The Engagement Party

by R J Gould

  ‘Move out the middle of the road or you’ll get run over,’ Suzie shouted as cars weaved their way past the obstacle. ‘Get back in and pull over to the side.’

  A subdued Reginald did as he was told then switched off the engine.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Suzie asked, surprised at how little sympathy she had, even though on this rare occasion Reginald was the less aggressive of the two protagonists. With difficulty, constricted by a combination of seatbelt and neck brace, she rotated to look at him. She laughed, an awful thing to do, but she couldn’t help it. His right eye socket had swollen so much that all that remained visible of his eye was a narrow horizontal strip of white. As she stared the bruise was changing colour, darkening by the second.

  ‘You’ve got a bit of a shiner there, Reginald.’

  ‘I’m glad you think it’s funny.’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to laugh. You look like an extra in a horror movie.’ He didn’t respond.

  ‘Actually, are you OK to drive?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well I can’t,’ said Suzie pointing with her right hand to her neck brace and sling. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t go.’

  ‘We must. I’ll put the wing mirror on the back seat for now.’

  Fiona and Henry

  Fiona was woken by the rattle of a mug as it was placed on the glass protector of the pine bedside cabinet. They had remained in separate bedrooms since Wednesday, she in the main bedroom and Henry in the box room.

  ‘Thank you, Henry,’ she mumbled.

  Henry had been kinder than ever since Wednesday, trying to second-guess her every need, following her like a fussy old hen. Fussy old Henry. It was hard to be nice back because his antics were getting on her nerves, but this wasn’t the time for confrontation, not on Clarissa’s big day. It had been Fiona who had suggested the need for the families to meet up once the engagement was announced. Clarissa had resisted, claiming that there was no need to do so ahead of the marriage, but Fiona had been adamant.

  ‘For once in your life do something for me, will you?’

  ‘Well, if you want it, you organise it.’

  ‘No, you do it,’ Fiona had said with a degree of force previously unknown in the discussions with her daughter. Clarissa had relented – perhaps Fiona should have displayed a similar degree of toughness when Clarissa was growing up.

  Of course, the sly girl had phoned her father immediately afterwards and got him to offer a blank cheque to pay for the lunch that Fiona had suggested, as well as a party in a London nightclub for her friends the following week. No doubt adding up to thousands of pounds. Clarissa had chosen the luncheon venue, a hotel in the countryside where she had recently been to meet clients at work. When asked why she’d decided on somewhere out of London Clarissa had claimed that it was so that Wayne’s father and stepmother wouldn’t have such a long journey from the Isle of Wight. Fiona was convinced it was an act of spite, making it as inconvenient as possible for her to reach, a punishment for insisting on a celebration.

  Henry was chatting away. She had no idea what he had been talking about.

  ‘So there isn’t anything I can do about it, is there?’ he continued.

  ‘I suppose not,’ she contributed with indifference.

  ‘The snow’s well and truly settling now,’ he informed her, pulling back one of the heavy velvet curtains.

  She took a sip of tea and dropped back into the pillow. Then she sat up with a start.

  ‘Snow! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  Henry looked perplexed. ‘I did.’

  ‘We’ve got to get to bloody Worplesdon. Are we going to be able to make it?’

  ‘I’ve been doing some internet research,’ Henry said, the words internet and research making Fiona shiver with apprehension. What had he found out about her secret life now, she wondered? He continued. ‘I think we should go by train. Let the train take the strain, as they say.’

  Who says that, I don’t, thought Fiona.

  ‘We can get a taxi to Surbiton then it’s a direct line to Worplesdon, only about half an hour’s journey. Then we take a taxi to Manor Lodge Hotel and Bob’s your uncle, without any of the stress of driving in this appalling weather.’

  Let the train take the strain. Bob’s your uncle. Fiona grimaced, what was the matter with the man? ‘Sounds fine,’ she said cheerfully. ‘What time do we need to set off?’

  ‘I’ve already arranged it. I’ve ordered a taxi for 10.30. The train goes at 11.05 so we’ll be in Worplesdon by 11.40. Plenty of time to get to the hotel.’

  ‘I promised Clarissa I’d be the first to arrive. Might there be train delays in this weather? They always go on about the wrong type of rain and the wrong type of leaves. This might be the wrong type of snow.’

  ‘Well, then I’ll call back and change it to a ten o’clock taxi and we can take the 10.35 train. That gets us to Worplesdon by 11.15.’

  ‘I think that’s better, just to be on the safe side. Thanks, Henry, I’ll get ready.’ Why was she so angry? Even his efficiency infuriated her; phone the taxi, change the taxi, this train departs at, another train arrives at.

  Her Sunday outfit nestled next to the Wednesday one and she felt a rush of regret that she hadn’t spent the night with Charlie the Banker. She put on the black pencil skirt with a side split, the silk floral blouse that was a medley of yellows, oranges, and reds, the rich red velvet jacket, and black patent shoes with a sizeable heel. She admired the result in the full-length mirror and then saddened for an instant with the realisation that she could never match Suzie’s youth. Nevertheless, the aim was to make an impact on Reginald, and she hadn’t done a bad job. That thought brought guilt. If she was to attempt to improve things with Henry, shouldn’t he be the one she should want to impress, not Reginald? She took care with her make-up, Reginald and Suzie still at the forefront of her thoughts and Henry a very distant third.

