‘You may remember from the photographs – and thanks to your grandmother’s extravagance, bless her – I was attended by twelve flower girls and boys. What a splash we made in all the newspapers. It was too wonderful.’
Judy had never seen her mother like it. Now that the wedding was a reality the normally cool Elizabeth Melton with her frosty demeanour had become as excited as a vendeuse in some Knightsbridge salon.
‘I love this dress so much, Judy, and to think that you will be wearing it to get married in Bexham church – well, darling, it is really the most cheerful thing I can remember since the outbreak of war. And Daddy will be so pleased, too. Really he will, proud and pleased to take you down the aisle wearing my dress, the dress I married him in.’
‘Mother.’ Judy sat down, and her mother, seeing the expression in her daughter’s eyes, sat down too, still holding the dress in her arms as if it was a baby in a shawl. ‘I cannot marry Walter in a long white dress, Mother. I cannot look every inch the happy bride, not during a war. I am just not that sort of person. What about all the other brides who haven’t a chance of getting hold of a dress? I should feel terrible.’
Her mother stared at her. ‘Whatever do you mean, Judy? Whatever do you mean?’
‘I mean, there is a war on. People have lost their sons, and husbands, their loved ones, and here am I about to gallop up the aisle of Bexham church sporting thirty yards of silk. I can’t. I really can’t. I want to, believe me. There is nothing I would like better than to marry Walter wearing your dress, Mummy, but in war, with so much that is so sad, I don’t believe that I can, not in all honesty.’
‘So what do you propose to marry in?’ Elizabeth asked Judy in a suddenly flat, hard voice. ‘A mourning dress? Because if you do, I have some of those too!’
‘I am going to get married in my WVS uniform.’ There was a stunned silence as Lady Melton stared at her daughter. ‘But with a small bouquet,’ Judy went on, a little too quickly, because her mother’s expression was one of such bewildered hurt that she could hardly look at her. ‘And we’re allowed to pull the hat, you know, into any shape we wish, so I can make it look quite pretty. Off the face, I thought. And the bouquet to be of dark leaves and flowers, to match the pullover, and the hat.’
‘The one thing that I have always wanted to do,’ her mother said, after a long silence following this information, ‘always wanted to do, was to see you married in my beautiful, beautiful wedding dress, and now all you want to do is to scramble through the ceremony wearing the uniform of the WVS. Well, all I can say, Judy, is that you are certainly not taking our dear Queen as your example, are you? Do you see the Queen picking her way through the rubble and the horror looking like a common soldier? No you do not.’
‘No, Mummy, but then she is the Queen. I am only Judy Melton, and I am thinking of people in the village who are grieving, people whom Walter and I want to invite, people whom we have known all our lives. How will they feel if I am not dressed in some appropriately sober way? As if I am ignoring their grief, as if I am some sort of callous young thing out for people only to admire me.’
Elizabeth turned away. It was difficult to explain to someone like Judy, always so wrapped up in herself, so wilful, so difficult, just how much she hurt other people, most especially her mother, by her insistence on doing things her way.
‘I suppose this is all Walter’s idea,’ she said, before leaving the room, still carrying her dress.
She was sure of it. All Walter Tate’s idea, all this sort of false nicety about other people’s feelings had to have come from him, she was sure of it, she repeated to herself. She went upstairs to her bedroom and started to fold the dress back into its protective wrapping, and as she did so tears fell on the old black tissue papers in which it was always stored. Just one thing, that was all she had asked of Judy, just one thing, that she marry in her mother’s dress. But no, she could not, could she? She had to get married in a Digby Morton grey-green suit with a cherry red jumper and matching hat, had to get married looking as if she was just off to ferry someone to hospital, or escort them to London on the train, or any of the other things that she was always doing.
Elizabeth sniffed, and then, remembering that the bride’s mother could not be expected to be in uniform, she turned her attentions to her own choice of outfit.
