A Merry Mistletoe Wedding

by Judy Astley

  ‘Of course you’re not!’ Mike said, laughing. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘My mother did,’ Anna said as they reached the ice-cream stall. She ordered a 99 with an extra flake. ‘She got smaller and smaller like Alice after the potion. Every time I saw her during those last years, her skirt hem seemed closer to the ground. I wonder if that’s part of why older people think they become invisible. They – or should I say “we” – start to disappear, literally. It’s too depressing.’

  ‘It’s an illusion,’ Mike said, paying for the ice cream. ‘Blimey, three pounds fifty. How come?’ he grumbled quietly. ‘And nobody needs to do the invisibility thing. We already agreed we’re not going to vanish into garden-pottering and snoozing. You’re still out there enjoying life, aren’t you? Seeing mates and doing stuff? I’m still playing with bands in pubs and everything. Nothing has to change – we simply join in and do it all somewhere else. Neither of us is exactly an introvert so it’ll be OK, trust me.’ He handed her the ice cream. ‘Those chocolate flakes are looking like they’re doing a v-sign. That’ll be in protest at the price.’

  ‘That’s the one thing worrying me about the idea of living down here,’ she said as they went and sat on the harbour wall. ‘Losing contact with old friends. That and whether it’s really possible to find new ones without the long-term in-common stuff. In the end there’ll probably only be the children at our funerals, not people we’ve known half our lifetimes, because we’ll have drifted away. The first they’ll know of our going is when they don’t get a Christmas card. Some of them have packed up their homes already, gone to do the retiring-to-the-country thing. It’s making me nervous.’

  ‘The ones we care most about will still be there,’ Mike said. ‘And new ones, well, they’ll be a bonus. And really, who cares who’s at our funerals? We won’t be. Well, not at the second one anyway.’

  A gull swooped and, with swift and canny efficiency, stole one of Anna’s chocolate flakes. ‘Cheeky bastard!’ she shouted at it, flapping her hands to stave off a second attack.

  ‘We could keep a tiny London base though, I don’t see why not. After all, you don’t get gulls nicking your lunch in Richmond Park.’

  ‘Not yet. But it’ll come. Gulls or those screeching parakeets.’

  They set off up the narrow lanes in the direction of Porthmeor beach.

  ‘You’re right about it being a bit hilly, Mike. And the prettiest cottages here round the back of the town – where you’d really want to live – don’t have any place to put a car. Are we being idiots? I know we think we’ll live for ever but I’m reluctantly coming to the conclusion we need to be practical. I wouldn’t want to lug supermarket bags all the way through the town. Well, I might not mind now but in ten years, no way. I’ll end up with a tartan shopping trolley.’

  ‘Rosie’s got a trolley but it’s got a pic of Elvis on it and she says it’s “ironic”, whatever she means by that,’ Mike said. ‘But look, when you get a view like this …’ They stopped at the end of a row of old art studios where the view opened out over the beach and sea. The sky was a rich blue-grey and the vivid turquoise sea was thrashing up the sand. As the sun broke through the clouds the beach was lit up with splashes of wet pink. ‘There’s nothing like the light in this place, is there?’ he said, turning to Anna and smiling.

  ‘No, that’s true. And I hope we can find something with a view of the water.’

  ‘I’m sure we can. Not necessarily direct sea frontage and not necessarily even over this side of the county but definitely we’ll make sure we can see it.’

  Anna and Mike carried on walking along the beachfront to the white Tate St Ives building. Anna thought about Emily and her new terror of going out, distrust of crowds and uncertainty about her children’s safety. If they had somewhere, a bolt-hole away from London, surely she’d want to escape as often as possible? Who wouldn’t have their mind soothed by being beside the ever-changing ocean? Perhaps this could be a good idea after all. She hoped so.

  Pentreath Hall had seen better days but they’d been glorious ones and it showed. As homes go, it was possibly a bit too small to merit the term ‘stately’; it would never be host to visiting coach parties and the grounds were more au naturel than those looking to sneak cuttings of prize specimens would be keen to visit. However, it was pretty impressive all the same, in spite of needing its paintwork touched up and the wisteria being out of control. It was a low-fronted Georgian oblong of a house like a piece of smooth gold bullion dropped into parkland, with a pair of grand columns supporting a wonderfully ornate porch and a broad set of steps leading up to double doors that opened into a large square hall with a black and white tiled floor and a stunning curved wooden staircase.

  ‘It’ll look good in the photos,’ Sean said as he did a sharp handbrake turn on the sweep of gravel outside. ‘Are we having photos? I mean obviously we will but I didn’t mean the sort taken by a posh wedding chappie who takes thousands of us under a gilded bower or arty views of us in silhouette looking soppy on the pond bridge.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want that either. Elmo’s doing Art A level and he’s volunteered so I think we’ll get something a bit more normal. Unless he wants us to climb a tree. He might think that would be arty, or “like, totes rad”, as he’d put it.’

