by Liz Eeles
I look around me at the strange ragbag of people I’ve come to love over the last nineteen months. People who’ve accepted an incomer from London and made her a part of this close-knit community.
‘If you’re sure,’ I gulp. ‘That would be the most fantastic wedding present ever. Thank you so much.’
Everyone cheers when Josh strides forward, circles my waist with his strong arms and swings me round.
‘Did you organise this?’ I whisper into his ear as his thick dark hair tickles my nose.
‘Nope, it’s all their idea. Gerald sounded me out about it this morning and you deserve it because you’re always doing so much for other people. Anyway, I can’t wait any longer to make you Mrs Pasco.’
‘Ms Trebarwith.’
‘Whatever you want to call yourself. I don’t care as long as you marry me this month.’ And he kisses me on the lips while everyone claps.
* * *
During the break, I sit alone at the back of the church gathering my thoughts. I’ll be walking down this aisle in less than three weeks’ time thanks to my lovely choir, who are currently clustered round the chocolate cupcakes.
The only sour note of the evening is Jennifer’s absence. Is she starting to cut her ties with us in anticipation of her move to Paris? The village will be devastated if she leaves, especially Roger, who’s shoving a whole cupcake into his gob while Kayla’s back is turned.
Who’d have guessed he was holding a candle for our star soprano? Not even Roger, it seems, and now he’s realised when it’s probably too late. That’s tough. But at least he’ll be slim and smart as well as sad in the crisp new shirts that Kayla’s made him buy.
Aargh! Covering my face with my hands, I rock gently back and forth in the pew.
It’s all very well organising the reception so my wedding can go ahead but what the hell am I going to wear? I picture the satin dress still hanging stained and bedraggled in the wardrobe because I haven’t had the heart to chuck it out.
‘Are you all right, dear? Have you got a headache?’ calls Florence, marching up the aisle. ‘I need a quick chat with you if possible.’
‘Of course. What’s the problem?’
‘Not here when he’s about.’ She glances at Josh, who’s chatting with Tom and Ollie. ‘In the vestry. Follow me.’
She scuttles off down the aisle, does a swerve past the cake scoffers and shoots into the vestry with me following her. After pushing the door to, she pulls out a large suit carrier stashed behind a cupboard.
‘I didn’t want your fiancé to see this. He told Gerald that the rain coming through your roof ruined the dress that you were going to wear for your wedding, which is a terrible shame.’
She starts unzipping the carrier. Uh-oh, I have a horrible idea where this is going. I swallow and nod.
‘So I brought this in for you to wear. It’s the dress I wore when I married my Bob and it should fit you because I was a lot skinnier in those days. But feel free to alter it if need be. It would be a great honour if you’d wear it on your wedding day. There’s no need to thank me.’
She beams and pulls back the black nylon cover.
Oh my. It’s so kind of Florence to let me wear her wedding dress. I’m touched beyond belief at her thoughtfulness and kindness. But Florence’s dress is absolutely hideous. Huge looping swathes of lace and shiny chalk-white satin festoon the creation, which has a deep ruffled neckline and puffed sleeves edged with a flurry of more ruffles. And there appears to be a hoop underneath the full skirt.
‘Wow, Florence, I really don’t know what to say!’ I exclaim as Kayla barrels into the room holding a plastic cup of orange squash.
‘Here you are!’ She gasps at the dress, open-mouthed. ‘What – is – that?’
‘It’s Florence’s beautiful wedding dress which she has extremely generously said I can wear on my wedding day.’
Kayla looks at me in horror but clamps her mouth shut when I widen my eyes at her.
‘Well’ – she swallows – ‘that is indeed very generous of you, Florence. Annie will look a right picture in it.’
Florence beams even more widely and smooths down one of the many lace swags on her precious dress. ‘I’ll leave it with you, dear, and I’ll be so proud when you wear it down the aisle. Right, I’m off to grab one of Maureen’s cupcakes before Roger has another one.’
‘Another one?’ scowls Kayla. ‘He promised me he hadn’t had any.’
