“But there won’t be room, pet!” Father remonstrated awkwardly.
She smiled him a fierce smile. “Nonsense Teddy! of course there’ll be room, or if there isn’t—” and she gave Lizzie’s father a Harvest Festival grin, “then som’on us’ll ’ave to walk, won’t we Mr Smith?”
Mr Smith took her mood at once.
“They ’ull that, Mrs Blaydon! an’ ’twouldn’t do no ’arm for some on ’em fat folk to stretch their legs a little, would it?”
“If they wants their ’am and salad,” said Mother, more North country than ever, “then let’m splodge for it same as t’Bondagers.”
At this several of the onlookers tittered, Simpson whispered something to Lizzie, and Michael looked pained. When Mother was in this mood there was no knowing how far she might go; but fortunately, at this moment, Alexander Flood appeared. His hair, very Harrovian, his sparkling white carnation, something expert and habitual about the fall of his morning-coat over his well-bred behind, discomforted them all even more; and Michael stepped forward eagerly.
“Really, Mother dear, I think it’d be simplest if we took a couple of taxis, don’t you? I say, Alexander! you’re so good with these fellows, do you think you could get someone to flag another taxi?”
“Nothing simpler my dear fellow,” said Alexander drawing himself up and stepping to the kerb. He raised a long hand, tilted his topper a little farther forward over the high bridge of his nose and in a moment two more taxis drew up in front of the awning. Then, with exquisite courtesy and leisure, as though his very facility bored him, he ushered Mother, Father, Michael, John, and Victoria into the first, Nanny, Simpson, Melanie and the Smiths into the second.
They drew away into the flux of traffic and Mother leaned forward to Father who was perched beside John on a folding-seat. She was angry at the curtailment of her turn by the intervention of Alexander.
“Teddy, look out of the window and see if Mrs Mudd and the Boult’s are all right.”
“John,” said Father, “do what your mother tells you.”
John got up and put his head out of the window. He could see nothing but red buses and the receding spire of the church. London was a thousand cities and already they had moved into a new one. He sat down again and lied brightly: “Yes, they’re just behind us and Mr Boult is sitting in the front with the driver.”
Mother sat back. “We mustn’t just think of ourselves,” she said more quietly, “they’re our people and they’ve come all this way to horrible old London for our sake. Just because this is a so-called fashionable wedding we mustn’t forget our responsibility to them; although they may not say much they know what I’m going through. There were tears in Old Smith’s eyes when he was speaking to me just now—”
“Probably,” interrupted Father drily, “at the thought of all the drink he’ll have to forgo.” He gave Michael one of his most cumbersome winks.
Mother’s mouth closed tightly and there was a slow silence.
Father pretended to be unconcerned. He looked at John, then at Victoria, his gaze brushed past Mother and came to rest again on Michael.
“Surely we must be nearly there, Mick? Hadn’t you better ask this fellow where he’s taking us? When they think they’ve got a greenhorn in the back they’re just like the old cabmen, they’ll take you all over Town to get a bigger fare out of you.”
Nobody answered him; they were all looking at Mother whose mouth was still a thin pink line and whose eyes were looking straight ahead of her. Outside the windows, the traffic moved faster and faster; everyone seemed to be overtaking them, and in front of them the taxi-driver sat grimly, as though he were following some slow tortuous procession of his own and was determined to be at the end of it.
Michael spoke. “Go on with what you were saying, Mother, about old Smith: I noticed that he was looking a little upset.”
“So did I!” said John, taking Michael’s cue. “He was, wasn’t he, Victoria?”
“Who? That old man with the cap and the moustache?”
“What’s the use,” said Mother in her removed voice. “I shall say no more! What we’ve just seen was enough; that dreadful service, all those worldly people and her rudeness to me in the Vestry when they were signing the Register. I don’t know how I stood it; it was all I could do to sing. Everybody felt it, I know they did. They’re taking David away from us! They want to turn him into one of those fashionable effeminate clergy like Willie Wilson, and it’s not what God intended. He always wanted to be a missionary and instead she’s going to suffocate him with wealth and drink.” She looked at Father. “Yes drink! Laugh at that if you can, and then when you’ve finished laughing at me, ask David what Gertie’s wedding present is to be. Ask him!”
