Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 19

by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant

  On the third evening, after class, he hung around in the corridor trying to drum up the courage to ask her out. The classroom appeared to be in darkness, yet he was sure she hadn't left. Finally, he pushed open the door.

  A hand gripped his arm and pulled him inside. “You took your time,” she said. “Why don't we lie down on that couch over there?"

  "But you don't even know who I am,” he protested. “I could be anyone."

  Hands worked deftly at his belt.

  He reached out to steady himself, his fingers catching on the collar of her robe which slid from her shoulders. You could get into a lot of trouble if she's mistaken you for someone else, he thought.

  * * * *

  When Neve could not provide any bridesmaids, his mother suggested two of his young cousins. On the day they were to go to choose the fabric for the dresses, his mother called to say she was down with flu. Neve insisted she would go alone.

  She took the car to pick up the girls and he was left with nothing to do. Recently, his mother had taken to questioning him about his bride's absent family and friends. “What does it look like that she's got no one? Folk'll wonder what sort of girl she is that no one wants to see her married."

  "She's not inviting anyone,” he had responded last time. “There's a difference."

  But now Neve was gone for the afternoon, he found himself looking in her underwear drawer, where she kept her paperwork. There were bank statements, bills from her old flat, but no address book, or letters, and no sign of her birth certificate. He searched the other drawers and her wardrobe, to no avail.

  When Neve returned she was in good spirits. She and “the girls” had stopped by the old cemetery. His young cousins had indulged in their favourite pastime, recounting tales about the more notorious graveyard residents. She chatted away as he sank into a gloomy mood. He realised it bothered him that she wasn't inviting anyone.

  "What about the life class tutor?” he asked her later in the pub. “You were friendly with her."

  "No. I'd never met her before the class.” Neve seemed disinterested in the whole subject of wedding guests.

  "And your old flatmate...."

  "You can't expect her to return from a backpacking trip just for me."

  At least she received postcards from this woman, he thought to himself.

  She put down her drink. “Why the sudden concern?"

  "You're not inviting anyone, Neve. It looks ... odd."

  "Who cares how it looks?"

  "Surely there's at least one member of your family we could invite?"

  "Did your mother put you up to this? It's time you cut the cord."

  "Stop trying to make out I'm some kind of mother's boy. You damn well know I'm not!"

  "Do I?” She went off to the loos. Fifteen minutes later, she still wasn't back.

  Damn his mother for putting ideas in his head. He left their half-finished drinks and walked up the shadowy hallway to the Ladies loo. Glancing around first in case he was seen, he knocked on the door. “Neve,” he hissed, “are you in there? Look, I'm sorry.” He waited. “Neve!"

  A banging behind him made him jump. Turning, he saw the door to the beer garden opening and closing in the wind. He found her sitting in the rain, her coat drawn tightly around her. “Look,” he began again, “I'm sorry...."

  She stood up and dropped her coat. She was naked underneath. He found himself wondering what she'd done with her clothes. “For god's sake, you'll catch your death out here!"

  Neve turned and bent over a wooden table, her palms flat on the wet surface. “Mummy's boy,” she taunted over her shoulder.

  "Right,” he said, furiously pushing a table against the door of the pub. “You asked for it. But if we're arrested, you can explain it to my.... “He caught himself just in time. He heard her fingers drumming on the table as he fumbled to loosen his clothing.

  * * * *

  Neve had taken to inviting the girls out for runs in the car and afternoon tea. Every Sunday she walked out the door, jingling the car keys. He wasn't invited. “Girls only,” she'd once explained with a laugh. She always came back with more of his cousins’ gruesome stories.

  "Do you know,” she said one night as she kissed her way down his chest, “that after you're dead your stomach turns green, and you start to swell with gas, and...."

  "You're not to play with those girls anymore,” he said in mock horror. “They're putting strange ideas in your head."

  Afterwards he woke in a sweat from a dream where he'd withdrawn from her body only to find he'd left his penis still buried inside her. She'd closed her thighs and refused to give it back. “It's mine now,” she said. “All mine."

  "How much do you love me?” she asked him the next morning.

  "I'm feeling a bit off today. I think I'll call in sick.” He pulled the covers over his head.

  She pulled them back off. “How much do you love me?” She shook him this time, straddling his body.

  He groaned. “Too much."

  Curious, head cocked to one side like a cat's, she said, “How can it ever be too much?"

  * * * *

  The dresses were all finished, the flowers ordered, the cars and the church booked, the reception sorted, the guests invited. Except for Neve's. All she had was a card from her backpacking friend wishing her well.

  As to the ceremony itself: his father would give her away, one of his friends would be the best man, his mother would look on in disapproval, and the girls would flit about the wedding guests explaining the processes of decomposition and the likely fate of the neighbour who had been missing for the past fifteen years. “Chopped up into little pieces,” they were often heard to say gleefully. “With a machete."

  "I can't imagine where they get it from,” his mother said on the Sunday before the wedding. He and Neve had been going to the services though neither was a believer. His mother had Neve down as a heathen, which Neve played up on every chance she got. “Certainly not their parents. But her, she's as thick as thieves with them. They're worse now than they ever were."

