17
Ghost Bride and Johnny Blaze
TO CHEER THEMSELVES UP, THE TEN BELLS PUT UP A SMALL Christmas tree outside their passageway. They trim it with some garland, Mia’s Brodie for a topper, and a red ball. Julian and Nick go together to pick up some more things from the lorries behind Smithfield. Duncan is nursing his sore back, and Wild is up in North Camden, visiting his parents. Julian likes Nick. He doesn’t say much, but what he says is choice. To every black-market price he hears, his reaction is the same. “Fuck off!” says Nick. “It’s a steak and kidney pie, not fucking caviar!”
“Who said anything about steak?” the seller says. “I’m not guaranteeing what meat’s in that pie. Could be horse. Could be possum. Could be anything. You want it or not? Look at the queue behind ya.”
Back at Bank, they have a wake for Phil and Lucinda. They eat black-market meat and kidney pies, they drink good whisky, have chocolate, they smoke. Julian makes a Swedish flame, and in thanks, Kate changes the dressings on his head wound. Their jeep has died. It won’t start at all. It’s parked on Lothbury, nothing but a giant paperweight on the street. Soon it will be impounded. Everyone wonders how Finch will take it when he finds out.
“I went to visit him again today,” says Mia. “He squeezed my hand but didn’t open his eyes.”
“Poor Finch.”
“Poor Phil,” says Robbie. He and Phil were the same age, were good friends. They’d known each other forty years, since the turn of the century.
Everyone raises a glass to Finch and Phil and Lucinda.
Mia questions all her choices. If only they hadn’t gone to Oxford Street to buy new clothes to go to the Savoy without Finch.
The gang mocks her. Doesn’t she know that bombs fall anywhere? Or does she think it’s karma? That the Germans are singling her out for mutilation because she dared to want to buy herself a dress?
“Mock if you will,” Mia says, “but the council keeps telling us that overindulging is unpatriotic. And doesn’t it feel like the Krauts are getting closer and closer?”
“It certainly must feel that way to Phil and Lucinda,” says Robbie.
Boom boom.
Thud thud.
They drink to Phil and Lucinda, and they sing.
Weigh-HEY, up she rises
Weigh-HEY, up she rises
Weigh-HEY, up she rises
Earlye in the morning . . .
At first they talk about the dead, but the more they drink, the more they talk about the living.
The single girls lament spending their nights underground, waiting for their lives to begin.
“There’s plenty of stuff we can do down here, ladies,” Duncan says, liberated by the absence of censorious parents. “Do you want me to show you?”
“Duncan is terrible but right,” Julian says. “This isn’t waiting. This isn’t limbo or the in-between. This is your life. The trenches are your life. The temporary thing, the impermanent thing, the chaotic thing, the impossible thing. This is it. It’s all you’ve got.”
He won’t look at Mia, and she won’t look at him.
They drink some more, hoping it will make them less maudlin.
We’re not going to die. Dying is for old people.
“The old people don’t want to die either,” Robbie says.
Shona walks over and hugs him. “We know, darling. We’re sorry.”
There’s too many things we haven’t done.
They entertain themselves by listing some of the things they haven’t done.
“I haven’t been with two women,” Duncan announces in a tone of someone who fully expects the women around him to do something about it.
The girls throw newspapers at him, towels, empty bags. Shut up, Duncan. Enough out of you, Duncan. Now that poor Phil and Lucinda are gone, you think you can say things like this, Duncan?
“I didn’t say I necessarily wanted it to be you girls, my dear sisters of mercy,” Duncan says to Sheila and Kate. “I mean like in general.” He glances at Shona and then away.
Shona doesn’t seem like the kind of gal who would put up with that kind of nonsense, and yet she does. “So what if you haven’t been with two women?” Shona says. “What man here can lay claim to such a thing? Nick, can you?”
“Fuck off!” says Nick.
“Robbie, can you?”
“I’m not even going to respond,” Peter Roberts says.
“Wild’s not here. I bet you he has,” says Duncan. “Lucky bastard. He’s done it all.”
