by Jodi Taylor
Van Owen wore a striking fuchsia dress with a white jacket over. She and Polly Perkins had their heads together. Mrs Partridge wowed in a plain, cream silk dress with a black hat and gloves. As far as I could see, everyone was there. I could even see Treadwell in his usual pin-striped suit but rocking a white carnation. I’d like to say he looked ridiculous but actually he looked quite distinguished. On the other hand, he was surrounded by people from St Mary’s so there wasn’t a great deal of sophisticated competition.
Hyssop wasn’t there. None of her people were. I wondered if they were actually still at St Mary’s, told myself it wasn’t anything to do with me any longer, and tried to concentrate on those entering the church.
I was amazed at how normal Lingoss’s parents looked. Neither of them had Lingoss hair. In fact, he hardly had any hair at all and hers was a rigid, iron-grey bob. They looked quite normal. Kindly, even.
‘They are, Max,’ Lingoss had once said to me. ‘I don’t want anyone getting the idea I was abused or anything. I mean, yes, they didn’t notice me much but when they did, they were great. And now I’m at St Mary’s.’
I knew what she meant. Eccentric, argumentative, noisy, St Mary’s was a typical family and she’d found us. Does everyone find their family sooner or later?
With Markham gone, Peterson had selected David Sands to be his best man. I could see Peterson was nervous from the moment the two of them got out of the car. They stood just outside the gate, checking each other over. Force of habit. Rings, tattoos, wristwatches and so forth. I saw Sands pat his pocket – reassuring them both about the wedding rings, I suppose, although sensible Sands was a good choice for best man. I could see Markham judging him on style and presentation.
They talked quietly. The sun shone, a pleasant breeze blew, the churchyard was tidy and no sheep were eating the dead. For a St Mary’s gig, it couldn’t have gone any better.
Eventually, Sands looked at his watch, said something to Peterson, and they walked slowly up the path. As they passed through the door, Peterson looked back over his shoulder. For a moment, I thought he looked directly at the place where we were standing. He couldn’t possibly have seen us – we were in deep shade and he in bright sunlight – but I stepped back anyway. And then they were both inside.
Silence fell. We were just waiting for the bride now.
‘All right?’ said Markham, although I don’t know why he would ask.
‘Absolutely fine,’ I said.
I had no idea who the bridesmaids were. Two tiny little tots with wreaths of flowers in their hair. I couldn’t help thinking it was all a bit conventional for Lingoss.
And then we heard the clip-clop of an approaching horse. Markham craned his neck.
‘I’d have thought arriving by horse and carriage was a bit traditional for Lingoss,’ I said.
Markham nodded. ‘I was rather hoping for a steam-powered tripod from The War of the Worlds.’
We underestimated her. I’ve seen brides arrive in horse-drawn vehicles. The beautifully decorated horse trots smartly to the gate and pauses, posing and posturing while the bride carefully alights.
We didn’t get any of that. For a start, Lingoss was driving, while Professor Rapson sat beside her, clutching his hat and the bridal bouquet. It was hard to tell who was about to be married. Mr Strong, magnificently accoutred in red and black, clung on at the rear.
They arrived at a fast canter with Lingoss leaning forwards, urging the horse on. I suspected both she and Turk were channelling Ben Hur. Turk’s gigantic hooves struck sparks from the tarmac. Lingoss’s veil streamed dramatically behind her. Both of them were obviously enjoying themselves immensely.
‘She terrifies the wits out of me,’ muttered Markham.
The bridal conveyance screeched to a halt outside the church gate. Turk too was bedecked with summer flowers. And wearing his traditional thunderous expression, of course. Lingoss began to manoeuvre her dress in order to climb down and Turk passed the time by trying to eat the bridesmaids’ wreaths. Or possibly the bridesmaids themselves. It was hard to tell at this distance.
On the other hand, he looked magnificent. Our bony, flower-bedecked brown horse gleamed in the summer sunshine. Red ribbons decked his mane. Another was tied around his tail – less for decoration and more to advise the unwary he was a kicker. And don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re safe if you just stay back out of range – he was perfectly capable of farting an adult to death from twenty feet away.
