Throughout that time Peter had always been good at presentations and lectures. He knew how to build a narrative and drop in what seemed like effortless pieces of prepared spontaneity. Over a long career, he had amassed a tidy repertoire of humorous anecdotes and self-deprecating digressions—sometimes featuring Helen or his children, though not by name—which meant that he was able to keep his presentations fresh enough to entertain those of his colleagues who heard him speak regularly. It always made him marvel that introverts made the best speakers, perhaps taking themselves less seriously than the showboating businessmen who usually took the ‘appearance fee’ slots at conferences. Peter’s trick was simple: he never made it about himself. He never put his fragile ego or reputation at stake, instead letting the subject be the star. For all his easy-going delivery, he prepared meticulously, and placed great emphasis on maintaining what he called a ‘boxer’s mind’: relaxed enough to deliver what he needed, but alert enough not to get punched in the face. As good as he was, it took a lot out of him. He recalled a conference some years previously where he had given a lengthy talk to a ballroom full of international climate economists, after which, feeling exhausted, he had shut himself inside his hotel room for the rest of the evening and demolished two large chocolate Santas.
His Father-of-the-Bride speech would be a little different. Peter knew that he needed to go beyond a performance and finishing with an ‘awww.’ He wanted to dig inside himself to find the most sincere thing he could say. Though it wouldn’t be easy, he had to mine past his obvious love and affection for Grace, into the molten core of their relationship, where deep connections had been forged between them. Most of all, he wanted her to embark on her new life with his full blessing, to know that her marriage was not a case of moving on or letting go, but manifest proof of her mastery of her own life. The very fact that she had, by her instincts and judgement, uncovered the path to her happiness, was the culmination of her own self-taught apprenticeship.
Peter had seen many Father-of-the-Bride speeches given over the years, including by his friends and colleagues, and they were the one aspect of the big day that never went wrong. At worst, the speeches could be a little unoriginal, or could end up as a two-person tango between the father and his daughter, but there was never anything inappropriate or off colour in them. Men of his generation were generally good judges of tone on these occasions, recognising that the bride and groom were entitled to a little dignity on their special day.
He liked Andrew a lot. When he and Helen first met him they wondered whether Grace had gone for a trophy boyfriend: good-looking, seemed to have a few bob, polite to the parents, but without the creativity or edge they had always assumed was part of Grace’s taste in men. Her job surprised them similarly. They had always thought she would end up working in a creative field, though at the practical end, as a gallery curator or literary editor. Instead she had become successful at what Helen called ‘a big job’ with a US multinational. Incrementally, her job had grown into a career that took over her time like ivy, even though she had not yet given up on restoring some sort of balance to her busy and serious life.
Over time, they saw Andrew’s deeper side, the sincerity of his feeling and, above all, his devotion to Grace. Grace spent so much of her life being ‘together’ that she needed someone she could trust, around whom she could regress a little bit, and be a flake. Andrew seemed to understand her better on that level, that aloof side to her personality that was still something of a mystery to her parents, in particular Helen.
Peter always remembered the cheerful loyalty that Andrew showed in the early days when Grace was sick with glandular fever. It was probably hard for Grace to allow herself to be looked after by a new boyfriend before she had had a proper opportunity to set out her own terms for the relationship. But when you see a young man—too young to know how young he is—taking care of your daughter and doing it well, and, most amazing of all, her letting him do it, a father realises that nature is taking its course.
Peter had arranged to meet Grace at the magazine section of the newsagent in the village, so that whoever arrived first could wait in the warm and dry and busy themselves with some aimless browsing. Peter got there early and opened the Economist, which he noticed was still recommending Economics 1.01 for every crisis the world over.
Grace arrived a few minutes late and kissed him on the cheek before saying hello.
‘Oh, your cheeks are cold. How are things?’ he asked.
‘Good, good, sorry I’m a bit late—couldn’t get parking. Where do you want to walk—stay local or head off somewhere?’
‘Well, if you have parking let’s stay local. Up around the back of the golf course maybe?’
‘Okay. We can sell any golf balls we find to help pay for the wedding.’
They walked along with Grace linking her dad’s elbow. A chilly April breeze had taken up and there was a little bite in the air now that the sun was sinking. Grace put her woolly scarf over her head and Peter took out his Thinsulate hat, neither of them taking any chances with a head cold so close to the wedding.
‘So, how are all the arrangements going?’ he asked.
‘Oh fine, fine. Usual schmusual.’
‘I hope you’re getting to enjoy the build-up and that it’s not getting on top of you. You always push yourself too hard.’
‘Thanks Mam. You can tell her that I’m fine and that I’m even starting to relax a tiny bit. Andrew and I met for lunch today and we didn’t even discuss the wedding arrangements. He just sat there and stared at me lovingly while I ate his pizza.’
‘I’m no doctor, but I think if you eat someone else’s pizza, it still counts towards your cholesterol. Seriously though, is there anything bugging you that I could help with?’
