by Carrie Adams
Most civilized christenings are at three o’clock in the afternoon. Thus the replete and fully rested child is more likely to reflect the success of their exceptionally natural, gifted parents and gurgle perfectly through the service. It also gives the godparents, who tend to be a breed apart, time to recover from their night out. But Helen and Neil opted for the eleven o’clock service, followed by a fully catered-for champagne brunch back at their enormous house. I woke the morning after my “quick drink,” pulled the eyepatch off one eye and squinted at the clock through caked-on mascara. I pressed “snooze” one more time, knowing I was getting dangerously close to cutting down even my own speedy personal record for scrubbing up to an unacceptable panic. I went over my outfit in my head. My hair reeked of tobacco, but I didn’t have time to wash and dry it. I wondered whether Febreeze might work. Maybe a heavily scented hat was a better option. I possessed a particularly fetching trilby that I purchased off eBay which would hold the odor in nicely, but it meant a quick rethink on the part of the wardrobe. Trouser suit. High boots. Airy, fairy, floaty godmother look was out, gangsta-rap, hip-hop queen was in. The alarm buzzed again. Surely twenty minutes hadn’t passed already?
Full-fat Coke and tinted extra moisturizing cream with an SPF of twenty-five were the first items I lined up for my repair kit. I took the Coke into the shower and coated my boozy skin with extract of grapefruit, wearing a plastic shower cap so watertight that it left unsightly indentations along my hairline, like my own personal stigmata. More scented body cream, hairbrush, no make-up—make-up, more scent, fabulous boots, bag and hat and I was ready to walk into the hallowed portals of St. John’s Church perched on top of the hill that Ladbroke Road climbs. Claudia could be the good godmother. I would be the godmother that made the grandmothers’ eyes roll and the grandfathers revert to their twenty-five-year-old selves. I would be the ying to Claudia’s yang. I didn’t know who the godfathers were. Friends of Neil’s, I presumed, so I had already dismissed them.
My taxi arrived outside the church just as Neil’s ochre-colored Range Rover Sport pulled up behind. I paid, then turned to see Helen, looking incredibly glamorous, emerge from the back. She was wearing a very tailored white suit with a tight pencil skirt and staggeringly high “nude” heels. Her dark skin glowed, her hair was pulled back and hung in one long thick furling strand down her back. Her bold make-up accentuated the tapering of her wide eyes. The only jewelry she wore was a diamond cross and her diamond wedding ring. The haggard creature I’d seen was gone. She looked incredibly beautiful. The transformation was hard to take in. She smiled at me as someone handed her a bundle of lace that I took to be one of her sons. Neil took the other bundle. He looked fit to burst and it reminded me sharply that despite my own prejudices towards the man, no one really knows what goes on in the privacy of a marriage. It was a secret society that boasted only two members. It should not be judged on the snippets of information that landed at the feet of the non-members, or second-guessed by the uninitiated. Neil and Helen smiled at each other and I stepped proudly into line behind them, ready to become godmother once more. Twice more. Four times more. Tick. Tock.
Claudia was already inside the church, chatting to a portly woman clutching a stack of hymn books. I could see Al’s bald pate hiding behind a rather unwieldy, old-fashioned video recorder, taping it all for posterity. I waved at some people I recognized, and then realized seconds later that I was waving at the cast of a sitcom that Neil had been in, and lowered my hand. I looked away and smiled at a pillar. I was trying so hard not to feel awkward or out of place. Maybe I shouldn’t have dressed like Michael Jackson.
“You look fabulous,” said Claudia, grabbing my arm.
“No, I don’t,” I replied. “But I appreciate the lie.”
“You do,” she insisted. “Why is it so hard to get you to accept a compliment?”
“I only got to bed a few hours ago.”
“Now you mention it, there is a vague whiff of the brewery about you.”
“Compliment, you say…I hoped I’d covered most of it with grapefruit.”
