White Wedding

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Yes, I’m really a doctor,’ came the reply. ‘I’m on a sabbatical. I’d hoped I wouldn’t see the inside of a hospital again until at least Christmas.’

  On the wall facing them was a television on which the jingle for the news was playing. The lead story was that the psychotic killer, Dr Donald Reynolds, had been apprehended in the Lake District. Despite the pain she was in, Bel couldn’t suppress a little giggle leaking out.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Dr Dan Regent.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Bel, pressing her head even harder in the hope of stopping the sickening throb.

  ‘You ought to ask your father to get the roof fixed,’ he said. ‘There were a few tiles loosened during the night. That one that fell off was so sharp that it could have killed you.’

  ‘A tile?’ said Bel. ‘A tile fell on my head?’

  ‘It just clipped you. I saw it falling but I wasn’t in time to push you out of the way entirely.’

  ‘Oh you were saving me.’ Bel laughed through the pain.

  ‘What on earth did you think I was trying to do – kill you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Bel’s eyes drifted back to the TV screen as the image of the recaptured real psycho appeared. He looked much older than his purported fifty-six. And if he had an athletic build, she was Keira Knightly.

  A soft-voiced doctor in scrubs called her name and Dan helped Bel to her feet and took her through to a cubicle.

  She needed five dissolving stitches in her head. She felt like Frankenstein afterwards as she walked back to the car, holding on to Dan’s arm. Her head felt as big as a watermelon inside the bandage. In her free hand she was gripping a leaflet about head injuries.

  ‘Would you like me to ring anyone for you?’ Dan asked, surprisingly gently for a once-suspected serial killer, as he pulled the seat belt from her hands to fasten it for her.

  ‘No, I’m okay,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Quite the independent, aren’t you?’ he levelled at her.

  ‘Yes,’ was all Bel said by way of return.

  She sat in silence as he drove down the bypass and headed out to the edge of the moors. Thoughts of her dad and Max and Violet pushed through to the front of her brain. Despite the notes she had left them and the texts she’d sent, they’d be worried sick, she knew. It made it all the harder to go home. She hadn’t given much thought to their distress levels in the run-up to the wedding; instead she had concentrated on imagining the shame she hoped Shaden and Richard would be feeling. She had prioritized the ones she hated above the ones she loved.

  Her eyes began to drip tears and she attempted to wipe them away, cursing herself for the involuntary sniffing.

  She saw Dr Dan glance over.

  ‘You all right?’ he said.

  ‘Never better,’ she said, keeping her eyes facing forward; yet out of the corner of her right one she sensed him smiling.

  ‘You know, you really oughtn’t to be by yourself for a few hours.’

  ‘There’s a pet shop in Keighley. If you pull in, I’ll buy myself a goldfish,’ Bel replied, squaring up to the momentary weakness she felt. There were unpleasant thoughts coming at her now from all angles, and she didn’t want them bombarding her and battering holes in her self-protective armour.

  Dan indicated right and started up the twisty lane that led to the cottages. As he pulled on the handbrake outside the front door to Emily he sighed heavily.

  ‘Annoying as this is for us both, I think you’d better come into my cottage,’ he said, stressing the possessive. ‘As a doctor, I am duty-bound to insist.’

  Like hell, her thoughts said. ‘If I must,’ her voice said. She supposed it made sense. Plus, she knew that he really would insist and she felt too weak to win the argument, so it was best to simply agree.

  It was raining yet again. A typical British weather day: dark, wet, depressing. It was as if the inside of Bel’s head was projected on to the sky.

  Inside Emily, she sank onto the huge comfy sofa and put her feet up on the equally fat footstool. Dan went straight to the kettle and clicked it on. He stacked up the litter of A4 sheets on the coffee table to make some space.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ he asked her.

  ‘Brandy,’ said Bel.

  ‘Not wise,’ Dan replied. ‘You have three options: tea or coffee or nothing.’

  ‘I’ll have a coffee, then, thank you. Strong, milk, a quarter teaspoon of sugar.’

