The Wedding Day

by Catherine Alliott

  Leaving her murmuring bleakly to herself, I tiptoed from the room, shutting the door softly behind me. Even if she didn’t sleep, I thought, she needed to be alone. Alone, for once, with her thoughts, and her conscience. Alone to examine her soul.

  I went downstairs with a heavy heart, desperately sad for her. Sad that she’d ever felt the need to trample so resolutely on her own dreams.

  The sun had gone behind the clouds now, and I shivered, reaching for a cardigan on the hall table as I went on through to the kitchen. I poured myself a large glass of wine, then padded back to the sitting room. Climbing up into the bay window seat that overlooked the garden and the creek beyond, I gazed across to the little church buried in the tawny landscape, the fields browning off now in the summer sun. I curled my legs under me and pulled the cardigan around me for warmth.

  Clare was right, I never had felt the same pressure. Quite the reverse, in fact. From a very young age I’d always assumed I was expected to fail, so anything more was a bonus. Any painting I brought home from school was admired and exclaimed joyfully over, any piano grade I scraped – just the one – was regarded as a major triumph, whilst Clare, who played three instruments, all to distinction level, gained grades with little drama from my parents. Just a gruff, ‘Good girl,’ from my father as he beadily inspected her certificate, before going out to his cow-sheds. And so, in a way, my life had been a series of small celebrations. It could only go up, whilst Clare’s could only go down. Be a series of disappointments. And not through anything crueller than love. My father had only ever loved her, but in the wrong way. Children can’t take too much scrutiny. They need to go unwatched in order to develop their inner lives. My father didn’t just watch Clare, he inhaled her. She was made to feel constantly significant.

  I wondered too if my refusal to make something of my own life over the years – not to study too hard, not to go to university – had hardened into a stubborn statement. A reaction to my sister’s all-consuming passion to make a record of her life. To not give a damn as Clare went down in the annals of working-mother history.

  I hugged my knees and shivered as I looked out to sea. The wind was whipping up the trees to a frenzy, swirling their tops as they danced amongst the gathering clouds, and beyond, the surface of the water was shaking, mak ing white horses farther out in the mouth of the estuary. Suddenly, I went cold. The house was so quiet. So still. I leaped off the window seat and reached for the phone on the bookcase, my heart pounding. It rang for ages, twenty rings or more. I held on though, pacing the sitting room, worry stealing over me like a shadow. Then her answer machine: ‘Hi, this is Flora, please leave a message –’ Panicking, I ran through the hall to Matt’s door and knocked.

  ‘Matt?’ No answer.

  I rattled the handle. Locked. The bloody man had locked himself in.

  ‘Matt! Are you there?’ God, what was he doing? Asleep at his desk, or – no. Just not there.

  I dashed back in a panic to the sitting-room window, clutching the tops of my arms tight as I gazed out at the surf, breaking out there in the distance, and even in our little creek now. Hurriedly snatching up my shoes, I ran to the kitchen and through the back door, not bothering to shut it behind me.

  As I fled down the garden towards the woods, I peeled off at a tangent to the right, following the path that ran, not down to the creek, but along the edge of the undergrowth, and then up the hills to the cliff path beyond. My heart was pounding high up in my throat as I belted through the rough, scrubby grass, the wind streaming into my open mouth as I climbed, panting, up and up around the headland. Then suddenly, as I rounded a bend high up on the cliff top, I stopped. Swayed almost, in the wind. Because there, coming around the top of the cliff, in a row – in formation almost – were the three of them, striding towards me.

  Flora and Tod were in wetsuits, laughing and soaked, caked in salt and sand; Matt was between them. His hair was wet, and he was wearing old shorts and a T-shirt, his arms and legs tanned. He was laughing at something one of them had said, head thrown back, his eyes as bright and blue as the sky he lifted them to. As he raised his face and roared out loud to the heavens, it seemed to me his face was alive with happiness.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Hi, Mum!’ Flora ran ahead to greet me as I stood there, holding my sides and panting with the uphill exertion.

  ‘Hi.’ I smiled, hugging her, but my smile was for Matt. A beam, actually. ‘You went with them.’

  He shrugged. ‘Well, I figure the creek is fine, but surfing … You know, bashed heads, all that stuff. The current –’

  ‘I know,’ I said quickly, ‘and I would have gone. I always go with her, only Clare was so upset and –’

  ‘Mum, chill. Matt came, OK? Stop fussing,’ interrupted Flora, embarrassed, barging into me playfully with her elbow. ‘And you should see Matt surf, he’s ace. No wetsuit or anything!’