‘What a scamp. He’s had at least two that I’ve seen.’
The second the door closes behind Florence, Kayla starts shaking with laughter. ‘That is a million times worse than any of the dresses at Wendy’s Wowzer Weddings.’ She’s shaking so much, orange squash is splashing in all directions.
‘Shush, Kayla, I don’t want Florence to hear you and don’t get your drink on the satin or she’ll kill you. It’s incredibly kind of her to lend me such a special dress.’
Kayla snorts. ‘You say special. I say hideous. Have you noticed the hoop? You’ll look like Little Bo Peep walking up the aisle in that and Josh will definitely do a runner. All you need is a crook on your arm and a couple of sheep for bridesmaids. The photos will be priceless.’
‘I know. But how can I not wear it without upsetting Florence?’
‘Just tell her you’d rather walk into church stark naked. You need to stop thinking about everyone else, Sunshine. You’re the one getting married so you get to be selfish for the whole day.’
‘OK but it’s not as though I’ve got anything else to wear.’
‘Anything else – and I mean anything – would be better than that,’ chortles Kayla before collapsing into more fits of giggles which is no help whatsoever.
* * *
After the rehearsal, Josh, Emily and Storm go to the pub but I’m tired and walk home with Florence’s dress over my arm. It weighs a ton – it must be all those ruffles.
The house is eerily quiet when I let myself in and switch on the lamp in the sitting room. It’s still light outside but the lamp casts a golden glow over Alice’s favourite chair where she’d sit when a storm blew in and watch sea spray plume into the air. Our windows are always streaked with salt on blowy days.
Alice would know what to do about Florence’s dress and how to avoid hurting her feelings. She knew everything about everyone in the village though she wasn’t always the most tactful of souls. Roger reckons she once told him he resembled one of his beer barrels from the side.
After carefully laying the dress across the back of the sofa, I sink onto the soft cushions and sit for a while thinking about my wedding. My lovely choir will never know how much their rescue plan means to me – and how pleased Alice would be with my last hurrah before leaving Salt Bay.
When the house is silent like this, I can almost feel her presence. Not her spirit, because all that supernatural stuff is too woo-woo for me. If ghosts were real, Mum would be haunting me right now and accusing me of ‘submitting to the patriarchy’ by getting married – though I know she’d like Josh.
Alice’s presence is more ethereal as though her vitality has leached into the stones of Tregavara House and she’s become part of the building. I just hope she’ll still be here after Toby has taken a sledgehammer to the place.
Twenty-Nine
In the end, I hang Florence’s dress next to my ruined one, close the wardrobe door and try to forget it. At some point I’ll have to break the news that I’m not going to wear it, but procrastination is hugely underrated.
Over the next couple of days I decide that the pretty maxi dress I wore to Maura’s wedding in London will do for getting married in. Wearing pale lemon cotton isn’t how I imagined myself going up the aisle but it seems shallow to get hung up about clothes when it’s only thanks to people’s kindness that we’re getting married at all.
Seeing as I’ve gone off piste with the dress, I’ve told my bridesmaids they can wear what they like on the big day so we’re going to look a right ragbag going up the aisle. Me in
a summer frock, Kayla done up to the nines in a slinky body-con from her wardrobe, Emily in something frilly and frumpy and Storm in Doc Martens and jeans. It’ll certainly be a wedding that Salt Bay will never forget.
Talking of unforgettable, Roger’s doing his best to make himself irresistible to Jennifer by sticking to Kayla’s regime, which he describes as boot camp. It’s early days but it’s already starting to pay off.
He’s definitely looking more svelte when I nip into the pub after leaving work early on Friday afternoon. He’s slimmed off slightly around the neck and belly, he’s got new specs, and he’s wearing a moss green T-shirt that suits his colouring better. Best of all, the ubiquitous summer damp patches under his arms have disappeared.