“I’m sorry pet. It was only a little joke.”
“Of course it wasn’t a little joke. You know what Lizzie’s gone through with her Father—night after night in the Cross Keys until I got him to sign the pledge. You were deliberately trying to hurt me simply because you were annoyed at not being able to officiate at the wedding of your eldest son. Well, it’s not my fault. She arranged it all, she’s got a Bishop in every pocket. It’s true, isn’t it? you can’t deny it.”
“I was a little vexed Kitty, and I’m sorry if I hurt you.” He patted her knee.
“You had every right to be—the whole thing taken out of your hands, out of our hands. We wanted them to be married in our own parish amongst our own people in Beddington. The Bishop would have come, he never refuses me anything, and you could have assisted and everyone could have been there; the Bellinghams, the Bolshotts and Lady Blake. It would have been wonderful, and what is more, it would have been right; it would have pleased everybody. But no! that didn’t suit her at all. Having done the impossible and found someone willing to marry her flat-chested daughter, she has to proclaim it to her world and subject us all to this silly flunkeyism. We have come all this way, put on these ridiculous town clothes, and bring half the parish with us, solely in order to eat humble-pie at Gertie’s expense. And her people, who are they? only business, trade! David was at Oxford, you were at Oxford, Pall and your Father were at Oxford whereas old Cable was only a board-school boy, I’m sure of it; but no one will ever know! that’s where she’s so clever—because he’s been dead so long; he had nothing but money and she uses it to influence the Bishops. It’s what I’ve wanted to say all along at every Church Assembly—they’ll never get real Christianity in England till the Church is disestablished—and this year I shall say it and I’ll get York to back me up.”
At the mention of the Archbishop there was silence and Michael looked out of the window. “We’re nearly there. Cheer up Mother pet, we’re all with you and we’ll back you up.”
Suddenly gallant, she smiled at him and getting out her handkerchief dabbed at her nose. Then, opening her compact, she smeared the tiniest trace of lipstick on to her lips and fluffed a little of her fair powder on to her cheeks.
“Now you see what they’ve done,” she said suddenly to Victoria, “they’ve upset me and spoiled this absurd makeup.”
“I think you look very sweet Mrs Blaydon, younger even than Mummy!”
“No I don’t,” said Mother. “I’m just a tired old woman. I’m nearly fifty and I look like seventy. I’ve had seven children—”
“Six dear,” said Father.
“What do you mean six? If you’d had them you wouldn’t have forgotten the first one—my little dark-haired daughter.” She resumed her smile and looked at Victoria. “Yes I’ve been married over thirty years and now I’m losing my David; and though that’s bad enough I wouldn’t mind if I didn’t feel that God was losing him too. But don’t worry, I shall accept it as I’ve accepted everything else. Just remember, though, all of you, that this is our wedding as much as theirs. I want you to see that our parishioners are looked after, each of them’s worth half a dozen of these Londoners with their proud faces—now where’s my bag, Victoria? We’ll wait for the others and then we’
ll all go in together.”
“I don’t see how we can, Mother,” said Michael. “For one thing we’ll have to go to different cloakrooms. And for another, I’m sure that Mrs Cable will expect you and Father to stand with her behind the bride and groom.”
“Oh no!” said Mother. “If she’s going to take him over, and I know she is, then she can do it without my help. I have the rest of the family to think of. David will understand.” The taxi drew up and the driver opened the door.
“Victoria! you come with me you poor little thing. It’s a dreadful thing to be born a woman. If I only had my Mary with me it wouldn’t be so bad; but even she is denied me until this horrible day is over. We’ll find Melanie and we’ll have our refreshments together in our own corner.”
Holding Victoria’s arm she joined the stream of people moving through the glass-fronted entrance and disappeared into the hotel.
