by JL Merrow
“Oi, you didn’t walk off with a feathered friend at the end of the fayre, did you?” I asked. “Or poison their birdseed?” I was joking, honest.
Mostly.
Greg guffawed, which was a bit on the ear-splittingly painful side in a room this small. “No, no. But the Swan Bottom people were most helpful in providing me with contacts, and by a fortunate chance, a specimen became available almost immediately.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how the bird would’ve seen it.”
Greg looked guilty. “Ah. Perhaps not. Still, for the suffering, death can be a release.”
I grinned. “You keep telling yourself that. Right, I think Cherry wants you in the kitchen.”
Actually, her words had been more along the lines of Tell him to stop showing off and come and do something, but hey, I was pretty sure she’d have been mortified if I’d repeated them word-for-word.
“Lunch must be going all right, if she’s let you out,” Phil murmured, taking advantage of Greg’s departure to pull me into his arms.
“Yeah, we’ll probably survive it.” Even with both of us fully clothed, I couldn’t help smiling at the feel of his body pressed against mine.
Even the glassy-eyed stare of Greg’s badger, who now had his own not-so-little alcove in the bookshelf, couldn’t dampen the mood.
“So was this all just a lesson in taxidermy, or did you get anything useful out of Greg? About the case, I mean.”
Phil huffed a laugh. “Greg reckons the bishop fancied Amelia.”
I pulled back to stare at him. “He said that?”
“Not in so many words. He just suggested Toby might have ‘experienced a moment or two of quiet regret’ he hadn’t met her before Alex Majors did.”
I frowned. “You mean, when she was still married to Sir Prancelot? Huh. So Uncle Aardvark was telling the truth about Toby being her mate, not Alex’s.”
“Maybe. Or maybe Greg just heard the same story we did. It fits, though—Vi doesn’t act like he’s an old friend of the family.”
“Nah, she seemed a bit creeped out by him, if you ask me.”
We got called in to the dining room at that point, so I never got a chance to mention Cherry’s house idea to Phil.
Ah, well. It’d keep.
For a while after we sat down to eat, the conversation was all of the pass the gravy variety. Well, once we’d disposed of the grace. Greg would probably get defrocked or excommunicated if he dared to taste his dinner without giving due credit to the bloke upstairs first. Still, at least he kept it decently short. Actually, this one was shorter than usual, possibly because my stomach rumbled loudly right in the middle.
What? It’d been a long time since breakfast.
“Tom? Toby asked if you’ll be attending Amelia’s funeral.” Cherry looked like she had a bad taste in her mouth at the thought, but fair dues, she had just had a forkful of sprouts.
“Hadn’t planned to,” I said, just as Phil chimed in with “We’ll be there.”
We exchanged glances. He raised an eyebrow.
I shrugged. Fine. “When and where?”
“Tuesday at noon, in the cathedral,” Greg answered. “Toby thought it would be appropriate, as she gave so much of herself to the diocese.”
I had a sudden vision of Amelia literally giving herself to the bishop. On a silver platter. I just managed to hold back a snigger, so was saved from Cherry’s disapproving look and Greg’s sorrowful one.
“There will be a cold collation back here afterwards,” Greg went on, oblivious.
“If old Tobe’s the one pushing for her to have the big send-off,” I asked, “how come the party’s not over at his place? Come to think of it, where is his place?”
“Toby has a house out in the country. It wouldn’t be suitable,” Cherry said with a resigned note to her voice which suggested this wasn’t the first time dear old Toby had managed to avoid having to do the mine-host bit by living somewhere unsuitable.
I frowned, trying to picture my work diary. If I rang up Mrs. M. and asked if I could come an hour early, it’d be doable, ’specially seeing as lunch was thrown in. Well, I assumed that was what Greg meant by collation. If not, I could always pick up a sarnie somewhere. “Yeah, I guess I can make it. What’s it to Toby, though? Me going along, I mean.”
This time, it was Cherry and Greg who exchanged glances. Clearly they had a different system of sign language than me and Phil, as I couldn’t see what prompted it when Greg was the one who spoke. “Oh, Toby appears to have taken quite a shine to you, Tom.”