“Don’t worry, I’m pregnant. I have the nose of a hound. No one else will notice. Was it a fun night?”
“Very. I met a girl from work—”
Claudia grabbed me aside. “Oh my God. And…?”
I exhaled. “He’s gone. In fact, he went mad after I left. He’s been committed!”
Claudia’s mouth dropped open.
“I know. Complete breakdown. It wasn’t really anything to do with me.” I felt an odd sensation saying that. Relief. Disbelief. And a terrible sadness and anger because if it hadn’t been anything to do with me, why had he chosen to follow me home? To call me during the night; stand over my desk and watch me work; ostracize me from my colleagues by favoring everything I did. Then throw an enormous boulder in the middle of my career path. If it had nothing to do with me, why was my life upended, on hold? “Turns out he’s got some mad compulsive thing going on; it could have manifested itself as pencil shavings collection or avoiding cracks in the pavement. My friend didn’t really know the details. They’re trying to keep it hush-hush, but according to someone else in another chambers, the wife had him committed.”
“Something many wives might envy.”
“Not you.”
Claudia smiled but carried on patting my arm reassuringly. “Seriously, you must be so relieved.”
“I’m relieved because it proves that I didn’t invent all of this.”
“Come on, why would you?”
To make my life more interesting, I wanted to say. I paused, “Because I was bored at work?”
Claudia ran her hand up and down my arm. “No, hon, that was real.” If there was a silent subliminal message in her reply, I chose to ignore it and my first answer. Just in case.
Al came up and put his arm around his wife’s waist. Claudia beamed up at him. Al was slimmer in build than Ben. And obviously had much less hair. But there were similarities too. They both had an easy charm, and were men of the deepest integrity. Al spoke softly and listened to others, which was why Helen adored him as well. Hell, we all adored Al. He was fundamentally a kind man, and they seemed hard to come by. He smiled back at his glowing wife and held the smile until she was distracted by the organist, pumping up the pedals, then I saw his expression change. The look we exchanged was enough. He knew I knew, I now knew he knew I knew, and we were both terrified. Claudia’s attention returned to us and the moment passed.
“So, Tessa, are you ready to welcome Jesus into your heart?” Al said, leaning over for a kiss.
“Unmarried, skilled and willing to provide food—you bet,” I said.
“I thought he was married, wore dresses and had a penchant for prostitutes,” Al replied, before being poked in the ribs by his wife. “Or was he married to a prostitute?”
“Al, we are in a church!” said Claudia, raising her eyes to the heavens.
“The dress thing I could probably overlook, but married men are out.”
“Do you think monogamy and monotheism are part of the same package?” asked Al, tilting his head to one side.
“Alexander Ward, are you suggesting Jesus could have taken a second wife?”
“Shh,” said Claudia.
I giggled. “I think Claudia thinks we are getting dangerously close to blaspheming.”
“No,” said Claudia, beaming broadly. “You are blaspheming. Ah, Reverend Larkin, may I introduce you to Tessa King, the other godmother.”
I turned to see a handsome man in a dog collar smiling at me. “Of course, the one who couldn’t make it to our little pre-christening chat.”
I searched my brain for a reason why I hadn’t wanted to have a tête-à-tête with this man. Oh yes. I am not a Christian and currently see organized religion as an impediment to social inclusion and world peace. I don’t have a problem with God, you understand. I have a problem with what is done in His name. Any of His names. Is it hypocritical of me to accept the role of godm
other, therefore? I have had this debate with myself numerous times and the answer I’ve conveniently come up with is no. Slight of word, an extra vowel here and there, and religious declarations are easily transformed into sensible moral codes of conduct that I’ve been happy to verbalize. God becomes Good, and I’m happy to welcome good into my heart. Renouncing evil is a skill I’m honing. At Caspar’s christening I opted for sneezes instead of Jesus, which didn’t work so well because I got the giggles; I don’t think Fran and Nick minded. The day they were married and christened their son was a day of incessant laughter. We were playing at being grown-ups. Well, I was.