Michael paid the taxi and then, having collected old Smith, the four of them made their way to the downstairs cloakroom.
“I’m very worried about her,” said Father very contentedly, “and now I’ve put my foot in it—Silly of me, of course, but I didn’t think she’d take it like that.”
“I shouldn’t let it spoil things,” said John. “See if you can make her drink a glass of champagne. That will cheer her up.”
“Never touches it, says that if she once started she’d never know when to stop—like old Pall.”
“Poor old Pall!” said John. “I wish he were here now, he’d have known how to manage her.”
Father turned to Michael. “I say Mick, what did your Mother mean about the wedding present? What did she give David?”
“Who? Mrs Cable?”
“Yes, but not so loud, the walls have ears in these places; whisper it!”
“A cellar-allowance,” said Michael.
“A cellar-allowance! Is that all? Good Heavens! I couldn’t think what it must have been, but she’s funny about wine, always has been. It’s old Pall of course, he led ’em an awful dance.”
In the Reception Room, brightly lighted by the frozen inverted fountains of the chandeliers, Mother had taken up her position in the corner farthest away from the bridal group. Throughout the rest of the room, flanked by two gleaming tables on which a buffet luncheon was spread, people stood in twos and threes making an aimless pattern between whose motifs pale waiters moved with trays of half-full glasses. Somewhere, lost behind the murmurs and cascades of sudden laughter, a quartet played chamber music. The long room, warm and scented, was strung with polite hostilities, and late arrivals stood hesitantly in the doorway searching uneasily for a route or direction which would lead them safely past the bride and groom to their own particular friends.
Mother’s party consisted principally of backs; for all the people she had gathered round her in a green corner of palms on pedestal tables, springing ferns and hydrangeas, were evidently facing her where she stood concealed as she talked eagerly to Alexander Flood, with Victoria still by her side.
Following the others, John saw the back of Mr Boult with Grace Boult by his side, Lizzie and Mrs Mudd, the Hadleys and Mr Scrutton-Thompson, one of Father’s churchwardens. Simpson, with two of the prettiest bridesmaids smiling up at him as he drank gingerly from a champagne glass, was standing next to Melanie and Nanny; while Mary, he noticed, was on Alexander’s other side listening to his exchanges with Mother and wearing what he privately called her sweet-intelligent-look-at-me-looking-at-you expression.
Father and Michael took their places on the outskirts of this large group forming a tall black outpost against all comers as they plied Mr Smith with glasses of lemonade and asparagus rolls. Occasionally, blundering strangers, remote members of Mrs Cable’s entourage, would wander up to the corner and try to get into conversation with Mrs Mudd or Emma Huggins, and finding that they were apparently not understood, would drift away again carelessly as though they had never really intended to say anything in the first place.
At last, however, David and Prudence accompanied by Mrs Cable and her brother Major Albright, came slowly up from the far end of the room and paused on the outskirts of the corner.
“Where is my little Mother?” David asked. “Has anyone seen the Bridegroom’s Mother?” He stood on tiptoe and caught sight of Father. “Oh hello, Father dear! what have you done with my Mother?”
Near him there was a swift lull in the talking as everyone turned to look openly into the corner they had hitherto so scrupulously ignored.
“I am sure,” said Mrs Cable loudly, “that Mrs Edward Blaydon must be holding court in there somewhere.” And she waved her ringed hand vaguely at the palms. “But then David dear, your mother is so small that no one could be quite sure.”
David, dropping Prudence’s hand, leaving her brown and smiling by her uncle’s side, dived dramatically into the group and shouldering everyone aside picked Mother cleanly up in his arms.
“Here she is! We’ve found the Bridegroom’s Mother. We’ve rescued her from the dragon of obscurity and exposed her to the serpent of publicity.”
Mother, bright as quicksilver, her tiny feet thrashing the air, her pale blue eyes smiling delightedly up into David’s face as she lay in his arms, called out:
“Put me down at once David you naughty boy! You must have had far too much champagne.”