Private Mathilda Eastcott sat at the wheel of her Humber staff car waiting for General Michael Rafferty to reappear after his meeting with the Heads of Staff. She had been the tall, laconic North American’s personal driver for some months now, taking him from pillar to post whenever he was in London. One of several high-ranking officers sent to Britain by the US government, he was engaged, Mattie imagined, on work that was both top secret and highly influential. But that was all she could do – imagine.
At first he had barely addressed a remark to her. In fact so involved had the general been with military matters that on their first few journeys he had addressed Mattie, on several occasions, as son. It was either that or driver, and finally rather more correctly Private – until that evening, the Friday evening when after a long and exhausting meeting in Whitehall General Rafferty flopped into the back seat of his staff car and instructed Private Eastcott to recommend a movie.
‘I’ve had a bad day on top of a hard week, Private,’ he’d told her. ‘So let’s go see something good and light and entertaining. None of this big Russian stuff they keep showing, and none of that Mrs Miniver type of nonsense either. Let’s go see a cartoon – or a musical, you hear me?’
Mattie had deliberately ignored the implicit invitation to accompany her distinguished charge to the cinema, preferring to imagine that General Rafferty liked to think of and refer to himself in the plural in the same way as royalty. She had recommended Holiday Inn starring Bing Crosby, which she knew was showing at the Odeon Leicester Square. General Rafferty readily agreed with her choice, saying that sounded just fine.
‘I’ll need to go home and change first,’ he’d said. ‘You want to do the same?’
‘I have to get the car back, General,’ Mattie had replied, buying time. ‘I’m still on duty, sir.’
‘Long as you’re with me you are, Private. And I’m certainly not in the mood to go to the movies alone.’
‘If you would like to arrange for someone to accompany you, sir, I can certainly drive you to the cinema. And wait for you, if needed.’
‘You’re too pretty to be left outside sitting in the car – Private.’
At this Mattie had glanced at him in her rear view mirror and seeing him smiling, cajoling, she had relented and taken him back to his rented flat in Marble Arch, waiting in the car while he changed, having politely refused the invitation to go upstairs. However, at the general’s behest the staff car was finally locked up and left in the street while they took a cab to the cinema.
Almost before they were settled into their seats in the smoke-filled fug of the picture palace, the red lights went on by the screen to indicate that the sirens were sounding to warn of an impending air raid.
‘You want to go to the shelter?’ The general carefully and calmly placed his folded mackintosh under his seat. ‘Personally I hate to miss even the news.’
‘Me too. Public service films, trailers, the lot.’
‘That’s my girl.’ The general offered Mattie a Lucky Strike, making it seem as if it was some sort of reward for their mutuality of tastes. ‘You smoke American?’
‘I smoke anything, sir. But particularly American.’
‘You like candy, too?’
‘Yes. Sir.’
‘You sure you don’t want to go to the shelter?’
‘One hundred per cent. Sir.’
‘My thoughts entirely. Private.’
That seemed to be the general mood of the very mixed audience that night, since only a handful of people got up and left when the warning lights went on.
Everyone else settled down to lose themselves in the film, to watch, smoke, hug and kiss their joint wa
y out of the misery that lay beyond the solid concrete walls of the picture house. Incendiaries might land on the building’s flat roof, the next-door building might go up in flames, Leicester Square might not even be there when they finally emerged, but, of a sudden, no one seemed to care. All anyone inside the cinema that night seemed to be concerned about was that at that moment they were still alive. They were with friends or lovers, and they were being entertained by one of the great singing stars of the age via one of the great inventions of the twentieth century. So, for three hours, while they were in the two and sixes, or the one and sixes, the war, according to that strangely enraptured gang of people, could go hang.
This particular evening, as the cinema, of a sudden, shook with the impact of something particularly fearful, the general put a comforting arm round Mattie as they, and the rest of the audience, automatically ducked forward, waiting for a further blast.
‘You all right, Private?’ the general asked in a low voice.
‘Perfectly, General.’