I stared. “Yeah? How does he treat the people he doesn’t like, then?”
Cherry made a weird snuffling sound.
I’m not saying it was a laugh, mind, but I’m not saying it wasn’t either.
Greg sent her a gently reproachful look. She stared him out until he coughed and topped up her wine.
Go, Sis.
Phil, being Phil, just took advantage of the way the conversation had turned to the bishop. “Interesting man, your bishop,” he said noncommittally.
Greg beamed. “Isn’t he?”
“Don’t suppose his duties leave a lot of time for a private life.”
“Ah! Well, that’s the interesting thing.” Greg’s eyebrows danced ponderously, like a couple of courting badgers of uncertain age. “The talk around Cathedral Close—although of course, one mustn’t gossip—is that he’s found himself a young lady. Certainly he’s been spending more time away from his desk of late. All work and no play, as they say . . .”
It seemed weird to think of a bishop at play. “Hey, does he still wear the purple and the dog collar when he goes out on a date? Wouldn’t that be a bit off-putting to the young lady?” Of course, maybe it was part of the attraction. I remembered how Greg and Cherry had met, and shot her a quick glance.
Her gaze was fixed firmly on her plate. But there was a definite pink tint to her cheeks, and I didn’t reckon it was all down to the wine.
“Who’s the lucky lady?” Phil asked Greg.
“Ah! Well, you see, nobody knows. Clearly someone who appreciates the value of discretion.”
“Married, is she?” Oops. Just slipped out. But yeah, my Amelia-on-a-plate theory was looking good.
Cherry glared at me. “Don’t be absurd. And for goodness’ sake, don’t go saying things like that where anyone else might hear.”
Heh. Better not mention my other theory then, which was that she was actually a bloke. Old Tobes wouldn’t be the first clergyman to spout fire and brimstone against homosexuals, all while getting his rocks off with them on the sly.
“Interesting,” Phil said, and bunged a forkful of potatoes in his gob, the annoying git.
Cherry switched her glare to my intended. “Oh, come on. You can’t just leave it like that.”
Greg tried to shove an ecclesiastical oar in. “Now, if Philip isn’t at liberty to say any more, we shouldn’t press him.”
“If he’s not at liberty to say more, he shouldn’t say anything at all. Should he, Tom?” Her gimlet stare switched back to me again.
I tried to ward it off with my cutlery. “Oi, don’t drag me into this. But yeah, seriously?” I turned to Phil.
He smirked. “Word is, Violet Majors has also been seeing someone. And again, nobody seems to know who.”
I frowned. “Whose word?”
“Polina Karwatsky.”
“Who?”
“She’s the Majors’ cleaner.” His expression got even smugger. “I don’t just sit around in the office all day. I spoke to her Friday.”
“Oh, is she Polish?” Cherry put in, which, yeah, had occurred to me but I hadn’t planned to mention seeing as how it was completely irrelevant.
“Ukrainian.”
“You kept that quiet,” I not-quite-accused. And no, I wasn’t talking about the girl’s nationality.
He shrugged. “Didn’t have a chance to mention it.”
“While we’re on the subject, Tom,” Cherry said a bit louder
than strictly necessary, leaning forward. She was going to get gravy on her top if she wasn’t careful. “When are we going to meet your father?”
If she stretched her definition of on the subject any further, it’d snap and take someone’s leg off. “Uh . . . Well, you know he lives over in Bristol, right? I mean, it’s a long way at his age . . .”
Greg put down his fork. “I was hoping we might extend him an invitation to our wedding. After all, he is part of the family, albeit in a rather unconventional sense.”
My knife fell from my hand. Greg was going to have to wash this tablecloth—or get Sis to do it for him, for all I knew—and serve ’em both bloody well right. “What? Hang on a mo. You can’t do that. What about Dad?”
Cherry gave her fiancé an uneasy glance. “We’ve talked about it, and Gregory feels one shouldn’t brush these things under the carpet.”