“Claudia tells me you are a bit of a pro at the godmother thing, so you’ve probably heard it all before.”
I smiled at the vicar. He was being nice, but his words had a familiar sting about them that I was keen to ignore.
“A refresher course over a pint would probably be useful,” I replied.
The vicar laughed.
Claudia laughed.
“You’re terrible, Muriel,” she whispered into my ear, as we watched him go.
She was wrong, I wasn’t terrible. I felt terrible. I didn’t want to be a vamp, a predator, a woman with loose morals. I wasn’t really like that—couldn’t they see? I was simply reverting to type, putting on a show, being what they expected me to be. I didn’t want to be a professional godmother. I wanted to be me. But who was that? Just as I got a handle on her, she seemed to change.
I must have frowned because Claudia looked concerned.
“You all right with this?” she asked.
I nodded like Churchill. Not the statesman. The nodding dog.
“Remember,” said Claudia, “I know how you feel.”
That was true. We had both done a fair few christenings; this was only the first time she’d done one pregnant.
I kissed her cheek. “Right,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
Claudia took my arm and together we walked up the aisle to take our place in the second pew.
A lot of my single friends find weddings hard. Another brazen reminder of what they have failed to achieve: to find someone to love them. I don’t. I actually love a good wedding so long as you know the people getting married really well. The trick is avoiding the weddings of people you don’t know that well but are invited to unexpectedly. I went to a few of those, thinking that venturing into new pastures may yield alternative and exciting crops. It was not to be. My dining companions were either gay, prepubescent, or sat to the right of Genghis Khan. So I stopped accepting those invitations. They are also cripplingly expensive.
Weddings of friends I find easy. I go with no expectations other than to have fun with my mates. Christenings, however, are different. At weddings you are only one step behind. Something that could be rectified by the end of the evening.
Failing that, possibly by the end of the month because no one ever knows when they are going to meet “the one” or “someone,” at any rate. At christenings it is all too clear that you are two steps behind, and suddenly the one in the white dress getting all the attention is toothless and dribbling and reminding you that babies take time to cook, time to make and you still haven’t found someone to make them with and the one thing you don’t have is time. I lowered my head and pretended to pray, which felt largely like praying. Keep my mother strong. My father alive. My friends safe. My godchildren happy. And me? What did I pray for me? I squeezed my eyes shut. I wanted children, God, not more Godchildren.
“Hey, Tessa, shift it.” It was Neil. “This is David and Michael.” I looked up at the godfathers. We all shook hands. David did not have a ring on his finger, but there was a chalky watermark on the left shoulder of his jacket that looked distinctly like dried spittle to me. Sure enough, moments later, a small child ran up to him and passed him a plastic train, then ran away again to a woman holding a baby. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Michael, I recognized from the world of comedy but couldn’t quite place.
“Congratulations on The Pen, I loved it,” said Claudia gushing at Michael. Ah yes, it was all coming back to me. The Pen was a very successful series that Neil had had a bit part on. Michael wrote it. I think it won lots of awards. “The world is yours for the taking now, I should think,” said Claudia. “It was absolutely brilliant.”
“My girlfriend is away filming,” he replied. “Otherwise she’d be here.”
Claudia looked perplexed. “Right,” she said, and looked at me to see whether she’d misheard. She hadn’t.
“But yes, things are going well for us,” he continued, then turned back to David, the other godfather. The organ began to play.
“Welcome to my world,” I whispered in her ear.
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re not wearing your wedding ring.”
Claudia glanced down at her hand. “So? It’s at the jeweler’s.”
“He needed to mention that he was attached, just to make sure there were no misunderstandings.”
Claudia frowned again. Bless her, she’d been out of the game for a long time. “Misunderstandings about what?”
“About marrying you and siring your child.”
“But I was only complimenting him on the show,” she whispered furiously over the Mozart.
“You are a woman of a certain age, with no ring on your finger, and he is male and therefore in your sights as a potential sperm donor. He was simply marking out the battle lines.”
