by Nigel Smith
Nat’s hair was in a terrible mess.
And Dad was terribly lost.
“TIFFANNEE’S WEDDING IS TURNING INTO A TERRIBLE MESS,” wailed Nat, as Dad pulled up at a garage so Nat could get cleaned up and he could get directions.
She was far too miserable to even help as Dad wiped several kilos of cake off her with some garage-bought wet wipes. Darius helped by eating a lot of it.
The top of the cake was smooshed to smithereens, but Darius reckoned the rest of it could be saved.
“Too late, the wedding is doomed anyway,” said Nat, “and I’m going to look totally rubbish in front of all our relatives. Plus, I feel bad for Tiffannee. I know it’s all Dad’s fault but I feel a teeny bit responsible.”
“We can get away with it. We just need to give the cake a different shape,” said Darius, looking thoughtful. “Then no one will know the top’s missing.”
“Oh that’s a great help,” snapped Nat. “Who’s gonna do that? You’d need to be the greatest sculptor in the word to turn this cake into anything…”
Her voice trailed off. Her eyes lit up.
She knew just the man for the job.
“Please be in, please be in,” said Nat as she waited at Uncle Ernie’s front door.
Darius pressed the doorbell again. Uncle Ernie had changed the normally happy doorbell song to one that went:
“I don’t know why you’ve come, no one likes me…”
Eventually Uncle Ernie opened the door. He was cuddling Buster, his big, fluffy rescue dog. He started to smile at Nat, and then remembered her last visit.
“What now?” he said. “Have you remembered someone else who doesn’t like me?”
He looked at Darius, still attached to Nat and raised his eyebrows. “Long story, no time,” said Nat. Then she took a deep breath and began. “Uncle Ernie, Tiffannee made a terrible mistake and she’s really sorry. She was being silly because… well, I think getting married makes people go a bit odd, to tell you the truth. I’ve no idea why.”
“So?”
“So please come to the wedding. It won’t be the same without you,” said Nat, trying to stand somewhere so as to not get the full benefit of the cabbagey smell. “Families have to be together at weddings. That’s what they’re for.”
“And Buster?”
“He’s family too,” said Nat. “Will you come?”
Uncle Ernie smiled his wonky smile. “I’ll get my coat,” he said.
“And while you’re at it, bring your modelling tools,” Nat shouted after him, looking nervously up at the sky as a few fat drops of rain fell and dark clouds began to gather overhead.
By the time they reached the wedding tent, the sky was looking heavy and ominous, as if something terrible was going to happen soon. But Nat didn’t have time to think about that – she was too busy trying to deal with all the terrible things that were happening right now.
Nat knew all the guests would be getting hungry and cranky. There was no time to lose. While Uncle Ernie furiously remodelled the stricken cake, Dad started unloading what was left of the hairy, doggy stew into the cooking caravans.
Nat spent a terrible few minutes trying to untangle herself from her cool black clothes to reveal her horrid fairy outfit. This was not easy, attached to Darius. At one point, his revolting head popped up from under her top and she shrieked in fright.
Finally it was done and they went to find Tiffannee.
They found her in the tent with Hiram, her dad and the bridesmaids. All the guests were crowded inside, sitting at long trestle tables, waiting for their lunch.
The loudest voice belonged, of course, to Bad News Nan, who was STARVING.
“I’ve decided not to let my son and grandaughter organise my funeral,” she droned to some poor relatives who couldn’t get away, “everyone would be so hungry they’d end up eating me.”
“What a DISGUSTING thought,” said Grandma Nelly.
“What’s wrong with eating me?” said Bad News Nan.
“I like lean meat,” snapped Grandma Nelly, “if you get my drift.”
“Well I don’t imagine you’d make good eating,” said Bad News Nan, “all stringy and sour’s what I say. Gristle, I call it.””
“Will you stop talking about eating my mum?” snapped Raymonde, as the FBI men chuckled nearby.
“We could put her in a pie,” said Bad News Nan.
Nat was distracted from that mad conversation by the bride, who ran down to greet her. “Where have you been?” said Tiffannee. “And why are you holding that boy’s hand?”