  * * * *

  He half expected her to be late, just to make a better entrance, but she was right on time. The church was decked out in flowers, and Neve wore a crown of blossoms over her veil. Her dress was long, tight-fitting, and, he thought for a panicked second, transparent. But then the sunlight pitching through the windows caused the fabric to shimmer, the suspicious shadows to disappear. He breathed a sigh of relief. The guests, equally gathered on both sides of the church, perked up at the sight of her. There was no doubt about it, she looked beautiful. The organ played the Wedding March. His father escorted her down the aisle through a cloud of sunlight that obscured his vision for a moment. Then she was standing in front of him. He could see her face through the veil.

  Who are you? he found himself thinking as he gazed on her. Where do you come from? Who are your people, your family?

  The congregation had risen to their feet to sing a hymn. His lips moved, his eyes scanned the hymn sheet. When he looked up, the minister smiled reassuringly.

  "I do,” he said mechanically when the time came. It seemed only brief moments before her veil was raised. The touch of her lips, ripe like fruit, brought him back to his senses. Who was she? She was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

  * * * *

  The reception was at a small hotel just along from the church. They walked the short distance as well-wishers threw confetti over them. Neve laughed, kicking up the front of her dress, the girls hurrying behind, carrying her long train. Guests congratulated his mother on her new daughter-in-law. He couldn't hear her response.

  Later, after the meal, he led Neve to the centre of the dance floor to the clapping of the guests. “There,” he whispered as they circled the floor, and the best man raised a glass to them. “The big church wedding wasn't so bad after all, was it?"

  A cloud seemed to pass over her face, just for a moment. Then it was gone. “No,” she said. “It w
asn't so bad."

  * * * *

  While his father waltzed Neve around the room, he decided to go out and get some air. Children ran about the graveyard, laughing. Then the girls appeared, dressed identically in raspberry satin. Like Neve, they had blossoms in their hair. They talked intensely to the other children. He decided to walk over. It seemed important to hear what Neve's only friends in the world, other than the mysterious backpacker, were saying.

  Perched on a low wall, they explained that the flat grave stones in the churchyard were there to keep the dead in the ground, otherwise they could scrape their way to the surface and escape. New graves never had flat stones so those dead were always escaping. You could hear them at night, scrabbling to get out.

  "And you should see what they look like when they do get out,” one of the girls said before popping a sweet in her mouth.

  "They're all rotten by then,” said the other, passing round a bag of crisps. “If the weather's hot, they rot faster. When you die, they plug up all your holes so you don't make a mess."

  "And that's not all."

  "Your eyes turn to liquid and your hair and nails fall out."

  "Your face swells up. And so do men's willies, and ladies..."

  He was horrified. “Enough!” He strode forward and grasped both of them by the arm. “Where did you hear such things? Well?"

  They looked up at him calmly. “Neve told us,” one of them finally said. “She knows all about it."

  He let them go. “Get back to the hotel. All of you."

  Some of the children were crying. They began to disperse. “I thought it was interesting,” one little girl said to him resentfully, before skipping off.

  * * * *

  At the hotel, Neve still danced with his father. He strode up to her, took her by the elbow, and walked her away. “What on earth have you been telling those girls?"

  "What girls?"

  "My cousins."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. What's the matter with you?"

  Aware that the eyes of the assembly were on them, he suggested they go outside.

  "What for?"

  Through the window behind her, he saw the girls in the churchyard. “I'll show you,” he muttered, marching her out the double doors of the reception room and through the foyer.

  "In a bit of a hurry there, young fella,” one of the guests was heard to shout. “At least give the girl a chance to catch her breath."

  Outside, he dragged her towards the graveyard. Cherry blossom trees, lush with leaves, lined the perimeter of the hotel grounds. The girls were again perched on the wall, the edges of their long satin dresses lifting in the wind.

  "What have you been telling those girls? They were talking about rotting corpses."

  Neve's face changed from angry to dismissive. “Och, that? Is that what this is about? Kids like scary stuff. What's the matter with you?"

  "Sugar and spice and all things nice,” the girls sang in what seemed to be mocking tones.

  "Neve, they were talking about.... “He lowered his voice. “Private parts."

  "God, you sound like your mother."

  "You leave my mother out of this...."

  "She's never out of it,” she hissed. “She's always there. Every minute of the day."

  "What are you talking about?” The singing was distracting him.

  "There's a noose loose aboot this hoose,” the girls chanted.

  He turned on them. “Will you shut up! Just shut up!"

  The two of them fell silent, glowering.

  "Leave them alone.” Neve broke away from him. “They're not doing anything."

  "You put them up to this, didn't you?"

  "What are you talking about? They're just kids."

  "We hardly ever see my mother,” he said, changing tack.

  "We don't need to. She's there in your head.” Her face seethed. “Even when we're fucking!"

  Without thinking, his hand lashed out and caught her cheek.

  After a shocked moment, she turned and walked over to the wall that bordered the graveyard and climbed over, her train sliding after her like a long white tail.

