Isabel's Wedding

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘A hoax?’ Now he was genuinely shocked. ‘Perish the thought, Miss Fratton!’

  Carried away, she rushed on. ‘The truth is we have no idea what sort of person he is – my father, I mean. Mother must have believed in him but over the years his mind may have become distorted by his guilt. If his conscience has troubled him . . . who knows? He might be slightly deranged.’ This idea had never entered her head before and now it gave her serious pause for thought.

  ‘Oh dear! Surely not!’

  ‘But it’s possible, isn’t it?’

  Abruptly they both fell silent, both busy with the uncomfortable change in direction which the conversation had taken.

  It now occurred to Isabel that he could be a totally unsavoury character. He might drink too much and disgrace her on her wedding day. He might even start ‘throwing his weight about’ and try to interfere in family matters. Was it possible that she was altogether too trusting and that she might come to regret her father’s arrival in Canterbury . . .?

  The vicar was first to break the silence. Forcing a cheerful smile he said, ‘Poor Miss Fratton. It’s a dilemma, isn’t it? But we must look on the bright side and put aside all negative thoughts.

  ‘I don’t know how I can help you except to say if it is postponed, I promise to fit your wedding into the next available space in the diary, but you really should not delay your decision. Last minute doubts creep in, you see, and I’d hate to see that happen.’

  They walked together as far as the gate and Isabel thanked him rather unconvincingly for his advice. He thought she looked a good deal worse after their ‘little chat’ but he told himself everything would be fine on the day.

  As he hurried back towards the vicarage, the dog appeared again, barking and leaping about and scrabbling among the gravestones with undignified and unwarranted enthusiasm. Digging for bones, perhaps, the vicar thought with a slight sense of hysteria. His earlier mood of post-sermon euphoria had been quite ruined by his chat with Miss Fratton and he gave in to temptation and threw a clod of grass at the dog.

  It missed.

  Six

  Next morning when the front door bell rang just before ten, Mrs Bourne tossed the tea towel on to the draining board, smoothed her apron and hurried to answer it. A stranger stood on the doorstep, eyeing her warily. Not rough enough for a tramp, she thought, but what her mother would have called ‘hardly out of the top drawer’.

  ‘Yes?’ she demanded. He looked like the sort of man who offered to buy valuable old china at a ridiculously low price. Her mouth tightened. She had been caught like that before.

  For a moment the man made no answer.

  She said firmly, ‘We’ve nothing to sell, if that’s what you’re after. And before you answer I can tell you there is nobody here but me. Miss Olivia has gone with her sister to choose curtain material and I have no idea how long that will take.’

  He hesitated. ‘Ah . . . I think they’re expecting me. I wrote . . .’

  ‘Expecting you? That’s news to me. If it’s important you’d better come back later – or I could take a message.’

  Again he hesitated, giving her time to study him. He was average height, looked vaguely foreign and distinctly ill at ease. Despite the fact that it was Monday he seemed to be wearing his Sunday best and carried a large canvas bag over one shoulder. He had nice eyes, she thought grudgingly, and there was nothing threatening about him but there was no way she would be sweet-talked into allowing him over the doorstep.

  ‘I’m Jack,’ he said. ‘Er . . . Jack . . .’

  Mrs Bourne’s back stiffened. ‘I don’t care who you are. I have strict orders not to allow strangers into the house especially when Miss Fratton is out. She is most particular. Mr Lucas might be back soon but I can’t promise. He’s a bit unreliable these days. Do you want to leave a message?’

  He glanced up and down the road as though hoping someone would appear to contradict her and when this hope died he said, ‘Maybe I could wait somewhere . . . in the summer house, maybe . . . if it’s still there?’

  Mrs Bourne’s eyes narrowed. What did he know about the old summer-house? Had he been snooping around while her back was turned? ‘It’s not,’ she told him. ‘They took it down three years ago because of the rot. What do you know about our summer house?’

  ‘I’m Jack,’ he repeated. ‘Jack Fratton. I used to live here.’

