The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  I tossed about in bed, trying to find a cool spot on the pillow. But then supposing … supposing he’d been so livid that, in a moment of white hot rage, he’d picked up a slice of broken glass from the wooden deck. Clutched it in his hand. Suppose – and here I sat bolt upright in bed – suppose he’d lunged at her, gashed her face, again and again, slashing her hands as she put them up to protect herself, and which he’d told me had been bandaged in court. Who knew what madness had possessed him? And suppose the boy had come down and found them like that, and screamed and screamed, and suppose, if he hadn’t – would his father have gone further? I didn’t know this man, this scruffy American stranger with the manic grin and the strange hooded eyes. Didn’t know his true mental state and whether what he’d just told me was a pack of lies, and yet here I was, sharing a house with him.

  I drew up my knees and clasped them tightly, huddled in the darkness. I glanced at my clock. Midnight. Midnight, and yet – I listened – yes, I could still hear him; pacing around down there, on the terrace beneath my window, just as he had every night since we’d been here. Pacing, drink in hand, no doubt, and – what – plotting? Plotting what? My mind whirled. Was he insane? Was I insane? What was I doing here? Was I sharing a house with a violent man for the sake of a beach, a sea view and a bucolic idyll? The alcohol stormed wildly in my blood and, for a moment, the room spun. Suddenly I was glad Flora wasn’t here; glad he wasn’t going to walk past her bedroom on his way up to bed, pause for a moment at her door … slowly turn the handle … open it softly, gaze at the sleeping child, almost the same age as the child he’d lost and … Christ! I gave a strangled yelp and ran to my door, my hands fumbling for a key. No key. Bugger. I flicked on the light and glanced around. That chair, heavy and old, wedged underneath the handle, would do, then at least I’d hear if he tried to come in. I dragged it across, wedged it firmly, then scurried back to bed. I turned off the light and shivered. Tomorrow, I determined, we’d go. Definitely. Spend a small fortune at the Priory Bay if needs be, but oh boy, we’d get out of here. I shut my eyes fearfully. And of course I’d never get to sleep now. Never.

  The following morning I was woken by a thump and then a crash as the chair fell over and the door opened an inch.

  ‘Jesus, what have you got against there?’ Matt’s voice came around the door. ‘I tried to rouse you by knocking but I couldn’t get any answer. David’s on the phone for you downstairs.’

  I unstuck my eyelids and peered around, motionless. Morning? Surely not. I’d only just gone to sleep, and – David? So early? I flung back the winding covers and stumbled out of bed like some rough beast, fumbling my way along the gallery, eyes half closed. Clearly the glass-man hadn’t struck in the night, which was a relief, I thought as I tottered unsteadily downstairs; and actually, in the bright morning sunshine which was flooding through the open front door and illuminating the dark hall like a stage set, causing me to squint it was so bright, I suddenly felt awfully stupid. How could I have been so idiotic? How could I have let the drink and the night demons get to me like that? Why, he was a perfectly harmless man with a very sad past and a story to tell, not a lunatic poised to eviscerate a mother and her young daughter. What planet was I on?

  ‘Hello?’ I mumbled as I picked up the receiver. ‘Morning, darling. Another beautiful day!’

  Golly, he sounded chipper, but then he liked mornings. ‘Yes, isn’t it.’ I yawned, blinking out at the sunny lawn where the buttercups were playing host to bumble bees as they hummed and supped before flitting to the next watering hole. ‘Where are you?’ I yawned again.

  ‘At work, have been for ages, but I just thought I’d ring and see if you’d got any news.’

  I scratched my leg. Frowned. ‘News?’

  ‘Yes, you know!’

  I concentrated like mad. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Well, come on, darling, you’re late, aren’t you?’

  I blinked. Christ. Was I? Where was I supposed to be? ‘Late for what?’ Heavens, I wasn’t even dressed.

  ‘Your period’s late, silly! Wasn’t it due yesterday?’

  ‘Oh!’ Blimey, was it? I hadn’t the faintest idea. ‘Oh, er, yes. Probably. You may be right.’

  ‘I know I’m right, because yesterday was precisely fourteen days since ovulation, which we carefully pinpointed with a rather hot little baby-making session, if you recall.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Right.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘So you haven’t started?’