Nat had bundled all her black clothes into a ball and covered the cuffs with them. It worked as a disguise but looked like she was holding hands with Darius.
Now Nat saw that Tiffannee was looking a little cross.
“And will you tell this photographer to leave me alone for a minute?”
Henrik Henriksonn was still there, taking pictures. “Can I go home now?” he said.
“No,” said Nat firmly. “More pictures, but of other people.”
She chased him away, taking Darius with her, which slowed things up a lot. When she returned she saw Daisy Wetwipe whispering in Tiffannee’s ear. By the wrinkled-up nose of the chief bridesmaid, Nat guessed she was being all moany about the marquée.
Uh oh, she thought, I knew it. Not so fast, you.
She turned to Tiffannee and put on her most winning smile. “Do you know this marquée used to belong to Henry the eighth?” she said.
“Gee honey, you hear that? said Hiram, who like all Americans was a sucker for a bit of history, even history that was TOTALLY MADE UP, “and Daisy here was just saying it looked like a ratty old big top from a manky circus.”
Did she indeed? thought Nat. OK then, two can play at that game. “She’s not had much education,” said Nat, “so I don’t blame her for her mistake.”
“Now Nat…” said Tiffannee, who looked a bit rattled by Daisy’s constant moaning, but was trying her best to stay calm, “where’s lunch? There’s only so much conversation about cooking each other I can listen to. I think it means people are peckish.”
Nat couldn’t think what to say.
“Lunch is late. Marcel wants perfection,” said Darius.
“Marcel?” said Hiram.
“Perfection?” said Tiffannee.
“Rot,” muttered Daisy.
“It’s another surprise,” said Nat.
“Another one?” said Tiffannee, through slightly gritted teeth. “Gee, Nat, I wonder how many more of your surprises I can stand.”
“Marcel is a great French chef,” said Nat, thinking on her feet, “he loves perfection but he can’t speak English so don’t even think about talking to him.”
“French?” sneered Daisy Wetwipe, “a French chef doing the food at a perfect ENGLISH wedding? Oh dear.”
“It’s very English food,” snapped Nat.
“It’s so English he’s not allowed to cook it in France,” said Darius.
“Um, OK,” said Tiffannee. “And what’s Marcel made for lunch? You said it was going to be amazing.”
“Did I say amazing?” said Nat, nervously. “I thought I said surprising.”
“Nah, you probably said hairy,” said Darius, followed by: “ow.”
“I said interesting,” said Nat, “yes, let’s go with interesting.”
“Yes but what IS for lunch?” said Tiffannee.
“Here it comes now,” said Nat, as Dad hurried in with big hot steaming bowls. “Everyone take your seats, lunch is served!”
The bridal party seated themselves at the top table as Dad served up the stew, making sure they got theirs first. Tiffannee and Hiram were in the middle, with Tiffannee’s dad and of course the FBI agents on one side. Hiram’s best man and Daisy sat together on the other. But there was no Tilly Saddle.
“That’s right, Nat,” said Daisy, “yet another bridesmaid’s been got rid of. She’s getting her toes X-rayed for some reason.”
Nat and Darius tri
ed to look innocent. There was a clap of thunder overhead.
“I hope there’s lots, I’m starving,” said Tiffannee’s dad, “and my FBI agents eat like horses.”
Dad went and got the rest of the stew and placed the bowls in the middle of the rest of the tables.
“That’s the lot,” said Dad. “Tuck in!”
The guests looked at the bowls, did a quick head count, and made a calculation as to how much there was each.
Those who were faster at maths grabbed a ladle and spooned the stew out on to their plates, pronto.
“It’s very filling, don’t go mad,” said Dad nervously.
“This isn’t EXACTLY what I expected,” said Tiffannee. She looked at Nat. “And WHY are you two still holding hands?”
“Wedding fever,” said Nat.
“That is SO sweet,” said Hiram’s best man, “what’s your name, you little scamp?”
“Professor Willy Wetfartz,” said Darius.
Dad bustled over with another half a bowl of stew he’d wrestled off Bad News Nan.
“Eat up,” he said, “this is a once in a life time dish.”