Claudia sat back against the pew. From time to time I saw her shake her head a fraction as she digested my words and his.
“But I wasn’t being remotely flirty.”
I shrugged. “You spoke.” Claudia went back to shaking her head. At one point she gave my hand a quick squeeze.
“You are very brave, Tessa,” she said, staring straight ahead.
I squeezed her hand back before letting go. Coming from the bravest woman I know that was a compliment I would take.
There are a million little reasons why you love the friends you have. When Al came to join us in the pew, he slid in next to me so I was sandwiched between him and his wife. He flung his arm over my shoulder, leaned forward and shook hands with the other two men. Claudia slid a fraction away from me so that even Al’s fingers weren’t touching her. Al wouldn’t even have noticed, but I did. And so did the comedian with the girlfriend because when we all started talking again, he happily engaged with me; he looked me in the eye, he looked at Al, but he never once glanced Claudia’s way. She lent me her buffer. It wasn’t for long. Who belonged to whom would materialize quickly enough, but for the moment I was not the social pariah, something to be feared, I was just a reasonably good-looking woman with enough social skills to make a professional comedian laugh. I did not care one bit that he graced me with his attentions, but I observed wryly how he ignored my friend. The whole episode lasted a few minutes but I learned a lot.
We sang hymns, listened to readings, heard from the Gospel. It was a major production. Then we processed back up the aisle to the stone font where water was rather unceremoniously poured from a couple of two-liter Sainsbury’s bottles into a glass bowl. The vicar went down in my estimation at that point. It’s hard to imagine that the waters of the River Jordan are flowing out of green plastic bottles, though he asked us to. The twins did not make a sound. They slept through the whole thing. Neither even grimaced when the cold water was ladled over their scalps. Since I had barely seen those boys do anything other than cry, it was amazing how easy it was to adore them when they were asleep and I felt a warm outpouring of love for them which, I am ashamed to say, I hadn’t experienced before.
Helen stood before the assorted throng as ravishing as she’d looked the day Claudia, Al and I had met her in Vietnam. I thought again what extraordinary potential Helen had had back then. Potential that was still untapped. Maybe the twins would be the making of her. Maybe she needed something to love to make her whole. Maybe Neil was a means to an end and the means were worth it.
“Do you
turn to Christ as Savior?” The vicar was looking directly at me. Taken aback, I mumbled my response, conscious that if I did not believe one iota of this then I would be able to hold the vicar’s stare and stand mute.
“Do you submit to Christ?” he asked, still looking at me.
Is it just me, or are these questions getting harder? “Submit” is not a word that forms easily on my lips.
“I submit to life,” I quickly replied, swallowing the fourth word. I should have swotted up on these questions.
“Do you come to Christ, the way, the truth and the life?”
Oh dear, I could feel the rumblings of schoolgirl giggles. The involuntary flicker of muscles at the side of my mouth. Claudia knew me well enough not to look at me, but I saw Al smirk behind his video camera. I think we were fourteen when we were thrown out of the school carol concert for exploding with laughter during “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” Oh come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem… Absurd, I know, but it was impossible to stop laughing. I pretended to cough. The vicar looked away. He’d probably seen enough.
The catatonic babies were passed in front of the four godparents and we all made a sign of the cross over their untroubled brows. Mine was more a kiss than a cross, but the love I felt for them was beginning to feel real. After that it was easier as the service became more of a group affair and the attention was no longer on us four. We took our seats for one final hymn and the Lord’s Prayer. I had always liked the Lord’s Prayer; it made sense to me and I used to say it with gusto. But then they changed the words which I was gutted about because I’d believed them when they said it was in the words that the Lord had taught us. Well, how could it be if they’d changed them? I may have only been thirteen, but I knew when I’d been conned. I started to wonder what other liberties my religion had been taking in the name of the Lord. I’d been meaning to ask a priest for years. Maybe today would be the day.