister smile. That axe coming through the front door. Horrified, I raced up after her and hurtled into her room as she was getting into bed.

  ‘Flora, lock your door!’ I panted. ‘What? But, Mum –’

  ‘Lock it!’ I slammed it shut, leaving her within. ‘Lock it!’ I instructed again, putting my ear to it and waiting. Finally I heard her pad across the room, a deep sigh, and then a click.

  ‘Satisfied?’ she muttered.

  I nodded grimly and hurried down to my room again. Red-hot candle wax dripped over my hand in my haste, and, swearing with pain, I got into bed. I lay still for a moment, picking the wax off my hand, listening for sounds downstairs, listening for – God forbid – his tread on the stairs. But at length, in the silence, I blew out the candle. I shivered and turned over, pulling the covers right up to my chin. The rain was still beating hard on the windows. Bloody man, I seethed. Bloody, bloody man. That was all we needed, some Yank wandering in from the storm, but Flora did have a point. I couldn’t exactly turf him out, seeing as how he had a letter. I’d better speak to Gertrude in the morning. Send him packing then.

  Hours later, I awoke to find the sun streaming through my window. One of the shutters had blown open in the wind, and a great shaft of light was beaming through, illuminating the opposite wall and filling the room with a golden glo
w. I sat up and opened the other shutter, gazing out at a sparkling lawn, and then the sea: blue, limpid and calm beyond the trees. It was a fabulous day. The storm had indeed abated and, for a glorious moment, I completely forgot about Mr Malone downstairs. And then I saw him. Emerging from the back door below me with a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, baked beans and tomatoes. In his other hand he held a sloshing mug of coffee, and behind him was Flora, dressed, and carefully carrying a similarly laden plate and a mug. They made their way, the two of them, clutching knives and forks, to a table and chairs I’d never seen before set out on the lawn. My jaw dropped.

  ‘Christ!’

  Hurriedly I lunged for my clothes. I threw them on, splashed water on my face, and then – catching sight of my reflection as I spun out of the room – hastened back to drag a comb through my hair. I ran downstairs, my feet echoing loudly on the wooden stairs. Through the kitchen I sped, and out of the back door, where, in a sylvan scene straight out of The Darling Buds of May, ankle deep in cowslips and dandelions, the pair of them sat, mouths full and chewing hard, making serious inroads into their groaning platefuls.

  ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing!’ I panted, legs planted wide for support, hands on hips.

  He looked up surprised. His dark hair was tousled and unkempt, and he had an old blue fishing jersey on.

  ‘Having breakfast. Have some.’ He waved a fork idly towards the kitchen. ‘We left some fries in the pan for you. You just need to slap another egg on the griddle.’

  ‘I will not “slap another egg on the griddle”,’ I gasped. ‘One of my eggs no doubt. I told you, I want you out of here! Not enjoying my sunkissed garden with my daughter, eating my bloody breakfast!’

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Yep.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Stifled a burp. ‘I rang the Priory Bay, incidentally. They’ve got a couple of rooms vacant.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I snapped. ‘They don’t come cheap though,’ he warned, waving that fork again. ‘It’s high season now, and the smaller ones have all gone. I reckon you’ll be paying upwards of a hundred and fifty pounds a night, but the guy on reception said they were pretty sumptuous.’

  I opened my mouth to speak. Finally made it. ‘I’ll be paying? I’m sorry, Mr Malone, you’ll be paying!’

  He regarded me for a full moment above a forkful of egg. ‘No, I don’t think so, Mrs O’Haggard.’

  ‘O’HARRAN! And we’ll soon see about that !’

  I went inside and made for the phone. The kitchen, as I stalked through it, was a profusion of greasy pots and pans, half-empty bean tins, eggshells, crusts and dirty mugs. The sitting room was equally chaotic: clothes were strewn all about; a half-unpacked suitcase spewed out on to the floor; a sleeping bag lay in a heap; and piles of papers from a case had been knocked over on to the carpet. It looked as if we’d been burgled.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I seethed as I picked my way precariously through the debris to the phone by the sofa. I perched on the edge, then, remembering he’d slept on it, moved smartly on to a chair. I flicked furiously through my address book looking for Gertrude’s number – except I suddenly realized I didn’t have to. Mr Malone had thoughtfully propped his letter up, quite ostentatiously, by the telephone. Gertrude’s number, under her address, was underlined purposefully in red. I stared, taken aback. Then rallied. Right. Fine! I dialled.

  Gertrude answered almost immediately, her distinctive, cut-glass tones echoing musically down the line.

  ‘Helleau?’

  ‘Hello, Gertrude? Oh, thank goodness you’re in.’

  ‘Annabel! My dear, how lovely. How are you?’ she bellowed. She always bellowed on the telephone. Didn’t trust the equipment. ‘Enjoying the weather? Glorious here, and hopefully with you, too?’

  ‘It is, Gertrude, it’s lovely, but listen. We have a slight problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  I briefed her elaborately, explaining at length, exclaim- ing, protesting – but hopefully not too vehemently because it was, after all, a pickle of her making – and then paused, breathless and triumphant, waiting for her indignation to match mine. There was a pause.