Mr Strong, in his smart black and red uniform and with the traditional bowler, spoke sharply to him and he desisted with the bridesmaids. Although I didn’t give much for their chances later on when he was really hungry.
For those who want to know – Lingoss wore white. But, of course, this was Lingoss, so she also sported frothy black underskirts. The whole effect was of shifting, swirling greys. And she carried a bunch of blood-red roses because you just can’t keep a good girl down. Today’s hair was jet black, tipped with crimson, and her veil was secured by a wreath of the same colour roses. She looked like a cross between Snow White and the wicked stepmother – who’s always been a favourite character of mine. Snow White was such a wuss. All that housework. Looking after seven men. And she sang while she was doing it. That girl was not bright.
Professor Rapson climbed down after her. He was, nominally, giving her away. Lingoss straightened his tie, checked he was all zipped up and pointed him in the direction of the church. He set off, remembered his responsibilities and came back for her. I saw one of the ushers dart back inside the church and the organ music changed to the traditional opening chords of ‘Here Comes the Bride’.
‘That’s disappointing,’ whispered Markham. ‘I bet Evans a fiver it would be Phantom of the Opera or something from Rammstein.’
Miss Lingoss and the professor, followed by the so far uneaten bridesmaids, disappeared into the church.
‘Ready?’ said Markham. Suddenly reluctant, I stood still. Come on, Maxwell.
‘If you’d rather go down the pub,’ said Markham, ‘that can be arranged.’
I shook my head. How stupid to come so far and not actually go in. Move yourself, Maxwell. Just a few steps. Why was I so reluctant?
The last notes of the organ died away. If I was going, then now would be a good time. Beside me, Markham said nothing. I tried to take a deep breath, to be calm, to remember how to walk . . .
‘I think he’d like you to be there,’ said Markham softly, and he was right. Tim had always been there for me. The least I could do was be there for him. So I was. But don’t think it wasn’t a struggle.
We slipped in the back just as the Rev Kev was welcoming everyone. The church was packed – there was no way we’d have got all these people in the chapel at St Mary’s. I mean – no way they’d have got all these people in.
It was cool and dim inside, even though the sun was streaming through the stained-glass windows, setting the floor and pillars on fire. Blood-red roses drooped at the end of every row of pews, all setting off Lingoss’s white dress. You had to hand it to her – she really knew how to knock your socks off with colour.
We sat close to the door in the shadow of a fat pillar and watched the ceremony. I tensed when we got to the bit about just cause and impediment – I think everyone else did as well – but no just cause or impediment materialised and with barely a break, we carried on.
Lingoss made her vows quietly but firmly. Peterson, with his deeper voice, was less clear. I saw them exchange rings. She reached up and wiped something off his cheek and at that point I had to put my sunglasses back on. Markham nudged me and just before the service came to an end we tiptoed back out into the sunshine and heat.
By rights, we should have returned to the pod and jumped away. We’d pushed our luck just by coming here today.
‘Lovely day,’ said Markham.
‘Nice to see everyon
e.’
‘Even if they don’t know they’re seeing us,’ said Markham.
‘Their loss,’ I said, and we went off to hide behind the little shed where the sad pieces of broken angels and gardening tools were kept.
The little churchyard was silent in the sunshine. I could hear bees buzzing. And then all of a sudden, the organ crashed a triumphant fanfare. Echoes of Mendelssohn bounced off the tombstones as the organist really put her back into it, and here they came.
They paused for a moment in the doorway and then Peterson almost ceremonially escorted her up the doorstep and out into the bright sunshine. Into their new lives together.
They couldn’t see us – I doubt whether they saw anyone but each other – but I drew back further into the shadow. Without looking, Markham took my hand. Just for a moment. And then the guests came pouring out of the church.
There was the usual milling around. St Mary’s was present so the milling was even more chaotic and noisy than usual but everyone looked so happy. There was a great deal of laughing and hugging. Peterson stood quietly, having his hand shaken by everyone present. Even Treadwell, I noticed.