‘I have to confess that I am looking forward to a time—hopefully not too far away—when people are no longer asking how I am, how things are going and whether I am all excited. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, and people are just being kind, but it will be nice to retreat back to being an ordinary participant in the conversation. You know me, I don’t like a fuss and I am doing my best to play up to the occasion, but it’s getting a bit tiring and my battery is starting to bleep a bit.’
‘I know what you mean. That sort of thing puts some people off weddings altogether. When the day comes you’ll just get a burst of positivity. I wasn’t keen on a fuss when your mother and I got married, but I remember looking out at the church and realising that I’d never been to a wedding before where I had had personal one-to-one moments with everyone in the room. I actually got quite emotional. I hope you feel something similar. At least you have a lovely holiday to look forward to afterwards.’
‘I can’t wait for that. I hope I can rest on the flight and that I don’t get flattened by jet lag on top of the wedding tiredness. How about you and Mam—have you given any more thought to going on a trip yourselves?’
‘We talked about it a bit. She seems to be a little keener than she was, but not quite ready to make a decision for definite. She’s ruled out Asia because you’ll be there.’
‘Ha! Aw my God. What an excuse!’ scoffed Grace.
‘She’s not daft, she knows you won’t bump into each other, she just doesn’t want you to think she’s tracking you everywhere.’
‘So, what’s holding her back? She doesn’t have to do a long flight if she doesn’t want to. You could go to some European capital or something.’
‘I think she’s still unsure about your brother. He’s making a real effort with things, what with the hospital volunteering and the competition and everything, but he still has his moments.’
‘But Dad, he’s a grown man. He needs to stand up for himself. Yes, I know he has his struggles, but now is the time to get him going under his own steam. In fact it would have been great to have done it ten years ago. Now he’s got used to bumming about and relying on the two of you. You�
��ve done everything for him. You need to start pushing him a little bit.’
‘I know, I know. We just want to be careful, that’s all. And your mother just wants to be sure. I suppose, you’ll be away and then you have your own life to lead, so we’re just not sure what happens if something goes awry. I think your mother would feel better if there was a Plan B. You know, just in case of emergencies.’
‘If that’s directed at me, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. I can’t spend my whole life as his babysitter. I need to move on, Dad. So do you and Mam. We need to take off the stabilisers, for his sake as much as our own. Did he say anything about the competition money? You know he tried to offer it to me for the wedding? I said no—of course we’re over budget, but only because we’re spoiling ourselves. I told him that he should think about doing something for you two. Has he said anything more about it?’
‘Not as far as I know. But we don’t need the money. Why complicate things? We just want to see him set up and we need to get ready to make that leap ourselves. I think I’m ready, but you know how your mam is. She’ll try and support him but she wouldn’t relax if she didn’t think it was all figured out.’
‘But you and Mam really need a break. Don’t become one of those couples who leave it too late to travel and do all the things you have earned for yourselves.’
‘We’re not finished yet, chicken, but I know what you’re saying. Just be patient okay? Especially with your mam. I think the wedding has kept her mind off the future, but she’ll start to wonder about all that once you’ve tied the knot good and tight.’
They stopped at the end of the loop and began the walk back, the turnaround resetting the conversation topic.
‘So tell me about your speech,’ asked Grace, hugging into Peter a bit now that they were facing back into the wind on the return leg.
‘I haven’t written anything down yet, but I think I’m in the zone, so I need to start deciding on what I’m doing. Are you going to say a few words?’
‘I’ll see on the day. Not a speech, maybe just a few thank yous.’
‘Word of advice. You can improvise a speech, but you shouldn’t improvise thank yous—you’re bound to forget someone and you won’t get a second chance, so write them down. I made that mistake at my own wedding and forgot to thank your aunt Sarah, who had made the cake. She was so nice about it, but I knew that I had hurt her feelings.’
‘If I can make one request for your own speech: keep it classy. No digging up embarrassing stories or poking fun at Andrew.’
‘Good Lord, of course not. I may be an idiot, but I’m not that type of idiot. You know that I think the world of you and that I love you and that I’m so proud of you. This could be the only chance I get to say all those things in front of people. I need to find the right words so I don’t choke up. I can see my throat getting lumpy if I go too deep.’
‘Lumpy is fine. Lumpy but classy is what we’re aiming for. Why get so upset? I moved out yonks ago and I’ve been with Andrew for a few years, even living together. Nothing changes you know. It’s just a ritual.’
‘I know you say that, but it does matter. Wait and see. Once Andrew is your husband things will seem subtly changed. There’s a new type of closeness you feel, even if there’s no logical reason to feel different. Part of me looks at you and realises that our family is changing. It’s all good and natural, and I’m not getting soppy about it, but it seems like the end of a long first chapter. Your favourite brother, who you say is so hopeless, actually put me straight about the whole thing. He’s very wise in his own way. I was talking to your mother about how we were losing you and all that sort of stuff and he just pipes up: “Everything you’re talking about is already past.” He just drops that on us while looking in the fridge for something. And I suppose he’s right. Everything I’m holding onto is already gone. Memories feel real but they’re not. Your brother just snapped me out of it. He never seems caught in the past. You never hear him talking about it. He never seems to look back, or at least he never seems stuck in something that has happened. Watch him the next time you spill something. His whole attitude is that it has already happened, and he just moves on to cleaning it up. He’s all about what’s going on now. I’m not sure if that’s the cause or effect of the way he is, but he can be great for bringing a little bit of clarity to things. One time I was going on about work and how I was overlooked for promotion and how ageist it all was and he just cuts me off and says “That’s just a story.” Nothing more. Just like that. “That’s just a story.” And the thing is he was right. It was just a story I was telling myself. When I stopped telling it, it went away.’