“Is this meat?” said Daisy, looking at her food, “only I’m thinking seriously about becoming a vegetarian. Good weddings have vegetarian options.”
“Marcel says his vegetarian option is to take the bits of meat out,” said Nat.
Daisy scowled but Tiffannee suddenly burst out laughing. “Oh come on, lighten up,” she said to Daisy. “You can’t argue with a master chef like Marcel. You can always fill up on cake later.”
A few minutes later, Dad called Nat over to a quiet bit of the tent. Obviously she had to drag Darius with her, which annoyed him as he hadn’t finished his stew.
“Have you seen the comedy waiters?” said Dad.
“The what?”
“I booked this hilarious group for the wedding,” said Dad. “They’re amazing. They start by being waiters, but then they get everything wrong and the guests think it’s real.”
“Dad, it’s all going wrong anyway,” said Nat crossly, “you don’t have to pay for that, you spanner.”
“It’s part of their act. They get into arguments with the guests, drop stuff everywhere and pretend to fight each other. It’s hilarious.”
“No, that’s embarrassing and lame.”
“Then at the end they sing wedding songs. It’s brilliant!”
“OK, whatevs, but where are they then?”
Dad sighed. “Dunno. Sometimes I don’t think organising stuff is my very strongest skill. I remember booking them for the Castle Country Club and then… oh hang on.” He slapped his forehead, remembering. “I forgot to tell them about the change of venue… They’ll be round there.”
Nat looked at her watch, nearly pulling Darius’s arm out of its socket. “We should be there too, by now,” she said, hopping about in panic. “Fiona and Oswald will wonder where we are. I just hope their lunch is less of a dog’s dinner than this one.”
“That’s a good joke,” said Dad, “because ‘dogs dinner’ means ‘a total mess’ AND lunch was, in fact, dinner for the dog.”
“I’m not finding any of this funny, Dad,” said Nat, “let’s see if Uncle Ernie’s got the cake ready.” They dashed through a flap at the back of the big top, ducking against the steady rain, and ran to the fortune teller’s tent, where Uncle Ernie was repairing the cake.
“It’s not ready, go away,” shouted Uncle Ernie, from the gloom, “and don’t look, you’ll spoil the surprise.”
“Is the cake made of cabbage?” said Darius, wrinkling his nose at the smell. Nat yanked him away and they dashed back towards the big top.
“We HAVE to go, Dad,” yelled Nat.
“OK but we’ll have to stall the guests till we get back and do the cake,” said Dad, “we need some entertainment.”
“NONE of our relatives are entertaining, Dad,” said Nat, “including you, by the way.”
“But mine are,” said Darius, stopping dead.
“Aren’t they all over at Oswald and Fiona’s wedding?” said Nat.
“Nah,” said Darius, “loads of people hate weddings.”
“I know how they feel,” said stressed-out Nat, who was getting soaked.
But Darius was already dragging her off towards another caravan.
“They might hate weddings,” he said, banging on the door, “but they all love performing.”
Five minutes later, Nat and Darius rushed back into the big top where it was clear the still-peckish guests were starting to grumble.
“This better work,” Nat hissed.
“Get on with it,” said Darius.
Nat took a deep breath. “LAYDEEEZ AND GENTLEMEN,” she shouted, feeling like a complete wingnut as all her relatives stared at her. “I’ve got some awesome wedding day entertainment,” she said. “For between courses.”
“It’s not your dad and his rotten ukulele is it?” shouted Granny Nelly, making everyone laugh. Nat went red.
“No it’s not,” she snapped, “it’s actually good.”
And then she squealed and ducked as a big explosion of flame went off overhead.
“Are you setting light to your farts again?” she shouted at Darius.
But it was just Cedric the fireater, leading the wedding-hating circus folk into the tent.
There were two scary-looking clowns, a one-legged acrobat, an old lady with a trained dog called Simon, a wheezy pensioner who did card tricks, a contortionist with a bad back and the fortune teller, glad of an excuse to leave her now-whiffy tent.
They’re not the greatest circus performers ever, thought Nat, watching as they began, but they’re still better than Dad.