  "Wait, Neve...” He felt sick. He'd never hit anyone before, much less a woman.

  The girls fell into step behind her, their little ringlets bouncing furiously. “She doesn't want to speak to you,” one of them shot back over her raspberry satin shoulder. “Go away."

  It was the last straw. “Well, while we're on the subject of mothers,” he shouted after Neve, “just where the hell is yours? This is your wedding day and your family aren't here. Why aren't they here, Neve?"

  In that second, Neve spun round, mouth open, one foot catching in her dress. She seemed to topple over in slow motion. Later, it would always seem like he had had the time to catch her. The girls reached out their arms, but she fell past them, her head cracking against a flat gravestone. Her eyes looked up at him, unblinking.

  His legs unfroze and he bolted forward, kneeling beside the grave.

  "Neve,” he said quietly, giving her shoulder a gentle shake. “Neve.” He touched her face. His fingers came away bloodstained. She went on staring at him, her hair lifting in the breeze.

  * * * *

  The girls refused to go for help. “We're not leaving her,” they declared, eyes accusing. So he ran to the hotel himself. The receptionist called for an ambulance. Guests streamed out as he ran back to the graveyard. After leaping over the low wall, he came to a dead halt. The white dress lay on the ground, but Neve was gone.

  He looked around the graveyard wildly. The girls sat on the wall sucking sweets.

  "Where is she?” his mother called. “I thought you said she fell and hit her head here."

  "Neve!” he called. “Neve!"

  There was no answer.

  He looked at his cousins. “Where did she go?"

  "She said she was going home."

  "Home,” he said. And he ran to the car park.

  * * * *

  Her clothes, her documents, everything she had owned, was gone from the house. It was as if she'd never lived there.

  The police only added to his confusion. “What can you tell us about your wife?” a constable asked, notebook open. “Where does she come from? Has she any family?"

  "I don't know,” he said. “I don't know."

  "How can you marry a woman you know nothing about?” his mother asked.

  "I know I love her,” he said. “I know that."

  "She's gone,” the girls said to him days later when he visited the cemetery. “All gone."

  He grabbed their arms, ready to shake the truth out of them. “Tell me where she is?"

  "You shouldn't have hit her. You shouldn't have asked her those questions."

  "Where is she?"

  "Leave them alone,” a voice said.

  His breath caught. He dropped the girls’ arms. Neve stood a little distance away. He stepped towards her. “Neve! We've been searching everywhere. Where did you go? Are you hurt?"

  She didn't answer. Her gaze moved to the girls and she nodded. He heard their footfalls as they ran from the graveyard.

  "You're angry,” he said when they were gone. “You've every right to be. I hit you. My god, I hit you. It will never happen again. I promise."

  Still she was silent.

  "Say something."

  "How much do you love me?” she said.

  His heart leapt with hope. This was the old Neve. “More than anything,” he said. “More than anyone."

  "Not enough to take me without a past."

  "Neve, it's perfectly reasonable to be curious about your bride's family. You know all about me."

  "I never asked you to tell me those things."

  "I thought you wanted to know."

  Her hair lifted in the wind. There was no sign of a bruise on her face. But below her ankle-length dress, her feet were strangely bare.

  "Where are you staying?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath. Then sh
e looked at him for a long moment. “Goodbye,” she said, and turning, walked away.

  "Wait! What do you mean, goodbye?” He hurried to catch up. She was taking the path that led around the church grounds. “You're my wife. We were married. Neve!"

  She rounded the churchyard and the hill came into view, rising up like a dome.

  He paused. “Neve! You can't just run off again."

  But she stepped up to the hill and walked right through the grass which shimmered like a curtain of transparent green. She walked through without a backward glance and was gone.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Dear Aunt Gwenda

  The Head Cold Cranky Blues/Softer Side of Ricin Edition

  Q: I would like Aunt Gwenda to find me my next boyfriend.

  A: I have a cold, darlings, but even if I didn't, I'm an advice columnist, not a matchmaker. I don't have that kind of time. Choose the first boy whom you find attractive, without a Lord of the Rings tattoo. You'll have beautiful children, especially if you kidnap them.

  Q: I work with opossums. Sure they smell bad and creep around at twilight, but can you really hold that against them? They also eat rats and slugs so that we don't have to. Yet many people still don't like them. Is this due to prejudice or ignorance?

  A: I applaud your open-mindedness. It must be frustrating to come into ye olde office every day, typing speedily with your fingers, and watching them not, with their little grabby claw fingers. Now I'm not an advocate of workplace violence, but, truly, how can you stand it? You do know they roll around on your desk when you're not there exchanging triumphant looks with their beady, red-beam-shooting eyeholes, right? How many more times can you stand idly by and watch them play dead whenever they miss a project deadline? Stop pretending and get your ricin toxin-encrusted ink pen ready for action. Here opossum, opossum. (And let anyone who feels a pang at the likely outcome remember that terrible, hammy opossum in that folksy Chris Offutt author photo; they pay for the crimes of their species!)