  ‘Well, where I come from wetsuits are for pansies, but I gotta tell you, in these Cornish waters I can almost see the point.’

  ‘Freeze your knackers, eh, Dad?’ grinned Tod.

  He winced. ‘More than that.’

  I fell in beside them as we walked down the cliff path towards the garden, sneaking a sideways look at Matt as we went. He looked absurdly young suddenly, his hair wet, joking with his son. But then, children did that to you, didn’t they, I mused as I stood up straight, deliberately walking jauntily now that relief had flooded through me. In many ways they made one feel a hundred, but they also had the capacity to make one feel nineteen.

  ‘Hose off those wetsuits,’ Matt instructed as they began peeling them off as soon as we reached the terrace. ‘And then later on we might go see if we can get anything for supper.’

  Tod turned, half out of his suit. ‘What, fishing?’

  ‘Well, I’m not going hunting. I’ve seen the size of the rabbits round here and you couldn’t make a sausage out of them. Come on, get the salt off those suits. Properly, Flora.’ He took the hose from her and showed her. ‘Otherwise the salt dries real hard.’

  ‘And could Mum come too?’ Flora asked, taking the hose back, keen to do it properly herself. ‘We’ve never been fishing, have we, Mum?’

  ‘Sure. If she wants?’ He half turned enquiringly. Unaccountably, I found myself flushing. ‘Well. Yes. I’d love to. Why not? I’ve done enough work today, and Clare should be sleeping, so … lovely.’

  ‘Good,’ he said shortly, turning back to help Flora. ‘The wind’s dropping now, so I reckon in a couple of hours we should be fine.’

  In a couple of hours we were fine. Dandy, in fact, in his parlance. There we were, right out near the mouth of the estuary on the left bank, the trees with their arching green limbs like a shady umbrella over us, in a little blue boat called Pandora which Matt had hired from the pontoon. An anchor had been tossed over the side and the boat rocked gently in the swell. Matt and I were in the bows, Tod and Flora on the centre thwart, and each of us was equipped with a vast orange lifejacket and a fishing rod, which he’d also managed to hire from somewhere. The wind had indeed dropped, and the water was calm; just a gentle ripple on the surface. Every so often, a fallen leaf or twig came down the ebbing tide, but other than that, all was still. Quiet. Around the corner we could see a slim slip of a beach with people on it, but their voices didn’t carry.

  Tod’s face was intent on the water and, as I rested back in the prow, I took a moment to study him. He was a beautiful boy, his eyes huge and blue and brimming behind his cumbersome glasses, his features thin and refined in his pale face. He sat pensively, passively, whilst Flora, I noticed, shifted about, im patiently tugging her line up every now and then to examine the hook. The worm remained untouched, but for a dark ribbon of seaweed.

  ‘You’re letting it touch the bottom,’ Matt murmured from under his hat which was pulled down over his eyes. ‘Here.’

  He reached across and pulled it in a length or two, then he continued with his own fishing, quietly content. At length, I
found my own line slipping. I let it slide and, out of the corner of my eye, considered the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the shape of his hands. Strong, capable hands, my mother would have called them; his back, too. I couldn’t quite see his nose on account of the hat, but it’s fair to say I wasn’t exactly fishing in earnest, which was why it came as a shock when something tugged.

  ‘Oh!’ I stood up in excitement. ‘I’ve got one!’

  ‘Steady,’ he said as the boat rocked madly from side to side. He put his arms out to steady it.

  ‘But I can feel him there!’ I began to reel frantically, laughing at Matt over my shoulder. ‘I’m not kidding, he’s there, on the end of my line!’

  ‘Brilliant, Mum!’ squealed Flora. ‘Not so quickly,’ Matt said quietly. ‘You might lose him. Slowly, bring him in gently.’

  But I wasn’t listening and, still standing, I jerked harder than ever, and caught the flash of a silver fish streaming to the surface, head first. I felt a tug, saw its underbelly gleam as it streaked sideways, and then away into the depths.

  ‘Oh! I’ve lost him!’ I turned to Matt, absurdly disappointed. ‘He’s gone.’

  Matt looked up at me, laughing, pushing his hat up out of his eyes. ‘You got overexcited!’