“Gotta go, doing more surprises,” Nat shouted at Tiffannee, who was looking a bit bewildered, “back soon.”
Nat ran outside for the van, dragging Darius and grabbing Dad as she went.
The storm was really picking up. Rain was falling steadily now. They ran, trying to dodge the drops.
“And where do you think you’re going?” said a voice they couldn’t dodge.
It was Bad News Nan. Holding a plate.
“Actually, I know where you’re going. And I’m coming too,” she said. “Now hurry up I’m getting wet.”
“Do you know about the other wedding?” asked Dad, as they all piled into the van.
“I do. And I know there’s better food at the Country Club too, so you can take me there now, thank you. I’m famished.”
“How…?” said Dad. “I never said anything.”
Bad News Nan sniffed and polished her false teeth on her skirt. “Well, you never tell me anything. I’m kept in the dark, I am. It’s why I have to read everyone’s email and listen to their phone messages. It’s not nice that you make me do that.”
“Nan!” said Nat, shocked.
“And you’ve done some soft things, Ivor,” said Bad News Nan, shaking her head, “but getting caught up with the Bagleys is about the softest. They’re a properly bad lot.” She rubbed the top of Darius’s mucky head. “Except this one.”
Darius snuggled into Bad News Nan’s bosom. Even Nat couldn’t yank him out.
“Whatever you do,” intoned Bad News Nan in her usual VOICE OF DOOM, “don’t upset them. You better make sure they have a good wedding.”
“We’re trying, Nan,” said Nat, feeling like she was about to pass out with tiredness and stress. “We’re ever so really trying.”
Nat – back in black – wasn’t sure she knew what a good Bagley wedding should look like, but as she entered the dining room of the Country Club, she saw what THIS Bagley wedding looked like.
Utter chaos.
There must have been over a hundred guests. And they were all having… A BALL. They were shouting and drinking and toasting and cheering. There was kissing, fighting, sleeping and arm wrestling.
“Oh good,” said Darius, “they haven’t got going yet.”
Kids were running about the place, scampering under tables, j
umping on and off laps, hanging off black curtains, yanking at black tablecloths, or knocking the black decorations off.
Every so often a harassed Bagley mother would chase one round the room before giving them, or the nearest random child, a wallop. Then the child would yell at the top of its voice, and then they’d get a cuddle and a boiled sweetie, and they’d be off again.
“All the kids look like you,” said Nat, “the poor little things.”
She saw Bad News Nan had already fought her way into the Bagley throng, and was gossiping with old Grammy Bagley. Bad News Nan took a silver flask from her handbag, drank from it and handed it to the other grandma. She grabbed it, took a great gulp, and emptied it.
Then Grammy Bagley took an even bigger flask from her purse and handed it to Bad News Nan.
I dunno what’s worse, thought Nat, them fighting or them being friends. She could see her life filled with double grim nan doom. She was beginning to feel like she really was becoming a Bagley.
“Where did you dash off to?” said newly-wed PC Fiona Sweetly-Bagley, walking over to say hello. “Ohhhh, I get it,” she said, looking at Darius and Nat holding hands, and giving them a wink. “Your secret is safe with me.”
She giggled.
“You know why we’re holding hands,” said Nat. “It’s your grandad’s flipping handcuffs. Is that cauldron cool yet?”
“Never mind that,” said Fiona. “Grandad’s actually here. I’ve been dying for you to meet him. We haven’t got a big family, but pretty much all the Sweetlys have come. They’re at that table there, look.”
Among the crowds of noisy, twitchy, shouty, singing, cheering Bagleys, there were two tables who were NOT having a good time.
One was full of youngish men and women with neat haircuts, sitting up very straight. Nat guessed, correctly, that they were Fiona’s police buddies. They were trying to ignore the Bagleys. Which was pretty hard.
The other table was filled by a small group of stern-looking relatives, also pretending the room wasn’t crammed with Oswald’s huge and noisy family.
Fiona ushered Nat and Darius over to the table. A large, slim elderly man with eyes and nose like a hawk stared at the cuffs.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, stroking the heavy iron things. “We had some good times together.”