  ‘Oh. Oh dear …’ she faltered eventually. ‘Gertrude?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do see. Oh dear, what a dilemma.’

  ‘Well, no, not really. No dilemma really, Gertrude, I’ll just tell him to go, shall I?’

  ‘Well, you see, my dear, it’s all rather awkward. As a matter of fact I do remember meeting him now, him and his family, a couple of years ago, in Cornwall. They were staying further along the coast from Taplow House, with the Masterses. Tom Masters was an old pupil of Hugh’s and a great friend. If I remember rightly, Mr Malone was a cousin of theirs, American fellow, I believe. Anyway, you’re quite right, I did offer him the house this year – he contacted me recently about it …’

  ‘Well, offer, yes,’ I spluttered. ‘But, Gertrude –’

  ‘But, my dear, he’s paid me, you see,’ she said anxiously. ‘Quite a lot of money, as I recall. Sent a cheque, and all gone, of course, on the blasted roof. So hideously expensive, builders, these days. Oh my dear, how ghastly. I’m most dreadfully sorry. Perhaps the Priory Bay? Up the hill? For a week or so, maybe? It is frighteningly expensive, though.’

  ‘You mean …’ I swallowed. ‘For me?’

  ‘Well, and Flora, obviously. It’s just, well, now that you’re down there, it does seem awfully silly to come all that way back again, doesn’t it? Oh dear, how perfectly stupid of me, I’ve ruined your holiday. I do apologize. What a forgetful old fool I am! Honestly, sometimes I forget my own name. Do forgive me!’

  She was genuinely distressed now. I gazed out through the bay window at the other end of the room. In the garden I could see Flora and Mr Malone scraping their plates in the sunshine. Flora laughed, albeit a trifle nervously, at something he said. I gulped. All my dreams … my hopes for a long, restful, productive summer in this glorious house by the creek – writing, fishing with Flora, teaching her to sail – all turning to dust and ashes.

  ‘Never mind, Gertrude,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘But, my dear, I feel wretched.’

  ‘No. Don’t. Really, it’s fine.’

  We said goodbye and I put the receiver down. Then, almost immediately, I picked it up and rang David. He’d see. He’d tell her she was wrong. That it was, after all, her house, and that we could … well, pay Mr Malone back, David and I. And David could speak to him. Be, you know, authoritative. Firm. Tell him his aunt had made a mistake.

  ‘I’m with a patient,’ he murmured, sotto voce, when I’d finally bullied his receptionist into putting me through.

  ‘I know, Laura said, but, David, this is important,’ I insisted. I set off at speed and gave him a swift résumé of the last eight hours. He was silent for a long moment.

  ‘David? David, shall I give him a cheque? Would that be the best way to handle it?’

  ‘Well, you can try, but I doubt he’ll take it. And why should he? He’s flown all the way from America expecting vacant possession. God, what a balls-up.’

  ‘I know, I know!’ I wailed, wringing my hands on the other end.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my darling, because I know how much this means to you, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to go up the road until we sort this out. Perhaps that letting agent, John Bray, will have a bungalow left. You never know.’

  A bungalow. This glorious, glorious house. A bungalow ! ‘Annie? Annie, darling, I’m in the middle of a consultation. I must go. I’m so sorry. My blasted aunt … honestly, sometimes I think she’s got Alzheimer’s.’ Now he felt wretched.

  I nodded miserably. ‘No no, it’s OK, David. It’s fine. Don’t worry.’

  Slowly I replaced the receiver. I gazed up at a print of a seagull, soaring high into the sky on the wall above the fireplace. Blinked hard, willing back the tears. By the phone, a small local guide book lay, interspersed with adverts. I flicked through it bleakly. Slow
ly, I picked up the phone again. Made a few more calls. Finally, I replaced the receiver and walked back to the garden.

  Mr Malone was leaning back in his chair, which he’d clearly found in an outhouse I hadn’t discovered, stretching languidly and letting out a deep sigh of contentment after his heavy artillery breakfast. There were holes in the underarms of his jumper, I noticed as he locked his fingers behind his head.

  ‘Well?’ He grinned as I approached. That maddening, blowtorch grin.

  ‘Well.’ I swallowed. ‘Yes. It seems you’re quite right, Mr Malone. You do, indeed, have a contract. A right to this place, because a financial transaction has taken place. And I don’t.’

  ‘Great.’ He grinned some more. ‘So you’ll be off then.’

  ‘Yes.’ I averted my eyes to the grass. ‘So we’ll be off then.’

  I felt Flora’s huge brown eyes upon me. ‘You mean … we have to go?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, my darling.’ I raised my chin and gave a brave smile. ‘It seems Gertrude forgot she’d already rented the house out to this gentleman when she offered it to us. You know how forgetful she is.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her face fell. ‘So … where will we go? Priory Bay?’

  I gave a bleak little laugh. ‘What, at two hundred pounds a night? No, I’m sorry, darling, it’s way out of our league. They’ve only got suites left, and all the bed and breakfasts are full – I’ve tried. High season, you see. John Bray says he might have something in a couple of weeks, a bungalow, but he can’t be sure. He’s waiting on a possible cancellation. But no, my love, I’m afraid it’s home time for us. Back to London.’