  Downstairs she found Henry in the lounge reading yesterday’s Daily Telegraph.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  He caught her look of dismay and responded appropriately. ‘You look lovely, Fiona, those colours suit you to a T. I wish I’d bought something new to wear.’

  Fiona wished it, too. An old-fashioned, grey flannel suit, the jacket tapered at his tubby waist, far too many pleats in the trousers, what looked like an old school tie with grey and maroon diagonal stripes. A white shirt with a stiff collar that was cutting into his neck, it had created a circle of red skin.

  ‘You look fine,’ she said with gusto. ‘Quick cup of coffee before we head off. Fancy a tea?’

  ‘I’ve already had a cup, I think that will suffice.’

  Fiona went into the kitchen. Suffice. To a T. Fuck, why does the man speak like that?

  While the Gaggia was warming up she took two biscotti out of the cupboard and inspected them with discomfort before replacing them in the tin. She was hardly going to gain or lose weight in a matter of hours, but it was a matter of principle ahead of the Reginald and Suzie confrontation.

  ‘It’s here, darling,’ Henry said softly.

  He hadn’t used the word darling before and it sounded ridiculous coming from him. He helped her on with her coat and they walked out to the taxi.

  Reginald and Suzie

  ‘Feeling any better, Reginald?’ Suzie asked, glancing at his swollen black eye.

  ‘Still sore, but I’ll be OK.’

  ‘We’re going to be late unless this clears a bit.’

  They were moving at a snail’s pace along the A3. Although it was dual carriageway, the snow plough had carved just a single lane on each side. In the distance Suzie could see its lights flashing and they were stuck at the speed it was travelling. Not that they could drive much faster with the snowfall so heavy and visibility so poor. They sat for a while in silence, Reginald’s eye throbbing and Suzie’s neck aching, though fortunately her arm was a little less painful than the night before.

  Wi
th a gentle, careful movement Suzie turned to look out of the side window as they finally left the London suburbs past Esher. The pure white smooth slopes of countryside were quite beautiful, their brightness in sharp contrast to the dull, grey sky above. They passed the turn off for Martyr’s Green and then a sign to Guildford. Only ten miles to Guildford, which Clarissa had told her wasn’t far from wherever it was they were going, so they would make it in time after all despite their slow speed.

  The question about whether she had made the right decision to marry Reginald resurfaced. It was doing so with alarming regularity. She had more in common with his daughter than with him – perhaps not surprising as their age gap was considerably closer. The big, big question, undeclared but apparent in conversations with friends and parents – was she just doing it for the money? No, she decided for the umpteenth time, he was good to be with. There had been some stresses over the past week, but perhaps that was because he was feeling the tension of his daughter getting engaged. Maybe he was even a little nervous about seeing Fiona after so long, worried about the threat of mayhem with his two women meeting for the first time. Just conceivably Reginald possessed some deep, lying sensitivity, though the car crash and fight weren’t encouraging pointers. She recognised some clear cut positives and these excluded anything financial. Reginald was kind and affectionate when he was with her, he was generous, and he had a brain and a half. Always so very sharp, quick, decisive. Life was like a military operation to him, everything meticulously planned, faultlessly executed, he never made a mistake.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘What is it, Reginald?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea where we’re going. Do you know?’

  ‘Of course not, you said you’d sort out the route.’

  ‘I did. I put the details onto the Jag Sat Nav but now we’re driving this thing.’

  ‘Well, it’s got a Sat Nav too. Just put the info into this one.’

  ‘It’s not how to get there that’s the problem, it’s where we’re going. I don’t remember.’

  ‘Where’s the invite?’

  ‘There was no need to keep it once I’d entered the address info. The rest was obvious, I knew it’s today, I knew it’s a 12.30. start, I knew it’s for lunch. So I didn’t need the invite, I chucked it.’

  ‘Except now we do need it.’

  ‘There’s a map in the pouch at the back of my seat, will you get it?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll just swivel my neck then stretch my left arm round …’

  Reginald glanced across at the brace and sling. ‘OK, point taken.’

  ‘What are you doing, you can’t stop the car in the middle of the road?’

  ‘Well, I can hardly pull over, I’d never get back on.’

  He stopped. Drivers began tooting. Suzie pulled down her vanity mirror and saw cars swerve and slide as they endeavoured to cope with the unexpected halt. Meanwhile, Reginald half stood and reached behind to get the map. He handed it to Suzie, sat down, and opened his window.

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’m going to flick two fingers at those impatient bastards behind.’

  ‘Great idea, then with your second black eye we can get towed home.’

  Reginald closed the window. ‘The place we’re going to begins with a ‘W’,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it does. Just look around Guildford for a place beginning with ‘W’.’

  This was like being at work, Suzie thought, Reginald barking out instructions. With reluctance she did as she was told. ‘OK, here goes. There’s Wanborough, Wisley, Wonersh, Worplesdon, Willey. Do West whatevers count because then there’s also a West Horsley and a West Clandon?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a west, at least I don’t think so. It was a longish word.’