  ‘Um, no. Not to my knowledge.’ I pulled up a chair and sat down, pulling my T-shirt over my thighs.

  He laughed. ‘Well, darling, you are fairly clueless but I think even you’d know that. How d’you feel?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ I yawned. Thirsty, actually. Very thirsty. A drink of water or a cup of tea were becoming crucial. I also wondered if a small furry animal had crawled into my mouth and died during the night. Tasted rather like it. My head was throbbing horribly, too. Too much Pimm’s.

  ‘How about your breasts?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I sat up. ‘Are your breasts sore?’

  ‘Um, I don’t think so, David.’

  ‘Well, check,’ he said impatiently. ‘It’s always a good sign.’

  A good sign. Right. I had a quick feel. ‘Er, bit sore, yes.’

  ‘Good. Particularly the nipples?’

  I felt again. ‘Yes, very.’ Cup of tea. Cup of tea. Now. And bacon. I could smell it. I turned towards the yummy smell, obediently fiddling with my other nipple, but realizing, as I did, that the bright sunlight had blinded me to the fact that Matt’s study door was open and he was at his desk, watching me in the mirror above it. My hand flew from my breast in horror.

  ‘Mucus?’

  ‘David, stop it!’ I hissed, hurriedly turning my back on Matt. ‘I am not giving myself a gynaecological examination at this hour of the morning on the telephone!’ God, what must he think? That I was feeling myself up as I chatted to my boyfriend? I went hot with shame. Must think I was desperate for it.

  ‘You women never cease to amaze me,’ sighed David. ‘You never check your breasts for lumps and you don’t even know how your own bodies operate throughout a monthly cycle. Imagine if men had babies; we’d know every sign, every nuance. We’d have it taped. Darling, there are signs of menstruation and signs of impending pregnancy. They are similar, but different, and you should be on the lookout for both.’

  ‘Right. Yes, I’ll … be very alert,’ I flustered. ‘From now on. Only please, David, I’ve just woken up. Dying for a cuppa. What time is it?’

  ‘Nine-thirty. If you’ve just woken up you’ve had a jolly good lie-in.’

  Lie-in? I called eleven o’clock a lie-in, and what was he so chirpy about?

  ‘How are you, David?’ I asked cautiously. ‘No more news of Mr O’Connell?’

  ‘Not a word,’ he said happily. ‘It’s all blown over rather satisfactorily, actually, just as I’d hoped it would. Everything appears to be back to normal. I realize now I was worrying unnecessarily. After all, these things do happen, in medicine.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ I said warmly. ‘Except they don’t usually happen to you because you’re such a good doctor! That’s why it came as such a shock.’

  ‘Well, thank you, my darling, for that vote of confidence, and on that note, I really must get back to my administerings. I’ve got a patient waiting in reception.’

  ‘OK, but I’ll see you next weekend?’

  ‘Definitely at the weekend. I’ll drive down on Friday.’

  ‘Good,’ I beamed. ‘And fingers crossed.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘About … you know!’

  ‘Oh! Oh yes, definitely. Fingers crossed.’

  I put the receiver down and sat gazing distractedly into the floodlit garden. Then I got up and sauntered into the kitchen. Lovely man. Such a lovely man. So … concerned for me always. I mean, how many men would know the finer nuances of their girlfriend’s mens
trual cycle? Not Adam, that was for sure. He wouldn’t know a fact of life if it hit him in the face. I poured a cup of tea from a convenient pot that was still warm, then, as was my wont these mornings, picked a piece of bacon out of a pan that had all the hallmarks of not being washed up from yesterday – and why bother, I thought, it was only reheated bacon grease – sandwiched it between some sliced bread, and wandered idly outside, munching away and dropping crumbs as I went. I pulled my T-shirt down and perched on the worn stone steps in the sunshine.