‘I made him change his deodorant,’ says Kayla when I mention it. ‘I should have done it ages ago ’cos now the bar’s far more fragrant. I’ve also culled the pub’s CD collection by telling him Jennifer hates pan pipes. He threw all his pipes CDs in the bin straight away. Result! You customers owe me a debt of gratitude.’ She clenches her fist and punches the air.
‘Does she hate pan pipes?’
‘She must do. No one in their right mind can stand the damn things. They’re far too… cheerful. I told him she loves Radiohead so he’s ordered a job-lot of their CDs from Amazon. My wiles are legendary.’
She wanders off looking pleased with herself while I sip at my lemonade. I’ve only nipped into the pub to escape Rob, who’s doing another evaluation of the roof’s condition for Toby. My cousin wants to double-check what he’ll be paying out once the house is his which is fair enough. But I can’t face a conversation with Rob about a roof that soon won’t be mine.
Fortunately Rob’s van has gone when I get home and it’s blissfully quiet because everyone else is out. I’m planning on having a cup of tea in the sitting room but first I head to my bedroom for a cardigan. The hot weather has returned and emmets are out in force but the temperature noticeably drops inside the house’s thick stone walls.
On the landing, a large steamer trunk is blocking the way and I spot a scrawled note on top.
Found this in corner of attic and have brought down so it won’t get wet when rain comes in again.
When rain comes in again… Toby had better pull his finger out and get this house purchase finalised.
I run my hand along the top of the trunk, which is bound by thick wooden bands and covered in dust. I’ve never seen it before but then again I’ve hardly ever been in the attic.
There’s a pile of junk up there plus loads of spiders so I only ventured up the loft ladder once and came right back down again when a web brushed my face. Flood, bereavement and cancelled weddings, I can cope with. Eight-legged arachnids with hairy bodies – not so much.
Two heavy metal clasps on front of the trunk give a satisfying clunk when I unfasten them and push open the heavy domed lid. Piles of photos and yellowing papers are stacked up inside.
Sitting back on my heels, I pull out a handful of pictures. Most are black and white, but some are in colour though the colours are fading to brown. These are amazing! A few of the photos are more recent and include two shots of my mum as a young woman with her long fair hair. They must have been taken just before she left Salt Bay for good.
But most of the photos show people in old-fashioned clothes. One particularly striking picture is of a middle-aged couple sitting near a huge fern in an enamelled planter. The woman is wearing a high-necked blouse and dark jacket over a belted full skirt. The man standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder is in a smart suit with a watch chain looping from his waistcoat pocket.
Neither of them are smiling. In fact, they look terrifyingly severe but they probably weren’t allowed to move for ages while the picture was taken on a Box Brownie. It was a big deal back then. Not like nowadays when people are always shoving iPhones in your face.
Spidery black writing is scratched across the back of the picture which is mounted on thick card: Benjamin and Charlotte Trebarwith. They must be ancestors of mine. My DNA and theirs are linked. Do I look like them? I study the shape of their mouths and the angle of their cheekbones and shiver. The thought of looking like people so long gone is weird.
Putting the pile of photos to one side, I pull out a large bible from the trunk, which is bound in mottled brown leather with gold lettering. The tissue-thin leaves are loose when I carefully open up the book and there, written out in blue ink on the inside cover, is the Trebarwith family tree.
This is brilliant! It’s like being on Who Do You Think You Are? and striking gold at the end of the programme. So Danny Dyer can trace his roots back to William the Conqueror? Well, I can now trace mine back to – I run my finger along the main branch of the family tree – Jeremiah Trebarwith, born in Cornwall in 1638. Amazing!
My mum’s name, Joanna, lies beneath the names of my grandparents Samuel and Sheila and under her there’s a question mark. That must be me. I was nothing but a question mark to the Trebarwith family for ages but now I belong.
After carefully placing the bible on the landing carpet, I delve into the trunk and pull out a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. The paper was probably once white but has yellowed with time and, when I peel it back, I stop breathing. Nestled in the fragile parcel are children’s clothes.