  ‘Wanborough, Worplesdon. Is Wonersh long?’

  ‘Let’s try the first two.’

  ‘There’s a sign for Worplesdon ahead.’

  ‘‘Worplesdon it is then.’

  They turned off the A3 onto a narrow road that hadn’t been treated. The car swayed from side to side.’

  ‘Take this very slowly. Please, Reginald.’

  ‘Suzie, I’ve been driving long enough to know how to deal with icy conditions,’ Reginald bragged as the car veered sideways and rubbed against the hedgerow.

  ‘Do we know where we are going once we get to the right village? Which hotel?’

  ‘No, but there won’t be many options. It can only be a small place, we’ll find it.’

  Thomas and Margaret

  As he dressed for the party Thomas reflected on the conversation with Margaret about her torrid past. It had hardly left his thoughts since Wednesday and it had been difficult to concentrate on driving his passengers between Shanklin and Ryde. It wasn’t in his nature to discuss such intimate things with others, though he did wonder whether his friends at work – if you could call them that, acquaintances more like – knew about what had happened all those years ago. Several of them were a similar age to Margaret, and quite possibly in the same class at school. Surely there would have been loads of gossip at the time about her two disappearances. It was a small community and even now any rumour, true or not, travelled like wildfire. Phil being drunk and trying to get off with the new barmaid was this week’s talking point. He admitted to being drunk but denied that he had done anything else other than be welcoming. Actually, that story might have deserved the gossip because Phil had been seen following the barmaid home and flinging his arms around her, yelling ‘I want you, I must have you’, according to several of the barmaid’s neighbours. In the end she had to call the police to get rid of him after she’d managed to push him away and slam her front door in his face. You can imagine Kay’s reaction when the police car rolled up gone midnight to deposit him home. What with Kay’s temper it wouldn’t have been a lot of fun being her husband that night.

  But no one had ever spoken of Margaret’s past when he was courting her. Not surprising, really; he was the new boy, and being a bit shy he was slow to make friends so there wasn’t anyone close enough for Thomas to hear it from.

  Thursday and Friday at breakfast and after work sitting with her, he was quieter than ever. He played with words in his head but nothing sounded right so he didn’t speak beyond the usual things like ‘Would you like some more potato?’. Margaret mistook his silence for hostility and became prone to bursting into tears and running out of the room. He mulled over whether to follow her or let her be and decided to leave her alone based on the fact that he would have no idea what to say when he reached her. It wasn’t a good situation and it was getting worse, all for no reason because what was done was done and he had no anger towards her.

  Saturday lunchtime when they were sitting together eating a ploughman’s lunch she started crying again and spontaneously Thomas stood up and put his arms around her.

  ‘Margaret,’ he said, ‘you are the best thing that has happened to me for many years – in fact, ever. I’m so very happy being with you. I love you dearly.’ He gave her a big smile then kissed her on the cheek. Instantly, that changed the atmosphere. She smiled and hugged him. Her bouts of crying came to an end and they chatted normally about this and that, back to usual with Margaret doing the majority of the talking. Saturday night they slept together entangled. He lay awake for a while, listening to and feeling her breath close to his ear before gently pulling his uncomfortable arm from under her neck.

  They woke early on Sunday, sensitive to the stillness that comes with snowfall. Dressing quickly with awareness of the need to set off as soon as possible to have a chance of reaching the mainland, they were ready to leave before nine. Sensible outer garments covered their smart clothes and the party footwear was relegated to a Somerfield plastic bag in favour of sturdy boots.

  The first leg of their journey was the short walk from home to Shanklin Railway Station, the same walk Thomas took every day on his way to work. The streets were deserted but they heard the delighted screams of children playing in their gardens. Th
e next leg was the twenty-five minute train journey to Ryde. Thomas had driven it hundreds of times and knew every inch of the track and the scenery along the route. Old Northern Line underground trains are not as hardy as overland ones so Thomas was well aware there could be a problem because of the weather. This was confirmed when he saw Trevor huddled under the platform shelter close to his passengerless train.

  ‘No go, Trev?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Can’t run these trains when it’s like this, they can’t cope with the volume of fall even if we had the staff to clear the track. Morning, Margaret.’

  ‘I do know them inside out, Trev, I drove them in London.’

  ‘I forgot, course you did.’

  ‘Part of the Northern Line route is overground. We used to run them in snow as bad as this. Just had to keep braking to test the discs.’

  ‘Well head office says no, so it’s no.’

  ‘What about the Seacats, are they on?’

  ‘Far as I know.’

  ‘Suppose we could always get Jim’s taxi to take us up to Ryde.’

  ‘Problem there, too, you’re not the first to want a taxi this morning. Jim’s trying to persuade Raymond to open his garage so that he can get some petrol, but Raymond says he had a heavy drinking night and he’s not getting up for no one.’

  ‘That’s exactly what happened last week,’ Margaret complained. ‘Maybe he should be a bit more responsible and open his garage when people need him to. Or let someone else run it.’