  ‘Jack Fratton?’ She gasped, taking a small step backwards. ‘You don’t mean . . . You’re not the father? The one who . . .’ She couldn’t utter the words. Shocked, she realized that she was actually face to face with this terrible man who had abandoned his wife and four children twenty years ago. He did not look like a monster but looks could be deceptive. ‘I don’t know how you have the cheek—’ she began impetuously but then realized abruptly that her employment with the family might soon be a matter for him to decide, and bit back the criticism.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said helplessly. ‘I think I’d better come back later. Maybe this afternoon. They are expecting me at some time. At least I sent a letter . . .’ He swallowed, looking thoroughly downcast, and once again glanced up and down the road. ‘I’ll come back. Maybe tomorrow . . . or maybe never,’ he added under his breath so that she almost missed the words.

  Mrs Bourne was now in a quandary, having second thoughts about the reception she had given him. Suppose he was welcomed with open arms after she had given him the cold shoulder? What would the family say when they found out that he had been and possibly gone again? They might blame her.

  She opened the door a little wider. ‘I could bring you a pencil and paper and you could leave a note. Would that help?’

  He nodded and she brought him a sheet of paper and an envelope to put it in plus a book to lean the paper on while he attempted to write. The note, she thought, was more like a letter – he had soon covered both sides of the paper in his large untidy scrawl. In silence he reread what he had written and reluctantly she was aware of a growing sympathy for him. She was also recalling something Olivia had said one day about her father coming over from California but she had been very vague and Mrs Bourne had forgotten all about it. Of course, over the years, she had heard the occasional snippet of gossip about that night but she had paid little notice when there seemed no possibility of his return to Kent.

  Minutes later she held the envelope in her hand and raised the other hand in a shaky gesture of farewell as he made his way towards the corner of the road and walked out of sight. He didn’t once turn back, however, and she was left with a fluttering stomach and the distinct feeling that she could and should have handled things better. It all depended on whether or not they were looking forward to his visit. Were they going to make him welcome or send him away with a flea in his ear?

  Staring at the envelope she saw that the letter was sealed and it crossed her mind to steam it open and find out if he had complained about her behaviour but she knew from experience that sometimes an envelope could not be satisfactorily resealed.

  Then it would be obvious that she had been snooping! She shuddered, closed the door and took the letter into the parlour and propped it behind the mantelpiece, out of the way of temptation.

  ‘Goodness!’ she muttered. ‘They’ll probably ask me what he was like!’

  And what should she say? With her hand on her heart she began to practise how she would describe him. ‘Pleasant enough’. Was that fair? Or how about ‘Nondescript, really.’ Shaking her head she decided that in case he might one day take up his position again as head of the family she must step very carefully.

  As soon as Olivia saw Mrs Bourne’s face she knew something was wrong. ‘What’s happened?’

  Isabel put her parcel on the table and asked, ‘It’s not about Bertie, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s about your father.’ The housekeeper was twisting her hands nervously.

  ‘Father?’ Isabel’s voice rose. ‘What about him?’

  Mrs Bourne fixed her eyes on Olivia as she stamme
red out her news – and excuses. ‘He was here but I didn’t know who he was and then when I did know I—’

  ‘He was here?’ Isabel repeated shrilly. ‘How? I mean when . . . that is, where is he now?’

  Mrs Bourne ignored her. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Fratton,’ she told Olivia, ‘but I didn’t know what I was supposed to do because you’ve always said I should never allow . . .’

  Olivia tried to hold down her own excitement. She laid her hand on Mrs Bourne’s arm and guided her to a chair. ‘Take your time,’ she told her. ‘Just tell us. Whatever happened – no one is blaming you.’

  Isabel cried, ‘I’m blaming her. My father came right to our door and she let him go away again. She sent him away! Now we might never see him!’ She turned to Mrs Bourne who shrank back. ‘How could you be so stupid? Oh! I can’t believe it. He came and now he’s God knows where!’