There’s a Babygro made of white flannelling and tiny baby shoes in soft beige leather. Underneath lie a pair of small grey shorts and what looks like a school tie. A striped child’s top is wrapped around a silver frame which holds a family photo. Three people are smiling at the camera – a young woman I immediately recognise as Alice, a handsome dark-haired man whose eyes crinkle at the edges and, between them, a small boy in grey shorts with a mischievous grin.
‘Hello, Freddie. How marvellous to see you at last,’ I whisper, tracing the outline of his face with my finger. I can only imagine the devastation soon after this photo was taken when Freddie caught measles and died from complications. No wonder Alice hid away this cruel reminder of what she’d lost.
Children are playing outside on the harbour sand and their shouts drift through the open windows as I cry for lost Freddie and lost Alice. How could she bear to go on without her beloved son?
I sit snivelling for a while, afraid to delve further into the trunk that’s unlocking pain from the past and pulling it into the present. Though maybe Alice would be glad it’s out in the open at last.
‘You’ve come this far, Trebarwith, so get a grip and keep going,’ I say out loud, my words echoing down the stairs.
Next out of the trunk is a pile of old school reports dating back to the early 1930s and below them there’s a double layer of tissue. My fingers push around the tissue and touch fabric – smooth fabric that’s heavy when I pull it from the trunk and gasp. I’m holding a beautiful wedding dress made of cream silk that’s nipped in at the waist with a long full skirt. It’s Alice’s, I’m sure of it, because her wedding photo from the 1960s was on her bedside table. But the lace overlay across the bodice and shoulders is delicate and the style suggests it’s from two decades earlier.
Whenever it was made, the dress is absolutely gorgeous. Stripping off on the landing, I pull the dress over my head and it rustles down over me. The fabric smells slightly fusty but the dress fits, more or less. It’s too long and bunches around my feet but wearing high heels would fix that. Josh is over six feet tall so towering heels won’t be a problem – just so long as I practise walking in them first. Literally tripping up the aisle isn’t great on your wedding day.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Gathering up the skirt in both hands, I walk slowly into Alice’s bedroom and stand in front of the floor-length mirror propped up against the wall.
Yay! I don’t look half-bad. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I look pretty damn decent. The creamy colour of the silk complements my bright blue eyes and brown hair and warms my pale colouring. In fact, my face seems to glow. The only thing that spoils the effect are the mascara trails on my cheeks
from all that snivelling.
‘Thank you, Alice,’ I say in the room that’s still full of her. ‘Is this the ideal wedding gift you told Josh you had for me?’
The front door slams and I start panicking in case it’s Josh but thundering footsteps coming up the stairs announce Storm’s arrival.
‘What’s all this crap?’ she grumbles, spotting the trunk and its contents strewn across the landing.
‘Storm, can you come here for a minute?’
‘Where are you?’ She clumps along the landing and comes to an abrupt halt at the bedroom door.
‘What the hell are you wearing?’
She’s hot and flustered and holding her blonde-streaked hair up off the back of her neck.
‘It’s a wedding dress.’
‘Well, duh! You’re hardly going to do the gardening in it, are you? Is that the dress Florence got married in? Only she must have been a lot less fat then.’
‘No, this is Alice’s wedding dress. I found it in the trunk that’s on the landing. What do you think?’
‘Hhmm.’ Storm walks all round me with her hands on her hips like she’s inspecting an ancient monument. ‘It’s not bad at all,’ she finally declares which in sulky teenage lingo means, ‘you look amazing’.
I smile and the skirt swishes around my legs when I do a twirl. ‘I don’t think Alice would mind if I wore this on my big day.’
‘I think the old lady would probably be all right with it. It’ll be like a bit of her is here supporting you and your family should always support you. Mums especially should always support their children even if it happens to inconvenience them a bit.’
‘Have you had a reply from your mum to the wedding invitation?’
‘Yeah, to the wedding invitation that I said not to send her. Most of the time you don’t tell me what the hell’s going on and the rest of the time you’re poking your nose into my business. Your behaviour is, like, totally inappropriate.’