by Mike Voyce
Chapter 18 – Celebration
I told Angharad all this last chapter, but most of all I told her about the dream. I needed to know what she thought and I phoned her straight away; it must have been eight o’clock that evening. For the first time in months Frances was coming to Peterborough, she’d arrive at any time, and I needed to speak to Angharad before she arrived. Frances and I were to attend a friend’s wedding, together, the next day; it would be in Huntingdon, not far from Peterborough, and Frances was going to stay overnight. I’ll tell you more of that shortly, first my phone call.
She received my news in silence...
When I pressed her she asked about all the things I told you in the last chapter, about Abigail and Alianore.
Having wrung from me what she could, she came back to what I told you some time ago, about correspondences.
“Debbie and Frances are in the story aren’t they?”
My answer was guarded, to hear what she thought.
“Yes.”
“These correspondences you talk about, it’s not just Sarah and Eadie is it?”
‘‘No.”
“So now Debbie is Eadie’s child and Frances is this Alianore.”
I hadn’t said it. It had more than crossed my mind but Sarah’s rejection, that day of her visit, left me full of doubts. And yet... Angharad had never liked Frances. Just one meeting had been enough for both of them; she forms very instant and emotional opinions.
“So does Edward have to marry this Alianore?”
She wouldn’t leave it alone. It was moving too quick and I couldn’t answer. It would be like trying to turn to the end of this book, before it’s even been written. Anyway, it was she who made the connection.
“It wasn’t Frances Eadie turned into, it was Sarah.”
Angharad wasn’t to be hindered by facts,
“Maybe if the head had turned the other way, it wouldn’t have been Eadie, it would have been Frances.”
How could I answer that? I just sort of spluttered.
“Make sure the head doesn’t turn the other way.”
She knew well enough Debbie and Frances don’t get on. They’ve both tried for my sake and Debbie has never complained about Frances to me but she’s very unflattering when describing her to anyone else.
“You know Frances and I are going to a wedding?”
It was, after all, the reason for my still being in Peterborough. Angharad wasn’t impressed; there was something other than banter in her tone.
“It may not be your wedding but take care all the same.., seriously, I mean it.”
I suppose I felt vaguely insulted by that, as if I couldn’t manage my own life.
Abigail was so like my own daughter when she was little. Though not for any reason of correspondence; of course I could understand Edward’s feelings.
It wasn’t her fault. Little Abigail was born out of marriage; she couldn’t expect the courtly upbringing and expensive wedding the children of Edward’s future wife would have. No titles, no manors to support them, only that part of Edward’s life he could keep for her. He would let no one threaten that inheritance.
It did make me think of Debbie, my feelings for her and the divorce from her mother. At least there were no riches for her to lose. I’ve none to give.
I wouldn’t have encouraged anyone to get married at this time; yet there was indeed a marriage to celebrate.
It was Martin who brought me to Peterborough in the first place. Sent there by his own company he gave me so much work I couldn’t refuse, but it had taken me a full year to accept the offer and finally open an office. Still, I’d done it of my own choice and partly for the reason I told you before. For a time all went well but Martin’s career took a nosedive long before the coming of the slump. He’d been the company’s rising star, the blue eyed boy who could do no wrong: we all knew it wasn’t true but I liked him and thought him loyal and honest. His rise had made enemies but I didn’t think it fair the way those enemies exploited his weaknesses. It hit him very hard. Many a time he came for sympathy and advice, and to drink the office whisky.
A year, two jobs and a broken marriage later he declared himself on the mend. The new job was the best ever, the new car the biggest, fastest and flashiest yet and, most of all, a new wife.
It wasn’t just me he asked to the wedding, he asked Frances too. I was surprised; she didn’t like him and never hid the fact. Sympathy and tolerance were not her strong points. I was even more surprised when she accepted. Apart from anything else, attending a wedding in Huntingdon pretty much meant staying in Peterborough. Apart from collecting her things, Frances hadn’t been near the flat in months.
It crossed my mind this might be some sort of move to reconciliation. I didn’t quite know how I felt about that, there were too many unresolved differences. Neither of us was likely to give in, no hint of regret, no olive branch, no warmth or understanding; there was only our agreement we should both celebrate Martin’s wedding. It promised to be a very strange occasion.