Snatches of conversation drifted towards us in our hiding place. Professor Rapson was fretting over whether he’d left something on the boil. Polly Perkins and Van Owen were discussing a cottage somewhere in the village. Bashford was worrying whether Angus had yet noticed his absence. Apparently, he’d been all set to bring her. They’d been practising with him leading her on a red ribbon but Mrs Lingoss had allergies and even Bashford had conceded it would be unkind to exclude the mother of the bride on her daughter’s special day.
Sykes was telling a joke. Buttonholing Atherton, she said, ‘Hey, Atherton. Here’s a good one for you. I work for Cunard.’
He laughed. ‘You certainly do. That’s hilarious. Good one, Sykes.’
Sands looked around. ‘What?’
‘It’s a joke,’ explained Atherton, while Sykes stood quietly, perfecting her ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ expression.
‘I know it’s a joke,’ said Sands, between gritted teeth. ‘I’ve heard it before.’
‘Good one, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps you didn’t get it. Let me explain. When Sykes says she works for Cunard . . .’
Believe it or not, it was Bashford who intervened and led Sands away.
Then there were the photos and holos to be taken. Combinations of bride, groom, parents, friends, the uneaten bridesmaids and so on, culminating in the big group photo. The one with everyone in it. The photographer began to shunt people around, making sure everyone would be visible in the shot.
I looked at Markham. Markham looked at me. Sometimes you don’t need words.
I pulled off my hat and fluffed up my hair. My sunglasses went into Markham’s pocket, along with his own. We walked quietly around the shed and joined the wedding group from behind. Markham slipped along the back row to stand at the other end. I found myself standing behind Treadwell.
We were all instructed to smile, so I did. A big, bright smile for Peterson on his wedding day. I knew Markham would do the same.
‘One more,’ called the photographer. ‘Look at me, please. Smile, everyone . . .’
I smiled again and held up two fingers behind Treadwell’s head. Something flashed somewhere. I wondered what Peterson’s reaction would be when the images came back. When he realised we’d both been at his wedding after all.
Markham appeared behind me because now it really was time to go. As far as I could see, no one was paying us any attention at all, but we’d both learned not to push our luck. As the group began to break up and move towards the gate, we strolled slowly around the side of the church and stood in the shade behind a convenient buttress.
People were laughing and shouting. Markham nudged me. ‘Uh-oh.’ Rather ominously, Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson were disappearing behind a cluster of tombstones. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
It was indeed. With a sinking heart I recognised the professor’s late and very unlamented rapid chicken-firing gun. I had nightmarish visions of some pretty perturbed people panicking as portions of putrid poultry plummeted precipitately. These were nice people. Nice, normal people. This was supposed to be Lingoss’s wedding day. What was he thinking?
I think I must have been acting on automatic pilot because I made some sort of strangled What the hell do we do now? noise and Markham patted me reassuringly. ‘It’s not your problem any longer, Max.’
Oh – no, it wasn’t, was it? I tried to relax and waited to see what would happen next.
There was a series of small pops – I remembered the word ‘rapid’ figured first in the professor’s description of his equipment – and a huge shower of brilliant red fountained heavenwards. Oh God – had they somehow disembowelled a cow? Or even an elephant?
No – it was rather beautiful. Vast quantities of red rose petals fell softly through the air, coating everyone’s heads and shoulders. People gasped and applauded. The tiny bridesmaids ran hither and thither with cupped hands, trying to catch them as they fell. There was a small round of applause. It was a lovely finish to the ceremony. Well done, professor. I should have had some faith. He was very fond of Lingoss and she of him. He wouldn’t have done anything to spoil her day.
And Peterson’s day, of course. I watched him, still shaking hands and smiling. I saw him thank the Rev Kev, who himself was wreathed in smiles. Everyone was having a great time. Everyone was happy for them. Peterson had finally done it. He’d finally married Lingoss. The movement of the crowd brought them back together again and, just for a moment, they were the only two people there. He kissed the palm of her hand and folded it over. To keep the kiss safe. She smiled up at him and he touched her face and I had to look away because this was a private moment and belonged to them alone.