‘I’m sure it’s nice to have a live-in sage,’ replied Grace, ‘but even sages need to fend for themselves in the end.’
They arrived back at the car, their chins frozen, but glad to have squeezed each other in.
‘Do you want to come back to the house? Your mother would be delighted to see you.’
‘Sorry. Send her my love. I promised I’d crank up the old laptop at home with Andrew and start booking tours and stuff for the honeymoon. Thanks for the meeting, Dad. It’s not all in the past by the way. Tell our little guru that I’m not finished with you all just yet.’
Grace got on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the chin, kidding around. She climbed into her car and pulled away with a little ‘beep-beep’ of farewell, leaving Peter to nip back into the newsagent to buy the copy of the Economist he had been browsing earlier, just for something to read while he thought about his speech.
Chapter 21: Mime interview
Hungry Paul arrived at the headquarters of the National Mime Association a little early. It was in a theatre that used to be the mews house of a larger property, and which had to be accessed through a back lane. Outside there was a mural showing a white-faced mime artist with a surprised expression, and a poster advertising a show that had taken place the previous year. Beside the entrance there was a painted picture of a doorbell with a sign above it saying ‘Please Knock.’ The ticket desk-cum-reception was unattended, so Hungry Paul let himself in, but decided not call ‘hello’ into the empty room in case that was against the house rules. The theatre was small, with about fifty foldable metal chairs, and looked like a screening room, which is what it had been before the National Mime Association took it over.
Earlier that morning, he had left Parley View without telling his parents where he was going. He didn’t want their expectations on his mind when he had such mixed feelings about the interview in the first place. If he failed the interview, or was offered the job and turned it down, he didn’t want to have the whole drama of discussing it over the dinner table afterwards, with his parents gently pushing him along with a ‘how about this?’ and a ‘what about that?’ If Hungry Paul was being entirely honest about it, he was a little fuzzy on why he was doing the interview in the first place. It had all started when he was enjoying Arno’s routine at the Chamber of Commerce prize-giving as he entertained the congregating well-wishers by making jokes about the giant cheque (which he pretended to saw with his hand) or by playing with the President’s chains of office (which he pretended to spit and polish). Afterwards, he saw Arno sitting down, smoking a cigarette and eating a normal sandwich normally, and was a little disappointed to see that mime artists did regular stuff too. They got chatting, with Arno seemingly under the impression that Hungry Paul was a successful—i.e. rich—businessman who was a big noise in the Chamber of Commerce. Arno opened up and explained how he had started studying drama and dance, and then got into mime when his college put on a musical version of Mr Bean. From there, he moved to Paris and studied with the last generation of master mime artists, who by then had become resigned to the decline of the silent arts. He became involved with the National Mime Association after they had advertised for a creative director. Though they had little or no money to pay him, he was able to live rent-free in a small beds
it behind the stage of the theatre. He managed to make enough money from teaching and corporate work to keep himself and the Association going, provided he was able to rent the theatre out for yoga classes twice a week and to a film club every second Friday.
The problems were not just financial. Morale in the mime world was at an all-time low. Some of the most talented mimes had switched to doing the whole living statue thing as a form of street theatre. However, when that proved to be quite lucrative it began attracting a number of charlatans, who dressed up but wore masks and were even happy to move around and do a thumbs-up for photos with tourists. Arno decided to put a stop to this, and while he would hold his hand up and say that he had made some mistakes and that some things were said which perhaps shouldn’t have been, overall his intentions were true in that he wanted to preserve the integrity of the great art of mime, which had been handed down to him by the masters. But it had been a divisive move, which alienated some of the best members of the troupe and which discouraged the new joiners who had got involved with the theatre for drama of a different kind. The National Mime Association needed to repair its public image and Arno accepted that he was not the man to do it, so he was moving back to the Netherlands and leaving the creative direction of the association to his young apprentice, Lambert. And so began the search to find someone from the outside to bring fresh ideas and act as their spokesman in restoring their reputation in the real world. He figured that Hungry Paul, with his connections at the Chamber of Commerce, could be just the man to lead the National Mime Association to a better place. The fact that he was also a skilled performer—which Hungry Paul later worked out was a reference to his silent acceptance speech at the prize-giving—seemed like a gift from the muses. Naturally, there would have to be a process for filling the job, as the post was being funded in part by an Arts Council bursary, so Hungry Paul needed to do an interview if that was not too unreasonable a request.
LEONARD AND HUNGRY PAUL Page 18