It was indeed late when Frances finally arrived and I gave her dinner: most of my cooking is done in the frying pan, it’s quick and easy; it’s bad for your health you say? cooking in wine uses no fat.
She brought a present (bought on an office account cheque) and I wrapped it. As wedding presents go it went. In fact Frances has quite reasonable taste. She brought our camera also. Everyone’s heard about the Kodak prizes she won, or nearly won, getting the light just right on Alpine snow fields (she also reckons herself an expert mountaineer). Of course, on these things I couldn’t comment, she did them all before I met her. Anyway, Martin’s fiancée decided to put her to the test, Frances was to take the wedding photographs.
There were no scenes that night, we remained civilised. There also remained a polite distance, not only because of Angharad’s advice, nor even because of Edward’s emotional vow at the end of the last chapter.
The wedding was to be a small affair at Huntingdon district registry office, really no guests. A pity, I knew Martin’s father, I’d done business with him, a gentle, quiet, decent man. Martin didn’t mention his parents’ absence, I didn’t comment. There were no personal friends, no business friends there; strange. I knew Martin kept up with such company friends he still had from Peterborough. Altogether it would be a very quiet affair.
The bride, Pam, I didn’t know well. They met in a nightclub some time before and she gave him the comfort and sympathy no one else had. She turned to me for advice, once or twice, mostly about Martin. Most people seem to do that, a pity I can’t advise myself better. She was a pleasant, pretty woman, quite bright; I saw no reason why they shouldn’t be happy, I told her so. What else could I say?
We were to go to their house first. A modern suburban house in one of those many villages that used to be pretty and full of character; before they were swamped by new building. The house was full of the electronic devices Martin loves so much, a computer in every room. Pam’s kids liked it but I noticed the lack of art, ornament and books.
We were all determined the day should be a happy one. Maybe it was my own depression that made it such hard work. The brightest part of the occasion was the female registrar who believed in bringing to the day all the gaiety she could.
Frances duly took her snaps, with fake professional seriousness. I took some also with different composition, light exposure, etc. just in case. If only there were something to see through the viewfinder but two strained people in a civic office. No doubt we both wished them well; I just wished them a better occasion.
The wedding breakfast was exactly that, would you believe it? We went to a restaurant for ham and eggs. At twelve o’clock midday the dinning room was quiet. Had we all been twenty and full of the bright expectations of youth maybe it would have been a bright day, nothing would have mattered but happiness. But all four of us were jaded. I felt very old, seldom have I experienced a happy event as such hard work.
Anyone can
sustain some sort of conversation if they really try. But jokes sounded hollow, I could hardly wish them the same happiness Frances and I’d found. Romance, philosophy and faith also failed. We were left only with the materialism of Martin’s new job.
The only sense I have left of the day is of silent desperation. Gosh, I hope Martin never reads this book! For truly you couldn’t wish those two souls anything bad. As I drove Frances back up the A1, through the afternoon traffic, there was only one thing in my mind and I sang it,
“We’re poor little lambs,
That have lost our way,
Baa, Baa, Baa.
We’re little black sheep,
That have gone astray,
Baa, Baa, Baa.”
And truly I felt,
“God have mercy on such as we,
Baa, Baa, Baa.”
My singing voice isn’t the best, maybe the song wasn’t in the best possible taste, just my depression speaking.
We were both pleased to get back to the flat, even in its cold emptiness there were books and music.
Frances left as soon as she could; really there was nothing to say between us. I think we were both relieved the day was over.
There’s a little post-script to add. It was several weeks before Frances got those wedding snaps developed. Maybe she should have done it sooner. When they came back they were all horribly under exposed. The battery in the camera was flat. It may have suited that dull day but it fell to me to make our apologies to Martin.
Left on my own I fell to thinking.
Bright jazz played in the background; I could hear my own thoughts echo round me.
I haven’t told you much of Alianore. It’s something I’ve wanted to skirt around; that marriage should be no part of this story, and yet... Neither she nor Edward were consulted, Edward had been barely twelve years old and she was no more willing than he. Typical of the Tudors, once the contract was made and paid for, Lady Margaret took no further interest. The children went their own way with no thought, no counselling or advice.
I thought of Edward’s future wife, no she wasn’t unlike Frances; the same self-willed energy, the same inability to believe she might be wrong. The same dark ancestry, the same stark view of the World, it made me see them alike.