I became aware Markham was watching me. ‘What?’
‘Nothing. We should leave, Max.’
I nodded. We should. I swallowed it all down and flashed him a bright smile. ‘Ready when you are.’
He said softly, ‘Max.’
‘Oh, look. Here’s Turk back again. Doesn’t he look smart?’
There was a short pause and then he said, quite normally, ‘Yes. Can’t believe he hasn’t eaten anyone. All those hats . . . all that exposed flesh. He’s obviously on his best behaviour.’
‘As are we all,’ I said, gaily.
Mr Strong pulled up outside the gate. Turk’s nose was dusty so I guessed Mr Strong had kept him occupied with a nosebag. The happy couple climbed aboard. There was more laughing and cheering and clapping. It had been a beautiful wedding. Perfect in every way. The weather, the setting, everything . . . And then they were gone, trotting down the road to the Falconburg Arms and the reception.
I watched them go. In my head I could already hear the chink of glasses for the toasts, hear Sands making the perfect speech – God knows what Markham would have said – and then the music would start up. The happy couple would step out on to the dance floor and Peterson would immediately have started moving in mysterious ways because he truly can’t dance.
St Mary’s, never slow when food was involved, followed hard on their heels and the more normal guests followed after them, laughing and calling to each other as they made their way down the hill. Within minutes, they were all gone. Silence returned. Crimson rose petals swirled slowly in the breeze, fluttering among the gravestones. A pollen-covered bee buzzed past. Just a sunny afternoon in an empty churchyard.
We went home.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, my covers tangled themselves around my legs, my thoughts became unbearable, and in the end, I got up and went downstairs.
At some point Pennyroyal had returned and despite the late hour, was sitting in his shirtsleeves at the kitchen table, reading his newspaper and dr
inking a glass of whisky.
‘Come in,’ he said, as I stopped in the doorway. ‘Can’t sleep?’
I shook my head.
‘Why not?’
I sat opposite him and shook my head again. My thoughts were not for sharing.
‘Must be a reason,’ he said, turning a page.
Perhaps there’s something about sitting with a psychopathic butler in a dark kitchen in the middle of the night that encourages people to unburden their soul. Of secrets being safely told. He’d asked a question – I’d answer it and if he didn’t like the answer then that was his problem.
‘I have no job and no home. I haven’t seen Leon for months. My son has probably forgotten me. I have no idea how my life is going to pan out and my best friend got married today.’
He folded his newspaper and laid it down.
‘Well, you do have a job – and a good one – here, for as long as you and her ladyship want. Your husband’s not stupid. He can find you through Guthrie. Your son’s reached the age where he wants to stretch his wings a little. There might be more important things in his life at the moment but if you’ve done your job right, you’ll always be his mother. But none of that is what’s really bothering you, is it?’
Not looking at him, I shook my head.
‘It wouldn’t have worked, you know,’ he said, getting up.
‘Markham said that once.’
‘Not as green as he’s cabbage-looking, that one.’
‘No,’ I said.
He began to rummage in a cupboard, pulling out two or three dusty bottles. Taking down a glass he began to slosh in vast amounts of liquid, apparently at random.
‘I’ll tell you what would happen,’ he said. ‘Let’s suppose you and your best friend do get together. You sneak around behind everyone’s backs, lie to everyone whose good opinion you value and do the deed. The pair of you are so riddled with guilt that everyone guesses what’s going on. Your husband finds out. Only you know what that will do to him, but you will lose him. Then you’ll lose your best friend – because the two of you won’t even be able to look at each other. You’ll have lost the respect of everyone who knows you, including your other best friend upstairs at the moment, who relies on you more than you know. You’ll have devastated your kid’s life and soured every memory your friends at St Mary’s have of you. Has to be one hell of a shag to risk all that, don’t you think?’