  ‘Damn. And it was such an amazing feeling when it tugged. Now I want to catch another.’

  But I didn’t, of course. The children did though; they got two apiece; Flora pink with pleasure as she hauled hers in. Matt bashed its head on the side of the boat, which made her squeal, then showed her how to take the hook out, which, to her credit, she did. She eagerly tossed the line out again, and then I saw Matt reeling his in, too.

  ‘Have you got one?’ I leaned forward excitedly, my shoulder touching his.

  ‘Yep. D’you want to pull it in?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, longingly. ‘But I won’t. It’s your fish.’ Laughing, he gave me the rod and, accompanied by great cheers from the children, I brought the frantically flapping fish slowly over the side and landed it gingerly in the bottom of the boat. I knelt down to examine it as Matt unravelled it from the twisted line, gripping it in his hands.

  ‘It’s not nearly as big as the one I lost,’ I observed.

  He smiled. ‘Funny that. They never are.’

  We fished a bit more, and when Tod had caught another, Matt deemed it enough for supper.

  ‘How are you going to cook them?’ asked Flora. ‘On a campfire down on the beach?’ she teased.

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  Flora looked taken aback. ‘Dad and I often do that back home,’ explained Tod. ‘I mean in Connecticut.’

  ‘Golly,’ I boggled. ‘Very Huckleberry Finn.’

  Matt sat back in the stern and pulled the string hard out of the outboard motor. It spluttered into action. ‘Hardly. I tend to use a cutting-edge non-stick pan, a firelighter and lashings of olive oil, but other than that it’s authentic.’

  I watched as he guided us around some rocks and back along the more populated side of the estuary. He gazed about, looking at the beaches and the little boats we passed with interest. I had other things on my mind, though. I wanted to ask him about his life now, since the split; since the days when he caught fish with his son and cooked them on the beach. He steered us expertly along the shoreline towards the creek, one hand on the tiller, his eyes, far beyond me, searching the distance.

  ‘Can I do that?’ I asked suddenly.

  He looked at me, surprised. ‘Sure.’

  He shifted across, and I got up unsteadily, wobbling down the centre of the boat past the children, to sit beside him in the stern. His hand was on mine as I took the tiller, then he got up and went swiftly to the bows, to distribute the weight.

  ‘Done it before?’ he called.

  ‘Sure.’ God, stop saying sure, Annie. In an American accent.

  Flora looked at me in surprise, but loyally didn’t utter a word as I steered us gently along. Piece of cake.

  ‘Little bit faster?’ I called confidently. ‘Yeah, OK, but – Hey, steady!’

  Suddenly we shot off, the bows rearing right up out of the water. I hadn’t appreciated quite how sensitive the throttle was and, frozen with shock, was suddenly gripped by the sheer speed of the thing. We hurtled along at a million miles an hour, heading for the beach. Not our beach, you understand, but one in the main estuary, accessible by both foot and car, and certainly with quite a few families on it this afternoon.

  ‘Other way!’ yelled Matt, holding on to the sides and attempting to stand up, but I was beyond all rational instruction. Rigid with fear, I stared wildly as the shore loomed, dotted with people, their faces getting more distinct as we raced full pelt towards it. THWACK! We hit it with a mighty smack, just short of a family enjoying a late tea at the water’s edge. The force catapulted me and the children forwards, and we landed in a tangle of orange lifejackets on top of Matt in the bows.

  The family, sandwiches frozen en route to mouths, watched wide-eyed as we struggled to collect ourselves, inches from their picnic rug and their bare toes.

  ‘Hi!’ said Matt, leaping out and sticking out his hand. ‘Lieutenant Matt Malone, US Marines.’

  The father, red-faced and corpulent, struggled for speech. ‘You could have killed us!’ he spluttered, spitting crumbs.

  ‘Oh sure,’ agreed Matt, ‘and ourselves too, but my friend here is training for the elite female boat squad, and that’s the way we teach these cadets. Just hit that beach full throttle. Pretty gutsy, huh? Nice work, corporal.’ He threw me an approving look and, without waiting for a response from the family, turned and pushed the boat athletically out to sea at a run.

  ‘Come on, you guys, move it!’ he bawled. ‘I wanna see you MOVIN’, let’s get OUT there again!’