They turn to Julian. “You’ve told us some crazy stories, Jules,” Duncan says. “Dungeons, corpses, bloodshed. Perhaps you’ve got a naughtier story? Now’s the perfect time for it.”
“Now is most certainly not the perfect time for it, and if I did have that kind of story, you think I’d tell you?” Julian winks at Mia, and she laughs.
“I haven’t danced a jitterbug,” says Kate. “Me and Bobby were going to go, and then the dance club was bombed, and the following week he died.”
“I’ve never received a telegram,” Liz says.
“That’s on your wishlist?” says Nick Moore. “Receiving a telegram? Fuck off.”
“I’m just saying. I thought we were listing things we haven’t done.”
“Like a litany of everything?” Nick says. “We ain’t got that kind of time, Lizzie. We’re at war. Give us your top ten. Telegram is first, we got that. Then what?”
“I never had a standing ovation in a large theatre,” Mia says. “Sure, people clap in the Underground. I think sometimes they stand up because they’re stretching their legs. Also,” she adds, “I’d like to walk down the aisle. In a white dress.”
“Hey, why do you get two?” Liz says.
“We’re still waiting for what comes after the telegram, Lizzie,” Nick says.
“In a white dress, Folgate?” Duncan says. “Really?”
To which Julian says hey.
“We’re all friends here, Swedish,” Duncan says. “Mia’s not fooling anybody. She knows that God knows the truth no matter what color dress she puts on.”
To which Julian says HEY.
They laugh, they drink.
Frankie speaks! “I had a fellow propose to me once,” Frankie says. “He got me to put down my jigsaw and everything.”
They ooh and ahh.
“He seduced me,” she says, “by telling me we might die tomorrow. That was some powerful aphrodisiac. I fell for it.”
“I must try that,” Duncan mutters.
What happened to him?
“He died.”
“I’d like to have a baby someday,” Mia says.
“That’s number three for you,” Liz says. “Pipe down!”
“Liz, we’re still waiting,” Nick says. “Don’t be shy. Jump right in. Telegram and then what?”
Everyone knows what it is. Everyone knows how Liz feels about Wild.
“I can’t believe I envy my mum,” Mia says. “I’ve never envied her about anything. I thought I was so smart. And now look at me. I lie here in a stinking passageway in bitter envy because she got to be a mum and I haven’t.”
“There’s still time,” Frankie says. “It’s not too late.”
They drink.
“I’d like to have somebody look at me,” Liz says unbidden, “just once in my life, the way he looks at her every minute of every day.” She points at Julian. “Like she’s all he wants.”
Mia blushes. Julian looks away.
“Is that before or after you receive the telegram?” Nick asks. “What guy wouldn’t ogle you while you’re reading that. Telegrams are so sexy. Or is ‘telegram’ slang for something else, and I’m not aware?”
“Yes, it’s slang for you’re a wanker.”
“Fuck off,” says Nick.
“At my wedding, I want to use my own words for my vows,” Mia says.
Liz complains. “Why does she get five things, including Julian’s glad eye, and the rest of us get nothing?”
“No one recites their own vows,” Duncan says. “That’s idiotic. How would that even go?”
Inebriated and determined, the crew springs to drunken action. They have an idea for their next skit. They will stage a wedding! Julian will marry Mia. It’ll cheer up the glum folks.
Yeah, glum folks like us.
“It’s not great tonight, I admit,” Mia says. “Tomorrow will be better. But tonight we all could use a little bit of joy. Jules, are you in?”
“I’m in.”
“You have to find a tie and wear your posh three-piece suit. And what are you going to do about the bandage on your head? That’s not very matrimonial. We’ll leave it, I suppose.”
“What are you going to do about the sling over your arm?” Julian says. “You’re going to be a bride with a sling?”
Mia slips the sling over her head and lets it drop to the ground. “Can you do the same with your head wrap? I didn’t think so. You’ll look like Frankenstein. Now, who wants to be the minister?” She turns to Peter Roberts, sitting by himself in the corner. “Robbie, would you like to serve as a fake minister at our fake wedding?”
“You’re asking me to take part in one of your stories?”
“Yes! Please.”