  ‘A quarter?’ mocked Dan. ‘Is that worth putting in?’

  ‘It’s just for a hint of sweetness,’ replied Bel. ‘So, yes, it is worth it to me. It doesn’t have to be an exact quarter.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dan said, resigned. ‘But I’ll try to get it as near as dammit to the requested fraction.’

  She rested her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes; it really was the most comfortable seat in the world and the one she had imagined curling up on after fleeing the wedding reception, instead of the poky lumpy thing in the cottage next door.

  Dan coughed to alert her to the fact that he was standing next to her holding out a drink. She took the mug from his hand. A big solid left hand, she noticed. No ring on the third finger, but a large gold signet ring on the middle one.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bel.

  He sat down in the armchair – her dad’s old chair. She used to snuggle up on his knee on that chair and he’d read her a story. Beauty and the Beast was always her favourite. She’d always dreamed of marrying someone like the nice beast with the big heart. Well, she’d married a beast all right, but the reverse kind – one with the beauty on the outside and the ugliness within. Bloody tears. Bugger off back to where you came from, will you?

  ‘So,’ said Dan, cradling the mug in his hand. ‘This is all a bit surreal, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Bel. She wondered how long it would take him to start asking questions. Not long, apparently.

  ‘Can I just ask—’

  ‘Please,’ she held up her hand. ‘No questions. I shan’t ask any or answer any.’

  ‘I was only going to ask you if you wanted a bowl of soup,’ said Dan with the hint of an impatient grumble in his voice.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Heinz Tomato. Nothing fancy.’ Then he slapped the heel of his hand to his head.

  ‘Of course a tin opener would be handy at this point.’

  Bel cringed. ‘Can’t remember what I did with it.’

  Their eyes locked and then simultaneously, and without planning to, their faces broke into wide smiles. ‘I’ll find it and get it back, I promise,’ said Bel.

  ‘I could make us a sandwich,’ Dan suggested. ‘I don’t need the can opener for a cheese toastie.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘I am,’ said Dan, and he switched on the grill. Soon the smell of toast and cheese was filling the room and Bel’s stomach growled like a wolf in pain. She wished she had said yes to the offer now.

  Dan switched off the grill. Bel almost started to salivate as she heard a knife crunch through the toastie. Then Dan put a plate down in front of her.

  ‘Just in case you’ve changed your mind,’ he said.

  ‘It’s rather possible that I might have,’ said Bel with a sniff.

  Chapter 30

  Bel awoke to the sound of a boiled kettle clicking off and the chink of a metal spoon against a china mug.

  ‘What the—’ she exclaimed, pulling herself up to a sitting position.

  ‘Morning.’

  She was huddled in a quilt on the large squashy sofa and Dan Regent was stirring coffee into a cup. He had bed-hair. Dark and messy, his look was something top male models in magazines probably took hours to acquire.

  ‘It’s the morning?’ Bel foraged in her mind for the point when she’d felt too tired to say: ‘I feel tired and I need to go back to Charlotte.’

  ‘Let me save you the bother,’ said Dan, as if he could see the whirrings in her mind. ‘Y
ou drifted off to sleep and I didn’t wake you. I thought it was best if I kept my eye on you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bel, not quite sure if that was the right thing to say, but saying it anyway.

  ‘I’m going to the village shop later, if you should need anything.’

  Bel stretched under the duvet. He must have put it over her. Oh God, she hoped she hadn’t been snoring. Richard used to say that she made little snuffly noises during the ni—

  She cut off the thought of him because it hurt. As her anger was dissipating the pain was getting through.

  ‘I’d better go next door,’ said Bel as she stood up, then fell backwards again. If only Dan wasn’t here, she could quite happily have stayed snuggled in that quilt on the sofa and watched Antique Aunties, the show where two funny old ladies went around people’s houses snuffling out their treasures like truffles.

  Her wound throbbed under the bandage wrapped around her head. She made a note not to look in a mirror as she was sure a very pale and tatty Björn Borg might stare back at her. Her bladder had woken up as well now and was screaming for the loo. Bel started to fold up the quilt.