Mattie did not dare to turn to look at the tall, dark-haired man with his arm round her. For God’s sake, he was a general! The most senior member of the American army, and he had his arm round her. Meanwhile, she stared up at the screen, immobile, feeling frozen with horror. Privates did not slap the faces of generals, nor did the driver of a general remove his arm from about her waist. The driver of a general waited until he did that of his own accord.
A minute later, the general did remove his arm, as if once reassured that Mattie was in fact all right he felt it was safe to resume his normal polite if courtly pattern.
Such was not the case with Mattie. For once he had removed it, she found to her astonishment that General Rafferty’s arm round her had not just been comforting, it had been electrifying. Never mind what was happening outside, it was what was happening inside Mattie that surprised her. Moreover, it was something for which she had never, ever bargained. Perhaps it was because the general was not like Peter Sykes; he was not gentle, shy and diffident. He was powerful, strong, hypnotic, dynamic – any word you could name that brought about the singular sound wow! So much so that Mattie knew, without any doubt, that if that arm ever returned, she would not have a chance.
In the event even Elizabeth Melton enjoyed her only daughter’s wedding to Walter Tate. Perhaps it was because she herself was looking really rather lovely, so lovely that as soon as he saw his wife the admiral was induced to cross the floor of their chintz-decorated drawing room and congratulate her.
‘Might just as well be your wedding day, dearest, might just as well be. You look so beautiful, darling, really you do.’
Elizabeth was wearing a Watteau-style suit in blue velvet with a long, waist-cinching jacket and a flurry of lace at the cuffs and neck. On her head was a matching blue velvet hat, very fetching, pulled down slightly over one eye.
‘It is actually pre-war, but I never got a chance to wear it. Bought it for the Cosgroves’ do, remember? But then Claudia Cosgrove broke off the engagement and ran off with one of the Howards, I think it was.’ She paused, trying to remember. ‘At all events, I never did have an occasion after that to which I could go in it. So here we are, and at rather a big event too, as it happens.’
As her mother was preparing to leave for the church with Gardiner, who was supervising the flowers that they had all arranged together, Judy had come down the stairs in her WVS uniform, holding a large bunch of matching red roses, and wearing a very dainty pair of pre-war shoes, and matching gloves.
Perhaps it was the radiant expression on her face that made it a little difficult for the admiral, who so prided himself on his ability to conceal his emotions, to look at her. Or perhaps it was just that it was such an affecting sight, so much a wartime sight – a young bride on her wedding day in her smart Digby Morton uniform – that so filled him with paternal pride, both for the way she looked and for her patriotic statement. Whatever it was, the admiral found himself blowing his nose on his special handkerchief normally only used for snuff, and quite by mistake throwing it into the drawing room waste-paper basket before offering Judy his arm.
They could walk to Bexham church through the village, and since it was a sunny day, with winter just beginning to give way to spring, that is what they did, although the village seemed oddly empty until they reached the church, when it rapidly became apparent that absolutely everyone had turned out to see Judy Melton marrying Walter Tate.
‘It’s a Bexham wedding all right,’ Gardiner, who had helped Judy make up her bouquet, kept saying to anyone who would listen. ‘A Bexham wedding, between Bexham families, and all the better for it.’
As Judy and her father made their way on foot to the church, chatting and waving to the occasional passer-by, all of whom smiled back in the way everyone seemed so anxious to do in wartime, Loopy and Hugh were trying to hurry Walter, John and Dauncy towards the church. They had to be there first, not only because Walter was the bridegroom, and John the best man, but also because Hugh was playing the organ and Dauncy was singing a solo.
Loopy was in that semi-hysterical state with which every mother of three sons, let alone the mother of the groom, can readily identify, in that she was dressed and ready, but quite, quite alone in her readiness.