  Narrowing my eyes at the silvery-blue water that glistened through a gap in the trees on the horizon, I thought how stupid I’d been to have my guts wrenched by Adam last night. So idiotic to care, when I had the lovely David. I sipped my tea. And of course I didn’t really care, it was just force of habit. And seeing him with another woman … I stared intently at the glassy water. Shivered. Suddenly I wished we could hurry this wedding along. Everything would be so much simpler when we were settled, when it was all official, and when we were finally Dr and Mrs Palmer. I smiled. That had a lovely ring about it, didn’t it? Yes, Dr and Mrs Palmer, entertaining in their charming London town house, a baby asleep upstairs in the nursery, a pram in the hall – or perhaps not in the hall. I had a feeling David wouldn’t want guests barging past baby clutter. I had a feeling I might have quite a few guests too, be doing quite a bit of entertaining. He had a lot of smart London friends who gave proper dinner parties with cocktails and canapés and a choice of puddings – I quaked at the very vocabu

  lary – but no doubt I could get some help. Or learn. Yes, I’d learn. Maybe do a cookery course after we were married.

  And actually, it wasn’t that far off, now. The wedding. Only six weeks. Only six weeks to go, and we’d be bowling back down the aisle in that dear little church in Cadogan Street, grinning from ear to ear at all our delighted friends in their smart hats, cameras flashing, and then off to – oh. Golly. Where was it? Where were we going? Claridge’s, David had suggested, even though I’d favoured something a little less grand. But yes, a table for fourteen at Claridge’s – close family and a few friends – and I’d promised to book it. Suddenly I went cold. I’d promised to book it! Because David had joked that I couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery and I’d said I’d jolly well show him. That was weeks ago, and I’d done nothing!

  Hastily I got to my feet and hurried back inside, making for the phone in the hall again. I got the number from directory enquiries. A smooth, continental voice answered.

  ‘’Ello?’

  ‘Oh, yes, hello,’ I flustered. ‘Um, look, could I book a table please, for quite a few people actually, about twelve or fourteen, on Saturday September the sixth, for lunch? Would that be OK?’

  ‘One moment, madam.’ The line went quiet. I thought he was never coming back. Finally he returned.

  ‘I’m sorry, but for zat day, we are fully booked.’

  ‘No! Damn. Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, madam.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m going to be in such trouble! It’s a wedding party, you see. Might you … possibly get a cancellation?’ Blimey, this wasn’t the hairdresser’s, Annie.

  ‘Unlikely, madam, but shall I take your name?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Mrs O’Harran. Oh, except by then I’ll be Mrs Palmer. Dr and Mrs Palmer.’

  There was a pause. ‘But a Dr Palmer ’as already booked a wedding party for dinner, on zat day.’

  ‘Well, how extraordinary! Two Dr Palmers getting – Oh! Dr David Palmer?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  ‘Well, that’s him! My boyfriend!’

  There was a pause. ‘I see,’ he said politely.

  ‘God, that’s a relief. But dinner – golly, I thought … Oh!’ I went hot. How stupid. I remembered now, David had told me the church wasn’t available until six o’clock so we’d have to have an evening reception. How could I have forgotten? I licked my lips.

  ‘Right. So. Dinner for – what, fourteen?’

  ‘For forty-two, madam. In zee Plantation Room.’

  ‘Forty-two! Heavens. So, what’s the form, I mean, has he ordered the – you know, whassisname – menu or whatever –’

  ‘After zee champagne you will be sitting down to chilled vichyssoise, followed by wild salmon wiz seasonal veget ables and bébé new potatoes, followed by profiteroles, frash razberries and cheese.’

  ‘Oh! Well, that sounds … lovely,’ I said, humbled. ‘Thank you,’ I added cravenly, deeply ashamed.

  What must he think? That I was a hopeless future wife who hadn’t even discussed the menu with her fiancé? But he hadn’t exactly discussed it with me, had he? I thought as I put the phone down slowly. Not that it mattered, I decided quickly. No, no. At least we had a table, that was the important thing. Well, private room, actually. I bit my thumbnail nervously. And for a moment there, I thought we’d be having a knees-up in the pub! I smiled, gazing abstractedly at the sunny lawn. Quite fun, actually. A knees-up in the Nag’s Head. And I knew someone who would have enjoyed that.

  On an impulse, my hand strayed back to the receiver and I dialled a familiar number. I was aware, as it rang, that the study door was firmly shut now. Too much frivolous chit-chat going on, no doubt, and I was still in my nightie, damn it. What must he think? But the moment I’d made this call, the moment I’d put the phone down, I’d get right down to that summer house and –

  ‘Hello?’ A familiar voice echoed far away. ‘Mum? It’s me!’