  ‘Just leave it, it’s fine. I’ll do it,’ said Dan. ‘But I would appreciate the tin opener if you can find it.’

  ‘I’ll find it,’ said Bel, pulling herself to her feet – successfully this time. She opened the creaky cottage door. ‘Thank you for er . . . babysitting me.’ That sounded ridiculous.

  ‘It wasn’t as if I had a choice,’ replied Dan.

  ‘Well, you did,’ said Bel, rearing a little. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t denied me entry to my own family’s property before.’

  ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘Please don’t explain. I get your drift. I’ll be off now. To hunt for the tin opener you are so desperate to retrieve, despite my escape from death’s clutches yesterday.’ And she exited Emily with a haughty flourish.

  Normal relations were resumed, it seemed.

  In the tiny bathroom in Charlotte, Bel braved a full-on study of herself in the mirror and jumped back in horror. She looked terrible; whey-faced and gaunt. Like something out of a Living Dead film. A zombie who played tennis in its spare time. She dampened a flannel and pressed it against her face.

  She suddenly wondered what Shaden was doing now. Perfect, glossy Shaden with her eyes perfectly made up and lipstick perfectly applied. Was Richard with her?

  A harsh series of raps on her outside door snapped Bel away from thinking about them. She dabbed her face dry and didn’t hurry down the stairs. It was obviously Dan who would be standing there when she opened up.

  ‘Erm . . . did you want me to bring you anything back from the shop? And did you find the tin opener?’

  ‘I haven’t looked yet,’ Bel bristled. As she moved to the kitchen drawer she felt Dan enter the cottage behind her.

  ‘Bit small in here, isn’t it?’ he asked, squeezing past the sofa.

  ‘Apparently a family of eight once lived here.’

  ‘Eight what? Mice?’ grunted Dan. ‘That’s the tin opener, isn’t it?’ He pointed to the said article, sitting like an egg in a nest of screwed-up veil.

  As she lifted it up, it caught on the material, and as she jerked it free, the veil snagged.

  ‘It’s torn,’ commented Dan, taking the tin opener from her.

  ‘I don’t give a flying fart, actually,’ said Bel, slipping into cross mode as she felt tears rising up to her eyes again. ‘And I’m okay for groceries, thanks.’

  Dan gave a less than subtle glance towards the short run of kitchen worktop, where the cans and Pot Noodles were standing.

  ‘As you wish,’ he said, banging his head on the low hanging lightshade on the way out. ‘Don’t say I didn’t ask.’

  At the door he turned round. ‘I trust you won’t be snooping inside the cottage again while I’m out, will you?’

  ‘You have my word,’ said Bel.

  ‘Hmm,’ he replied. He looked unconvinced by her honour as he shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 31

  ‘Hello, there,’ greeted Freya, as Violet pushed open the door to White Wedding.

  ‘Hi,’ Violet waved at her. ‘I was passing. I came in to have another look at the dress, if I could. Just to make sure that I still like it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Freya smiled. She walked down to her workroom at the far end of the shop. Like so many people, Violet wouldn’t have been surprised to find that as a younger woman Freya had been a ballerina. She had the poise and elegance of a dancer. They would have been gobsmacked to discover that in fact she had been a farmer’s wife. Once upon a time she had lived a cold, hard existence with only her dreams to keep her warm and give meaning to her days.

  Freya returned with the beautiful ivory silk dress draped over her arm and Violet nodded as the older lady handed it to her.

  ‘Oh it’s so beautiful,’ said Violet. If she had to get married, there could be no sweeter dress to wear than this one. She had dreamed about it last night, which was what had inspired her to come here today. In the dream she hadn’t married Glyn, but someone in a uniform – a soldier. And her heart had been flooded with happy feelings as he kissed her at the altar.

  Then she had slid into consciousness to find that it was Glyn who was kissing her and ready to make love to her. And she had tried to think of someone else so she could endure it, but her brain wouldn’t quite let her because it felt like a betrayal.

  Violet shrugged off the uncomfortable memory and put on the dress. Freya zipped her up and looked over her shoulder into the mirror.