  ‘Izzie! Your language!’ As Olivia heard herself sounding like Aunt Alice she checked further rebuke but it was too late and Izzie rounded on her.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t say!’ she snapped, her voice beginning to tremble. ‘For the hundredth time, you are not my mother! And thank God for that!’ She turned back to Mrs Bourne. ‘What was he like? What did he say? Did you tell him about my wedding?’ Her voice was hoarse. ‘Is he coming back?’

  Mrs Bourne shook her head but before she could explain further Izzie screamed at her. ‘You stupid, useless old woman! You’ve probably driven him away!’

  Tears suddenly poured down her face but as Olivia moved to comfort her, she pushed her away and ran sobbing from the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Mrs Bourne, her face pale, said, ‘Well! I’ve never been spoken to like that before!’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Bourne. She had no right to speak to you like that. I apologize for her outburst. She actually thinks very highly of you – we all do – but you can see how much this wretched man means to her.’ She sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘Could you please carry on with whatever you have to tell us?’

  Mrs Bourne, still breathing heavily, pointed to the envelope and, as Olivia reached for it, said, ‘I told him he should write a note and I took the liberty of fetching paper from the old study.’

  Olivia took it down. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bourne. You did exactly the right thing. Perhaps you would make a pot of tea. I’m sure we could all do with some. This has come as a shock even though . . .’

  While she wondered whether or not to open the envelope, she heard Izzie coming back down the stairs. Was she going out? She put her head round the kitchen door but Izzie was coming into the kitchen so she stepped back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bourne,’ Izzie said. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ Then she saw the envelope in her sister’s hand and her eyes widened. ‘What . . .? That’s not . . . Is it from him?’

  Olivia nodded. ‘We’ll go into the front room and read it and Mrs Bourne will bring us some tea.’

  Settled in the front room Olivia said, ‘We must read it although Theo and Luke aren’t here because Father might be coming back shortly and we need to be prepared.’

  Red-eyed and white-faced, Isabel agreed.

  ‘Dear family,’ Olivia read out loud. ‘I came to see you but no one was home. I shall come back this evening about seven.’

  ‘He’s coming back!’ cried Isabel, her expression now ecstatic. ‘Father is coming here this very night – just in time for my wedding!’ She glanced upward. ‘Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’

  Olivia hardly knew what to think. In a way she was glad the waiting was over but she was also fearful of this stranger and wondered afresh what might happen in the coming months.

  ‘Please hear me out. I have no right to take my place again as your father but—’

  ‘Oh but he does!’ cried Isabel. She looked desperately at Olivia. ‘We must give him a chance, mustn’t we? We can’t just turn him away. Couldn’t we say he is welcome to stay for a few weeks . . . at least?’ Seeing that her sister hesitated she said, ‘Well, a few days then. We might like him.’

  ‘We have to talk to Theo and Luke before we make any decisions,’ Olivia reminded her. ‘And remember, you three will all be gone soon and I shall be the one that has to live with him.’ She returned to the note.

  ‘I found some half-decent lodgings and if not welcome will remain there for a week or two and then return to California. I look forward to meeting you all. Father.’

  A stubborn expression settled over Isabel’s face. ‘We can’t let him go back to California. We can’t!’ She fixed her sister with a steely look. ‘He has to stay here and . . . and see his first grandchild and . . . and be happy here again. We’ll also find out why he left so suddenly and stayed away all this time. Even if you don’t want him to stay here with you, he could go back to his lodgings.’ Her eyes shone suddenly. ‘Thank goodness I didn’t try to delay the wedding. Now that he’s here we can go ahead and Theo can forget about having to make a speech. It was worrying him.’

  ‘We’ll tell the others to come here if they can to meet him. You could walk over to the farm and tell Theo and Cicely.’

  Isabel frowned. ‘Do they have to come this evening? Truly, Olivia, it might be too much for him – meeting us all at once. Maybe we should—’

  ‘They don’t have to come if they have better things to do,’ Olivia answered crisply, ‘but they must be given the chance. Theo has to know he is here and so does Luke. If we start hiding things from one another then Father’s influence will not be a good one.’