Robbie gets up. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Mia embraces him. “Do you need me to find you some words to say?”
“No. I got this.” He straightens out his suit jacket and adjusts his bowtie.
“Tie is straight, Robbie,” Duncan says. “Your tie is like a level. Shelves can be put up off your tie.”
“Thank you,” Robbie says. “It’s hard to keep it straight with Wild around. He’s always fooling with me.”
“I hope Wild forgives me for having a fake wedding without him,” Julian says. “I told him he could be my best man.”
“Serves you right to make promises you can’t keep,” Duncan says. “You’ll have to make do with the rest of us. Now . . . where are we going to find a white wedding dress for our virginal bride?” He winks at Mia. “We might just have to suspend our disbelief and imagine her brown skirt is white.”
Mia slaps him and after some rummaging produces an off-white sheet. “Kate, can you make arm holes in it with your father’s scalpel so I can wear it like a cloak? Who’s got a belt? I will be Ghost Bride.” She claps. “Perfect! That’s what we’re going to call our play. The War Wedding of Ghost Bride and . . . Jules, what should we call you? Swedish Fjord?”
“Johnny Blaze,” says Julian.
“Who is Johnny Blaze?”
“He is Ghost Rider.”
“Oh my word,” Duncan exclaims, “is our straight-laced Julian being naughty? Ghost Rider indeed. Delicious! Watch out, Mia.”
Julian shakes his head. Duncan is incorrigible.
Mia leans to his ear. “It’d be okay with me if you were being a little bit naughty,” she whispers, and then louder, “Robbie, you’ll introduce us. The War Wedding of Ghost Bride and Johnny Blaze. Will you remember?”
“No,” replies Peter Roberts dryly.
“Because 60-year-olds are incapable of recalling nine words strung together,” says Julian.
“Exactly, my boy!”
Liz remembers they have no rings.
“We don’t need rings,” says Mia, writing in her small notebook. “Julian, we’ll do some bits from Shaw toward the end, but to begin, do you know a serious poem? You’ll need to be straight man to my comedy. I’ll be the funny one, okay? I’ll make a joke, I’ll say, why do couples hold hands before their wedding? Because it’s a formality, like two boxers shaking hands before the fight begins.” She chuckles. “Funny, right?”
“I guess,” Julian says. “What kind of a poem? Something from Kipling? Then come, my brethren, and prepare the candlesticks and bells, the scarlet, brass, and badger’s hair wherein our Honor dwells.”
“Hmm, no, more like, shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.”
“So you get to be funny, and I get to be maudlin and sentimental?”
“That’s right,” Mia says. “Because you’re a Gloomy Gus, especially tonight. I will make them laugh. See if you can make them cry.”
“How is that a fair deal? Who wants to cry at a time like this?”
“You should’ve thought of that before you had that face on.”
Julian is not the only one grumbling. “You sure are quick to jump into marriage without any frills,” Frankie says to Mia, her tone accusatory. “You didn’t marry Finch because he didn’t give you a ring.”
Julian interjects. “A ring is hardly a frill, and that’s not the only reason Mia didn’t marry Finch.”
“Poor Finch,” says Frankie. “Maybe he didn’t give you a ring, Maria, because he knew you wouldn’t give him any of your blood.”
“I couldn’t, Frankie! I’m AB positive and he’s a B.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient,” Frankie says. “You’re the universal receiver? Why am I not surprised?”
“Come on, Frankie,” says Julian. “We’re trying to lighten up here.”
“Frankie is right about one thing,” Mia says. “We do need a ring. Liz, go get some tin foil. Twist it up and make two rings out of it.”
“And where am I going to get this tin foil from, pray tell?” Liz says. “We can postpone the wedding till tomorrow, and I’ll try to get some.”
“No,” Mia says. “Look at them out there. They need it now. And what if there won’t be a tomorrow? Look what happened to our plans for the Savoy.”
“We’ll go to the Savoy,” Julian says. “Now we must go. Where else are we going to celebrate our fake wedding? And also—I have the rings.” He slips the rawhide rope off his neck. They gather around him like birds.
“What’s that, Jules?” Mia asks, pointing to the crystal quartz.