  ‘When I made this dress, it had buttons up the back,’ she said.

  ‘You made it?’ asked Violet with a little gasp of delight.

  ‘Yes, it was the very first wedding dress I ever made. I got a bolt of silk from the black market and stitched it by hand. But over the years it has been altered so much, to fit all shapes and sizes.’

  ‘Did you make it for yourself?’ asked Violet, smoothing the silk over her hips. As perfect as it looked in the mirror, there was something wrong with how it felt on her – she couldn’t put her finger on what the problem was. It was almost as if it was twisted round her body.

  ‘No,’ said Freya, examining the fit. ‘I had always wanted to make wedding dresses, from being a small child. But my family were farmers and we moved in small circles and so I ended up marrying a farmer too. A career in dressmaking was just a pipe dream then.’

  ‘Wow,’ Violet blew the air out of her cheeks. ‘I can’t imagine you milking cows and feeding pigs. Were you happy, though? All that country air and apple picking?’ Say you were, thought Violet. She wanted to picture Freya in sunshine and jolly harvest times.

  ‘No, I was desperately unhappy,’ said Freya, her eyes dull with the pain of the memories. Leonard – my husband – was a cruel and brutal man. ‘I didn’t live, I existed.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Violet softly.

  ‘Into my life came a young man, a German. Vincent.’ A prisoner of war who worked on the farm. ‘I fell in love with him on sight. But I was married, of course. Trapped, incarcerated, imprisoned. As much as I wanted to leave my husband, there was nowhere for me to go. Especially not in those days.’

  Violet studied Freya and noticed that, whatever she was thinking, there was a light growing brighter in her eyes.

  Freya could feel his hands deliciously weaving themselves into the long, flame-red hair she had back then, smell him, see him in that ridiculous POW brown suit with the bright orange patch on the back. And his voice was still a clear and perfect sound in her head.

  ‘When I can go back to Berlin, Herzchen, I am going to take you with me.’

  As if a champagne cork had been pulled from a bottle in her brain, a fizz of memories foamed up behind it. The Italian POWs, so much fun to be around; Leonard, jealous of Vincent’s popularity with everyone, having the camp transfer him to another farm miles away; the end of the war; the slow repatriation of the German and Italia
n POWs.

  When the last of the prisoners left the farm, Freya knew she would never hear laughter there again.

  She pulled herself into the here-and-now and smiled at Violet.

  ‘I will never know how I found the strength to leave, but one day I just picked up my bag and my sketchbook and I walked out of the front door and never went back. I think the last remaining self-protective part of me finally realized that a life without hope is a living death.’

  Violet wanted to cheer. But what about Vincent?

  ‘I caught a bus into town, then another and another until I ended up in Derbyshire. The last bus dropped me outside an inn where they were advertising in the window for someone to help run the bar and clean. It was like a gift from God that I could walk straight into that job, and the people who owned the place were so kind to me. In the evenings, I would sit with the family and talk, and I would embroider as I was doing so. And one day the son of the family brought me a bolt of silk and I sat and stitched this dress with all the care I could take, a dress fit for the bride of a beautiful man like Vincent.’

  Violet felt her spirits sinking. Other brides had worn this dress, but Freya never had. It felt all wrong on her today, but maybe that was because there was so much sadness caught up in the threads.

  ‘And one day Vincent walked into the bar. He’d been home to Berlin then he came back for me, but he was unable to find me. It took him months, but he didn’t give up.’

  ‘Oh my.’ Violet’s eyes filled up. ‘Tell me that you left with him.’

  ‘I left with him.’

  ‘And you married him and wore this dress?’

  ‘I married him and wore this dress.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Violet, patting her beating heart. ‘Did you ever see your husband again? Your first one, I mean?’

  ‘Only once,’ said Freya. ‘And he looked like a stranger. Even now I have nightmares that I could have wasted my life staying with a man I didn’t love, a man I had married for all the wrong reasons.’

  Violet swallowed. ‘Freya, why did you marry him in the first place?’ She listened to the answer carefully.