  ‘I know that, my love, I was hopin’ you’d call. Clare said you were down.’

  ‘Oh, did she?’ Suddenly I was ashamed. I hadn’t rung since I’d been here, unlike Clare who religiously rang Mum every day. I did it when I thought of her, which was often, but perhaps not often enough.

  ‘How are you, Mum?’ I asked anxiously. ‘I’m fine, Annie love, an’ you? Enjoyin’ the sea air? And Flora?’

  ‘Oh Mum, it’s so lovely here,’ I gushed. ‘You’d adore it. Right by the sea and so tranquil and pretty; I wish you could see it. In fact – why don’t you? Take a few days away and come and stay with me and Flora? We’re only an hour or so from you, you could get the train.’

  I glanced nervously at Matt’s door wondering how he’d take to this invasion, but my mother chuckled predictably.

  ‘What, no one here to feed the ducks and hens? Don’t be daft, love. No, I’ll stay put, thank you.’

  Mum had sold most of the livestock when Dad had died and she rented the fields out to a neighbouring farmer, but she’d hung on to the poultry. She said it was for the eggs, but Adam had commented with a wry smile that it gave her a convenient excuse never to leave North Devon. Surprisingly, they’d got on well, Mum and Adam, whereas he and Dad hadn’t. She’d appreciated his humour. His free spirit. Been sad when it hadn’t worked out.

  ‘Well, in that case I’ll come and see you,’ I said decisively. ‘Probably next week, because we’re here for ages. But, Mum, I was really ringing about the wedding.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’ve booked a table at Claridge’s,’ I said happily. ‘And the church is booked in Knightsbridge, so everything’s organized!’

  ‘Claridge’s, eh? I thought you fancied your local place. That French restaurant at the end of your road, where you know the owner.’

  ‘I know, I did, but David decided this would be better. More – you know – appropriate for a wedding. Oh, and he’s organized a florist, too, someone who does big society weddings apparently, to do the church flowers and table decorations, and it’s going to be in the evening now, not lunchtime. There’ll be forty-two people there, and everyone will change into black tie – you can get a new dress!’

  ‘Black tie. And you’re right, I would need a new dress.’ She sounded worried. ‘Oh, I don’t know, love. You young ones are much more used to all that razzmatazz. And it will be all young, aside from me.’

  My heart lurched. ‘No! No, and Gertrude. Gertrude will be there, too.’

  She chuckled. ‘Gertrude,
who was born and bred in Knightsbridge. She’ll be right at home.’

  My mouth dried. ‘But what are you saying, Mum? You will come? You will, won’t you?’

  ‘Now don’t you fuss, my duck, we’ll sort sommat out. But it is a long way, London, and you know, with my legs. Wasn’t you goin’ to do it down here at one stage? In the village, like Clare did?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I was, but David thought it was a long way for all our friends to travel. All our London mates …’ I trailed off miserably.

  ‘And so it is. Sensible lad. Now don’t you fret, Annie, I’ll think on it, all right? Leastways, you’ll have a lovely party. Forty-two in black tie at Claridge’s, eh? What’d your dad say?’ she marvelled.

  ‘I … don’t know, Mum. What would he say?’ I asked anxiously.

  She paused. ‘He’d have been right proud. Right proud, love.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, he would.’

  I said goodbye and, chewing my thumbnail again, moved on upstairs. I reached my room and slowly picked up the chair from my bedroom floor. I began mechanically to wash my face and get changed. It was true, Mum’s legs were bad. Her diabetes had gone to her feet now, and she couldn’t drive any more, but … even so. Even so, there were trains, or – or I could come and get her. But then I was going to Mauritius with David, so how would she get back? Well, there was Clare, she could drive her back, or Mum could stay with her, but somehow, deep in my heart, I knew she wouldn’t. I had a feeling she’d find some reason for that not to work either. Not to come. And not because she didn’t want to, but because somehow she felt she might let me down. And I thought of her in Claridge’s, in her good grey suit that she’d had for ever and her black patent shoes and bag to match. Thought of her sitting at a long table covered in white linen and silver, surrounded by braying young things, gloves tightly clasped in her lap, nervous, uncomfortable and I thought: How stupid of me. Stupid!