“Is that a diamond?” says Duncan. “Because if it is, we could stay at the Savoy until the war is over.”
“It’s not a diamond,” replies Julian.
“What’s the red thing tied up?”
Julian unlaces the leather strings, unfurls the beret, smooths it out, shows them.
“It’s a beret!” Liz exclaims. “Mia, look at that. Not only does Julian have a ring for you, but he’s got a spiffy head covering as well. It’s not a veil, and it’s red, but it’ll do.”
Mia puts it on her head. It’s dim in the tunnel; the kerosene lamps don’t give off enough light to see the old faded blood stains.
There’s hearty approval of the beret, of the gold bands, of Julian in general.
“Where did you get the rings?” Duncan asks with envy.
“Are they real gold?” Nick asks and before Julian can answer follows up with “Fuck off!”
“I had a gold coin melted down into two rings,” Julian says.
“Are these the coins you keep talking about?” says Mia, tilting her red-beret-clad head. “I really thought you were joking.” She stares at him uncertainly. “Were you married before, Jules? Is this not your first fake wedding?”
“Don’t worry.” Julian smiles into her questioning, fascinated face, leans over and kisses her cheek. “I came close to a fake wedding once. Real close. Never quite got there.”
“You won’t get there tonight either,” Frankie says, suddenly a stickler for propriety. “You haven’t asked Mia to marry you.”
“Calm down. He’s already asked me,” Mia says. “On stage. When I was Cecily, and he was Algernon. But if you insist, he can ask me again tonight. Right, Jules?”
“Whatever you want, Mia.”
She slips the smaller ring over her finger. “It fits perfectly,” she says with amazement.
“What a shock,” says Liz.
“Go us, right?” says Julian.
“Go us,” echoes Mia.
“Somebody help Jules with his tie. Somebody shine his boots. Hurry up. The gallery is getting restless. Who can sing ‘Ave Maria’? For me.” Mia smiles. “Because I’m Maria.”
“I can,” Shona says timidly
.
“You can sing?”
“A little. Driving is not the only thing I do.”
“Oh, yeah?” Duncan says, instantly towering over her, his grin wide. “What else do you do, darling, besides sing and drive?”
Shona slaps his chest. Not, get away from me, Duncan, but, aren’t you so funny, Duncan.
Liz remembers they have no flowers.
“Damn it,” Duncan says. “What kind of a fake wedding would it be without flowers?”
“Girls, go find a towel,” Julian says, “white preferably. Pleat it loosely on top and tie it at the bottom so it looks like a bouquet.”
Shona and Liz run off, find a towel, follow Julian’s instructions. It looks pretty good.
Already on the stage, Peter Roberts motions for Julian to stand with him as they wait for Mia. The door wobbles. They shift their positions.
“The stage is not fixed,” Peter Roberts says. “It’s alive like us, unstable like us. It buckles and bends under the weight of our bodies.”
Julian nods. “It changes its shape under the movement of our feet. And its new form in turn affects and alters our own motion.”
With a nod and a smile, they shake hands.
It begins.
“Dearly beloved,” says Peter Roberts, facing the audience. “We are gathered here for your evening’s entertainment to act out for you the love story of Ghost Bride and Johnny Blaze, ending in their matrimony which they do not enter into lightly or wantonly but reverently, with hope and with purpose.”
“Ending in their matrimony or their weddin’ night?” someone from the back yells, not Duncan. “Now that would be a show.”
“Lords and Commoners of England!” Robbie sternly rejoins. “In the words of John Milton, consider what nation it is whereof ye are, and whereof ye are governors. Behave yourselves. You want that kind of play, wait for the Windmill to reopen. Is everyone ready? Birdie, hit it.”
Shona sings Schubert’s Ave Mariiiia. To everyone’s astonishment, Shona has an operatic soprano. Ave Maria, gratia plena . . . Maria gratia plena . . . The concrete walls of the station amplify and echo her voice, and even without a microphone she sounds as if she’s performing for the King at the Royal Albert Hall. Shona sings so expressively, she makes everyone tear up, even Duncan. Especially Duncan.
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