  Isabel glared at her. ‘You would say that. You always twist things. And why should we bother with Luke? He’d rather be with his lady friend at the Coach and Horses!’

  ‘Isabel!’

  ‘And why must I tell Theo? That means talking to Cicely and she’ll be talking non-stop about the baby and her aches and pains.’

  ‘You sound a little jealous!’

  ‘I’m not!’

  Olivia smiled. ‘Listen to what you’re saying, Izzie. You’re getting married in two weeks’ time and this time next year it might be you with the morning sickness and the aching back!’

  But Isabel’s thoughts were racing ahead. ‘Is the spare room bed made up? If not I’ll make it up for him.’

  ‘I’ve done it. Days ago.’

  ‘What are we having for supper tonight? It should be something special.’

  ‘While you’re at the farm telling Theo what’s happening you can buy a couple of chickens from them and some bacon. I’ll make a big chicken casserole for – let me see – the four of us and Cicely . . . and Bertie if he wants to be included.’

  ‘Of course he will.’

  Olivia saw with relief that Izzie had calmed down and was thinking sensibly again. No more hysterics, she thought hopefully. There were a few early beetroots in the garden; she would bake them and she might find a few remaining parsnips. She thought fleetingly that if Aunt Alice lived nearer, they could invite her although, on second thoughts, probably better not to do so. Her last letter made it clear that Jack Fratton was not among her favourites. Maybe the reason for that was best forgotten.

  Isabel, flushed with excitement and brimming with fresh hope, rushed off on her errands, and Olivia, watching her go, crossed her fingers and uttered a quick prayer.

  ‘Don’t let her be disappointed,’ she prayed. For herself, she was not raising her hopes.

  When seven o’clock came round there was an air of tension in Laurel House that was almost tangible. The meal was virtually ready because Olivia had decided that standing or sitting around would be an awkward way to have a conversation with a complete stranger but that over supper it might be easier and more natural. If there were any awkward silences they could concentrate on the food.

  Theo and Cicely would not be joining them as Cicely was feeling uncomfortable and was suddenly worrying about the child coming early. She needed the security of her home at the farm and they had promised to call in some other day – even if Theo had to come alo
ne.

  Luke was nowhere to be found and enquiries at the Coach and Horses had not led anywhere. Olivia, Isabel and Bertie would be the only people to greet Jack Fratton.

  ‘It’s ten past!’ cried Isabel, her tone anguished. ‘He’s not coming! I know it! I don’t think I could bear it if he doesn’t come as promised!’

  ‘Be patient!’ Olivia told her. ‘You’ll wear yourself out, counting every minute. He’s not going to travel all this way and not see us. He’ll come when he comes!’

  ‘He’ll come when he comes? Oh! That’s very helpful! Just because you don’t care about him . . .’

  Olivia glanced round in the hope that she could find a job for Isabel. ‘Here,’ she suggested, ‘could you take the water jug into the dining room?’

  Isabel heaved a weary sigh. ‘We should have bought champagne,’ she grumbled.

  ‘He might bring some. It’s not up to us, is it?’

  ‘Don’t keep calling him “he”! Call him Father.’ She picked up the jug and groaned. ‘Maybe if we cut a slice of lemon and add it to the water. Or two slices? It would float about and look decorative. What do you think? It would look as if we’d made an effort.’

  Olivia let that pass. ‘I think we are out of lemons. We used them yesterday when we made pancakes.’

  ‘Ice then? Ice looks nice and it tinkles.’

  ‘You could fetch some from the ice house.’

  Isabel hesitated. ‘He might come while I’m outside,’ she said.

  At that moment there was a ring at the front door and they both froze.

  They spoke as one. ‘He’s here!’

  Isabel rushed from the kitchen along the hall and threw open the door. She had planned to throw herself into her father’s arms but he had stepped well back and was regarding her almost warily. He looked older than expected, wearing an ancient suit under a long duster coat which nearly reached his ankles. He looked odd and somehow dowdy and Isabel fought down her disappointment.