“This isn’t just not brushing it under the carpet. This is hanging it out the window for everyone to see and shouting ‘Oi, look, dirty laundry here!’” I rounded on Cherry. “And you’ve changed your tune. What about the way you used to go on at me about not upsetting Mum and Dad? I don’t know about you, but I reckon someone inviting the bloke I’d been cheated on with to a family do would bloody well upset me and then some.”
I looked over at Phil, hoping for a bit of support here, but he was staring off into the middle distance doing moody-clam impressions.
Shit.
“Tom,” Cherry said, her tone unhappy. “I know it’s difficult, but Gregory and I . . . Well, we just thought it might be easier for you this way.”
“Easier? How the bloody hell do you work that one out?”
“Well . . .” She cast a pleading look at Greg.
Her fiancé didn’t leave her hanging. “We simply felt that it might be easier to introduce Mr. Novak at our wedding. Given that it is likely to be a rather larger affair than your own ceremony in the summer.” Which was fair enough, seeing as pretty much the entire diocese was on the guest list for theirs. Greg’s smile was kind and concerned. “There will be no need to spell matters out for those who don’t already know. He can merely be introduced as an old friend of the family.”
I swallowed. ’Cos they were right, weren’t they? Not about having him at theirs first being easier, necessarily. Although maybe it would be, at that. It’d certainly be one major thing less to worry about when me and Phil tied the knot.
But about Mike Novak having to be part of my and Phil’s wedding.
I mean, Christ, I’d been telling myself maybe he didn’t have to come, that he’d understand it was for the best. But it wasn’t like Dad didn’t know about him being my real dad. Mike Novak would be the elephant in the room whether he was there or not—and God knows, I’d had no idea how I could break it to him he wasn’t invited.
Or how I’d square it with my conscience afterwards. He was my . . . Well. Not my dad. But he was my father. Maybe I wasn’t too happy with the way he’d buggered off and left when Mum told him to, but if I told him to piss off when it came to family occasions, I’d just be doing the exact same thing, wouldn’t I?
Blood’s blood, innit?
“More wine, Tom?” Greg asked, holding out the bottle of red and politely not mentioning the way I must have been staring into space for the last five minutes while that little personal epiphany unfolded.
“Uh, yeah. Ta.”
“So anyway,” Cherry went on brightly. “We were thinking you could bring him round for lunch one Sunday. But no hurry. Although it will have to be before December, obviously. Now, we’re trying to decide what the ushers should wear. How would you feel about putting on a top hat and tails, Tom?”
It was just as well I’d already got gravy on the tablecloth. That way, I didn’t have to feel guilty about the way I spluttered red wine all over it.
“You all right?” Phil asked as I drove us back to St. Albans. We’d taken my Fiesta, as it hadn’t had a good run for a while now and had probably been getting itchy wheels.
“Fine.” My hands tightened on the wheel.
“You don’t have to let them steamroller you into having your real dad at our wedding if you don’t want to. Or theirs, for that matter.”
I didn’t tell him he could have spoken up at the time. I had a fair idea why he hadn’t.
“No, they’re right. He should be there. I mean, at our do. I don’t s’pose he really gives a toss about Cherry’s wedding, but yeah, probably best to get the awkward stuff over with at their do, not ours.” I took a deep breath. “And we should set a date. Start looking at venues, all that bollocks. Dunno why I’ve been putting it off, really.”
Now, see, this is why I love my bloke. Instead of saying You don’t? It’s been bleedin’ obvious to me, he just put a hand on my thigh and squeezed it gently.
“Oi, none of that,” I told him with a weak smile. “You’ll get me done for driving without due care and attention.”
“Can’t have that, can we?” Phil took a breath. “There’s a place we could take a look at on the way back, if you want. I’ll direct you.”
Working out what sort of a place he was on about didn’t tax the old mental faculties unduly, and I gave him a look. “Oh yeah? You been scouting out gay-friendly wedding venues on the sly?”
“Darren suggested it. Said he took a look when him and Gary were planning theirs, and it wasn’t his sort of place but he thought I might like it.”
Okay, so now I was intrigued. “Any word on whether I’m likely to go for it?”