David took no notice of her, gleeful and shining, his brown eyes looking straight into Prudence’s he deposited Mother neatly beside Mrs Cable and said, “Photographs, Mother! in the next room; and after that, speeches toasts and telegrams—and then we’re off, off your hands for ever and a day.”
“Not for ever, David!” she said seriously.
“Of course not, darling; you’ll never be rid of your eldest. He’ll always need you.” He kissed her swiftly. “Come on, Father; you’re wanted too.”
Mother smoothed down her blue silk dress and took Father’s hand. She looked minutely pretty, suddenly and secretly radiant like a person who has received a promise.
“Really,” she said to no one in particular. “It’s a good thing we’re getting rid of him at last, he always was expensive and difficult; but now he’s getting quite out of hand.”
“Ah!” sighed Mrs Cable, “we haven’t found that! David is quite easy to manage if one has the hands, isn’t he Prudence?”
“I’m sure he is,” said Prudence fondly. “I’ve had no trouble with him so far.”
“You just wait,” said Mother, “both of you! In twenty-five years I never succeeded in breaking him in—”
“No,” David interrupted, “but then you see I’m not a harness horse, Mother darling, I’m not even much good on the flat—I’m a ’chaser by nature.”
“That,” said Mother quickly, “is exactly what I meant.” And she smiled triumphantly at Mrs Cable who turned down her mouth like an elderly débutante and said:
“Well, we shall see! but in the meantime I do think that we ought to get these tiresome photographs taken.”
Somebody laughed, little conversations were resumed and the musicians who had been silent for some minutes, struck up surprisingly into “Jeannie of the Light Brown Hair”. The bridesmaids followed the others out into the foyer, and John, ignoring Melanie’s questions, made his way over to Victoria who was standing a little forlornly where Mother had left her.
“Have you had any champagne?” he asked.
“No I haven’t had anything yet—but I don’t mind.”
“Neither have I; but I do mind! To me, everything seems to be going wrong! This isn’t at all the sort of wedding I imagined it would be.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No it isn’t. I thought everything would be gay and friendly. This is worse than a railway train. And another thing, I’ve hardly seen you and you’ve hardly seen me.”
“I know. I’ve been talking to your Mother.”
“So I saw. Didn’t you want to talk to me?”
“I think your Mother’s wonderful! She’s the most wonderful wom
an I ever met. I’d no idea she was like this.”
“Like what?”
“Oh different—so exciting! She seems to understand everybody the moment she meets them.”
He groaned. “Oh Lor’! has she been understanding you?”
“Don’t be silly, I didn’t say that.”
“I know you didn’t; but it’s what you meant.”
“It isn’t at all.” She looked at him speculatively. “You don’t understand your Mother, that’s the trouble. You’re too young. Your Mother’s sweet. She was telling some of the bridesmaids that men never do understand women and that that’s why they often marry the wrong people. I think she’s right.”
“You don’t mean to say she’s been telling everyone that David oughtn’t to have married Prudence? She can’t possibly know yet, they’ve only been married for an hour.”
“There you are!” she interrupted. “I never said anything about your brother and his wife, and neither did she. As it happens, she was talking about my mother and father; she understands how—uncomfortable it is to have only half a home as I have; she was awfully kind, and clever!”
“I’m sorry,” said John. “I admit I was wrong; but I’ve been worrying all through the service about Mother. I thought she was going to do something dreadful. Did you notice how she changed places at the beginning of the wedding? it was terribly embarrassing.”
“Don’t be silly! It was only because she couldn’t see anything; she’s so short, smaller even than you or me. What was embarrassing about it?”
“Oh nothing.”
He looked round him miserably. Everyone was talking and laughing, the music was still underlying the lights and the movement; but he felt suddenly alone and tragic, lonelier than if he had remained at the Abbey, lonelier even than he always felt on the second day of the holidays when the greetings had worn thin and the excitement briefly flagged after weeks of anticipation.
“If you’re going to sulk—”
“I’m not sulking, Victoria; really, I’m not. It’s only that you don’t seem the same.”
In the Time of Greenbloom Page 9