What did I want in a woman?
Too much optimism has turned to disappointment. Good looks, intelligence, love of life; none of these things have brought me happiness yet, at times, I’ve loved women with each of these. What you really need is someone who returns your love, with a pure heart and a true spirit.
No, there was no future with Frances, as I touch the edge of such a woman in Edward’s life that much was plain: yet what of my future alone?
As I sat amongst my dismal thoughts the phone rang; it was the wife of a client, God knows why she phoned me. Her husband had locked her out of her house, she was pregnant and homeless. They’d only been married five months; they even invited me to the wedding, though I’d been too busy to go.
She blamed the fact she was working when, since his business collapsed, he wasn’t. On top of that he’d three children by a previous marriage and she has two, we were still fighting through the courts over her two. Since I’ve known them it’s been one problem after another. A surprisingly common story.
I phoned the client of course, as a friend, who could say if it did any good. I phoned his wife back and kept my fingers crossed; I asked her to ring later, to say how it went.
Can you give the answer, to stop such tight strung nerves straining to breaking point? Neither can I.
As I idled away my time, I got out the notes I’ve made of Edward. For some reason what caught my eye were the notes on my meditations about Christmas, the notes on Malory’s book of King Arthur, I’d marked them with asterisks and question marks. I hadn’t known what to make of them, then any more than now. I flipped on to the notes of Edward in Stafford, of the Tower Room and Edward connecting the things in the box with Malory’s story of the Holy Grail.
The flat brooded, cold and empty. Was there some link between Edward and the Grail? Of course, I could have great faith in my ability to make such a connection, couldn’t I? Look at the great success I had in managing my own life; witness the emptiness of the flat I sat in.
Yet again I fell into revere.
There was a voice sounding somewhere,
“Remember the nine worthies.”
In the preface to Malory’s ‘Le Morte D’Arthur’ there are singled out, from all the World’s history, nine great men, ‘the nine worthies’:
Hector of Troy,
Alexander the Great,
Julius Caesar (the Roman general who became a god)
-all from the Classical World –
Joshua,
King David,
Judas Maccabaeus (the ‘Hammer of the Syrians’)
-all great leaders of Israel –
King Arthur,
Charlemagne,
and Godfrey de Bouillon (the first crusader king of Jerusalem)
-all great medieval heroes.
I really don’t know why they came into my mind. Sometimes channelling this story of Edward sets me problems I can’t solve. Maybe the nine worthies all had trouble with women, I know at least some of them did.
A further fancy came to me. This time it was words direct from Malory, ringing in my head.
“Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesus, gone into another place; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the Holy Cross.”
Maybe, someday, I’ll reconcile this with that day of the wedding.
For want of something else to say, I told Angharad about this from Malory. Her response was that of surprise,
“You know, what Malory means is that King Arthur will be reincarnated.”
“And the nine worthies?”
Angharad didn’t answer, just leaving a silent question mark; she knows I haven’t quite accepted the idea of reincarnation, pursuing this could so easily have brought us into argument.
There’s a footnote, let it stand for the end of the chapter.
After the first time I mentioned Sir Thomas Malory’s book Angharad actually went out and bought it for me, I remember her coming to see me to thrust it into my hands. The first thing you notice is on the cover, it was first printed in 1485 by William Caxton. Do you remember, in the ninth chapter of this book, Edward remembered his Papa giving it to him? Yet Duke Henry was executed in 1483!
Such points worry me. I’ve hit several in writing this book, mostly I’ve resolved them without bothering you, but this time I’m not sure.
Please read ‘Le Morte’, it’s one of the finest tales in our language. When you come to the end of it you’ll read Malory’s own note,
“Here is the end of the whole book of King Arthur, and of his noble knights of the Round Table…”
There follows a request to pray for the life and, after death, for the soul of Thomas Malory. Then these words,
“For this book was ended in the ninth year of the reign of King Edward the fourth, by Sir Thomas Malory, knight, as Jesu help him for His great might…”
The coronation of Edward IV took place on Sunday 28th June 1461. In other words the book was finished between June 1469 and June 1470, well within Duke Henry’s lifetime, but the point doesn’t end there.
The preface to ‘Le Morte’, I’ve referred to in this chapter, was written by Caxton, presumably in 1485. What can you make of it?
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