“Just have to make up your own mind, won’t you? Right. You want to take a right at the roundabout, then left down past St. Stephen’s.”
I tootled on down in the Fiesta. “Are we nearly there yet?”
“Yes. Now turn right.”
“Oi, we’re not going to your mum’s, are we?” I asked, suspicious. “I know we said a small wedding, but I don’t reckon her front room’s gonna take more than a dozen, and that’s if we squash ’em in like sardines.”
Phil smiled. “No, we’re not going to Mum’s. Just keep going.”
I kept going. Just as I was wondering if the housing estate was ever going to end, it did, and we were out in the countryside again. I was well confused. “Hang on a mo,” I started.
“There it is,” Phil interrupted. “Right here.”
I turned down a tree-lined lane I really wouldn’t have expected to find here—and there it was: a big old Georgian red-brick frontage with a wide sweep of lawn outside. The drive led us round the back, past what were probably really nice flower gardens in the summer, and even now weren’t doing too badly, with a healthy-looking selection of shrubs.
I hadn’t spotted any signs out the front that it was anything other than some posh bastard’s country cottage, but here at the back it was obvious it was a hotel, with a nice-looking car park—and there’s a phrase I never thought I’d need—and a discreetly tasteful sign proclaiming its four-star status. “Hang on a mo,” I said again. “Isn’t this gonna cost an arm and a leg?” I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked for a couple of kidneys on top.
“Not if we have the wedding on a weekday. They do an off-peak deal. Sundays too, but I reckoned that’d be difficult for Greg and your sister. Park up, and we can take a look inside.”
I parked. I was beginning to think Phil had put a bit more thought into this than just having heard the name from Darren. I wiped my palms on my jeans as I got out of the car. Christ, what if he’d set his heart on this place and I hated it?
We crunched over the gravel to the main door. Halfway there, a flash of colour caught my eye, and I turned to see a bright-red bridge over an ornamental pond, half-hidden by plants.
“Chinese garden,” Phil said. “Thought it’d be a good spot for the wedding photos.”
“Uh, if you’ve already booked the place, now would be a good time to mention it.” I wasn’t really joking.
“We’re just taking a look, all right? If you hate it, that’s no problem. W
e’ll find somewhere else.” He said it like he meant it.
Course, in his line of work, being a good liar can come in pretty handy.
I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Inside it was bloody lovely. The reception area was all rich, deep colours and dark wood panelling—actually, to be honest, it reminded me a bit of the White Hart. It was posh, no doubt about it, but it seemed comfortable too.
My mum would love this place, I realised. Cherry would adore it. It was just the sort of venue I reckoned she’d have gone for, if she hadn’t been getting hitched in St. Leonards cathedral.
The young lady at the desk looked up and gave us a smile. Her name tag said Sally. “Welcome to Cottonmill Hall. Can I help you with anything?”
“All right if we take a look around?” Phil asked her. “We’re trying to find a wedding venue.”
“Oh, how lovely. For the two of you? Have you been together long?”
Phil nodded. “Nearly a year now.”
“Fantastic. And did you have a date in mind? I’m afraid summer Saturdays tend to get booked up quite far in advance.”
“We were thinking of a weekday. Maybe July?”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be able to accommodate you, then. You’ll find a lot of things much easier if you’re not going for the traditional Saturday.” Her smile turned conspiratorial. “And, of course, it’s much better value for money. How many guests, roughly?”
“Probably no more than fifty.”
Sally beamed. “Smaller weddings are so much nicer, I always think. Much more intimate and friendly.” She was good, this girl. “Just give me one moment to get someone to cover for me, and I’ll take you round.”
She disappeared out back and returned a minute or two later with an equally bright and smiley young man by the name of Tim, unless his name tag was telling porkies. Tim congratulated us on our engagement, told us we wouldn’t regret choosing Cottonmill Hall, and beamed happily as Sally led us away. Maybe they put something in the water round here.
“As you’re having such an intimate celebration, you’ll be able to use the conservatory for dining if you’d like to.” She pushed open a door.