She had often observed that, for some reason best known to men, when it came to dressing themselves for a special occasion, nothing was ever completely arranged or ready. If their shirts were ready and clean and they had actually managed to put them on, then they would inevitably decide that they really must clean their shoes, because, after all, by vigorously cleaning their shoes they would greatly increase the chances of getting polish on their freshly laundered white cuffs. If they had remembered to have their suits cleaned – which was a miracle in itself – then a tie would go missing, or a cuff link, or a belt. Most women only had to cope with one or two of these dramas on a day of solemn celebration, but having three sons and a husband Loopy found that she always had to cope with it four times over, and yet it never occurred to her to lose her temper.
‘What a business, Gwen.’ She sat down suddenly on the staircase, as the distant sounds of four men looking for something they had suddenly realised they needed echoed round the house.
‘I know.’ Gwen gave her employer a sympathetic look. ‘I don’t know what it is about men, Mrs Tate, but I always think it’s nature’s last laugh, to make them so strong physically, and yet so weak in their brains that they can hardly dress theirselves.’
Loopy lit a cigarette and drew on it hard. Boy, did that taste good! For a second she laid her head against the wall bordering the staircase. She almost felt like offering Gwen one; only the fear that Hugh would come down and become dreadfully upset at the sight of both his wife and their housemaid smoking prevented her. Hugh was stuffier than Loopy, which was unusual, because, as Loopy had had cause to observe over the years, in England it was usually the wives who were stuffier than the husbands.
‘Well, as long as Mr Walter makes it to the church, we can wait for the other three.’
The two women looked at each other, knowing that neither words of encouragement nor sympathetic offers to find whatever it was that was missing would make any difference at all. The male Tates would appear, fully clothed, only when they, and the Almighty, decided it was both good and appropriate.
‘The flowers is looking something lovely, Mrs Tate. The reverend says he hasn’t seen them done better in a long while, not since his wife did them for the last wedding.’
This compliment, as it happened, proved to be neither a comfort nor a distraction to Loopy. Flower arranging had never been her forte, and hardly had she herself entered the church, ready to do what she could to brighten the place up, when her efforts had come under fire, not least from Lady Melton.
‘Gracious, Mrs Tate, how – well, original your arrangement is! But, if you don’t mind my saying, taller flowers should be at the back, and smaller to the front, and bulking out your arrangement by keeping the leav
es on will not, I fear, do. Leaves are never left on the lower part of the stems. Not ever. It is the number one rule, Mrs Tate.’
Quickly finishing her vase as best she might, Loopy had promptly abandoned all pretence at further effort and leaving the other ladies hard at work on their arrangements she had slunk out to have a cigarette in the graveyard at the side of the church.
Inevitably it was a lowering experience, because, although Bexham had not yet received a hit, there were quite a few freshly dug graves, decorated by small bunches of wild flowers and leaves in jars – jars that she knew it was increasingly the habit of amateur jam makers from all over the village to steal, so precious had glass become.
She turned away from the sight, remembering poor old Mrs Gore-Stewart’s funeral, and the grief of Richards and Meggie, losing not only Madame Gran, but dashing Davey Kinnersley too, the losses coming so close that it would have knocked anyone for six.
To take her mind off that sad afternoon Loopy stared instead towards the small country road, the well-worn path, which led back to the village. Any one of her boys, John, Walter or Dauncy, could be lying beneath that same earth, and who knew when they might not, and herself and Hugh too? Since the beginning of the war, in common with many other women, Loopy had taken to keeping certain pills in a secret drawer in her household desk. Hugh had brought them back from London for her. In case of invasion he did not want her raped and tortured: she must have the means by which she could take her own life, as must anyone else in the household. It was something they had both agreed. The pills were codenamed by Loopy my bare bodkin, an expression used by many smart ladies who had taken the same precaution, with the agreement of their husbands.
Loopy had crushed her cigarette beneath the heel of her shoe, and went back inside. Although voices were being kept appropriately low, nevertheless life rather than death was most definitely in evidence all over the church. Lady Melton and Gardiner with their arrangements, the ladies polishing various brass vases – everything was to do with life and the living.
The Chestnut Tree Page 17