  As we clambered back to our seats, shocked and wordless, Matt waded to his waist then jumped in, cocking a smart salute to the astonished throng. ‘Sorry to have troubled you people,’ he yelled, and we shot off.

  ‘Nice one, Annie,’ he muttered as we roared out to sea again. ‘Nearly had us all up for manslaughter.’

  ‘It got away with me!’ I gasped, when I’d finally found my voice. ‘Just – got away with me!’

  ‘Jeez, you were freaky!’ said Tod, in awe. ‘Your face was like – like this mask!’

  ‘She does that,’ affirmed Flora, nodding, her eyes huge in her white face. ‘She just freaks. But, oh God, Tod, your dad was awesome!’

  He was awesome, but I was still horrified. Horrified by the carnage that might have been: bodies floating bleeding in the sea, legs severed like Jaws, white heads floating like Titanic – so many seafaring disaster movies to draw on – and could only lie back, shocked and supine, in the prow. The children were giggling wildly now, thrilled to bits with their adventure, re-enacting it as they lunged forward, then shrieking with laughter as they mimicked the shocked faces of the family, mid-HobNob. Matt looked through them and found me. He grinned ruefully. Shook his head.

  ‘Jeez, I had half a mind you knew what you were doing back there. Thought you were about to do the cutest little cut to starboard, just at the last minute, before we smacked that shore.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  ‘Thought you were gonna tell me you were flotilla captain back at high school.’

  ‘I’m so ashamed,’ I gulped. ‘So ashamed!’

  Later, however, I permitted myself to see the funny side, and it was a very giggly supper we prepared in the kitchen at Taplow House that evening. Clare had presented herself as we were all gathered there around the kitchen table, Matt instructing the children in cleaning and gutting the fish with plenty of squealing from Flora as she pulled out bloody entrails, whilst I whisked up olive oil and balsamic vinegar to make a dressing for the salad. She’d appeared in the doorway, politely refusing our invitation to join us for supper, and affording a very different picture from the one she had earlier. Clean, and wearing some old blue trousers of mine and a T-
shirt, her face devoid of make-up, hair swept back in a band off her face, she looked more like her usual self; but there was a sheepishness about her, a new humility, an embarrassment, as she stood, hovering, without her usual poise, at the door.

  ‘No. Thank you though. You’re very kind, but I’m not particularly hungry. I’m going to go for a long walk, actually. Around the headland.’

  Matt tactfully resumed his fish-gutting as I regarded her anxiously. ‘On your own? Why don’t I come with you?’

  She shook her head bravely, eyes brimming. ‘No thanks. I just need some time to myself at the moment.’

  ‘Did you sleep much this afternoon?’

  ‘No, but I will tonight, I’m sure. If I walk enough I’ll be exhausted. I want to, you know. Exhaust myself.’

  I nodded. Exorcize the pain, the memory of last night and everything that went with it. Get that bracing sea wind in her face; force some uphill exertion until her legs ached. I remembered doing that in the face of Adam’s affairs; pounding up and down the Embankment from Hammersmith to Victoria and back again, with Flora in a pushchair, legs aching, arms and back stiff, but clinging resolutely to exertion; wanting to wipe my mind to a blank sheet with physical pain, strengthening my body whilst my heart curled up and died elsewhere. And not always succeeding, either. Sometimes having to bolt home to cry, or be sick. I glanced up from my salad.

  ‘Well, we’ll be down on the beach, if you need us.’

  ‘OK.’ She turned to go. ‘Oh, and I’ve rung Mum. I’m going to the farm tomorrow.’

  I crossed the kitchen quickly and gave her a swift hug. ‘Well done. It’s what you need. Some time at home with her.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘Home. You still call it that. You always have done, Annie.’

  Supper on the beach was a raucous affair. Tod and Flora had been allowed a lager apiece and, after their pre-dinner cocktail, were now chucking the canapés in the air, attempting to catch peanuts in their mouths and falling in a heap in the sand. Tod’s glasses went flying, perilously close to the fire, and Matt yelled for calm as he expertly cooked the fish. He’d built a wall for his fire with stones to protect it from the wind, and put a barbecue rack on top to balance the pan. He turned the fish carefully, then slid them on to plates. Sprinkled with herbs and lemon, and with a salad, olive bread and new potatoes to go with it, it turned out to be a splendid feast, and I told him so later, when we were all sitting around the fire, plates balanced on our knees, carefully picking flesh from the bones.