  ‘Up a tree in a wedding dress?’ Sean said, laughing. ‘Now that I’d love to see. You’ll be wearing the traditional hideous meringue, of course?’

  ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘And you, I expect full kilt and frills and a sword.’

  ‘I’m not Scottish,’ he protested as they got out of the car. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of my best wetsuit.’

  ‘Thought you might. No tie though, promise me not a tie. I really hate them.’

  ‘Oh, I think I can promise that.’

  ‘Good – and I can promise not a meringue.’

  ‘Hello, you two. Come on in!’ Paul opened the door before they had chance to ring the bell and ushered them inside. The temperature fell a couple of degrees as the door shut and Thea pulled her old sheepskin jacket closer round her. ‘Sorry, the boiler’s buggered again,’ Paul said. ‘But the nice clever man will be here tomorrow and I promise it’s a lot warmer in the kitchen. Come through and say hello to Sarah and we’ll sort you out a drink. And then’ – he grinned cheerily – ‘we’ll show you what we’ve done with the orangery. I hope you’ll think it’s up to wedding standard because you two are going to be our first customers. We’re experimenting on you.’

  The kitchen was bigger than the footprint of Thea’s little house. A massive black Aga occupied a vast old chimneybreast at one end and various dressers and worktops occupied each side. None of the chairs matched and the blinds at the window that had looked rather shabby last time Thea had been to the house were now missing altogether, leaving odd bits of ironmongery sticking out of the walls, waiting for something new to support. A couple of shabby ancient rugs covered some of the flagstone floor and a massive wolfhound lay on one of them under the table, barely bothering to flick his tail by way of acknowledging the visitors.

  Paul’s wife Sarah was chopping herbs by the sink and she came over to kiss Sean and Thea, still clutching a knife.

  ‘Hello, both of you, I’m so glad you could make it. You must be exhausted, Thea, all that driving. These days, when I drive anywhere beyond the Tamar I have to pull over into a lay-by for a little nap. I even manage to cut out the sound of the children squawking, “We’re not there yet,” at me. It’s a matter of survival for all of us.’

  ‘Ah, but don’t forget, Thea’s younger than us,’ Paul said, opening a bottle of champagne and pouring four glasses.

  ‘Hardly at all,’ Thea protested.

  ‘It’s the hair,’ Sean said. ‘She looks about fifteen.’

  ‘Double it and add some,’ she said, clouting his arm. ‘I don’t even want to look fifteen. That would be weird.’

  ‘Uh-oh, lovers’ fight,’ Paul said, handing out the drinks. ‘I ju
st gave you half a glass, Sean, as I assume you’re the driver tonight. And let’s raise the fizz to you two and a very merry wedding. Cheers!’

  ‘Here’s to you both,’ Sarah said. ‘And when will you be moving down here, Thea? I assume that’s the plan?’

  ‘I’ll need to find a job and there doesn’t seem to be much going in teaching at the moment. I think I should see out the school year where I am but after that … well, it can’t come soon enough. This term is being a nightmare. The head and I don’t see eye to eye.’

  ‘Really? What’s the problem?’

  ‘I think the children are too cooped up indoors and I keep trying to find reasons for teaching them out in the open, to give them a chance to be physical as well as using their poor little over-stretched brains.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Sarah said. ‘You must come and see my school. It’s exactly that – as much time outdoors as possible. I think you’d love it.’

  ‘Oh, I would! I don’t suppose you’ve got any vacancies?’ Thea said, laughing.

  ‘Sadly not at the moment. I wish.’

  Paul topped up the glasses and said, ‘Look, let’s go and see the orangery. Is that all right with you, Sarah, or do you want us to wait till after the pud?’

  ‘No, let’s all go now. Come on,’ and she led the way back through the hallway and across to the drawing room. Beyond that was a doorway through to a long room that ran the entire end wall of the house, with glass on three sides and an ornate cupola ceiling. It was too substantial to be called a mere conservatory, but still small enough to be intimate; it could accommodate a good fifty people on dark wood padded chairs which at the moment were stacked up against the wall. Glass doors all along the longest side led out to the paved terrace planted at intervals with urns.

  ‘It’s a shame it’s dark because you can’t see the view out over the sea just now but look …’ and Paul switched on a light that flooded out over the terrace and beyond to the grassy slope that led down to the lake. ‘We’ve had the lake cleared and it’s almost grand enough to deserve to be called one now rather than a sludge pond. The water lilies won’t be there at Christmas, of course, but the reeds are always pretty. And there’s a wall between the lake and the terrace so children can’t just run into the water.’

  ‘It’s stunning, isn’t it?’ Thea said to Sean, impressed at the amount of garden preparation that had been done.

  ‘It is so long as the guests stay in the vicinity of pretty much what you can see from here,’ Sarah told her, laughing. ‘Just out of our sightline is the usual jumble of the wrong sort of rhododendrons and a tangle of trees that fell in last year’s gales that nobody’s got round to chopping up and clearing. There’s always so much to be done and, as you know, we’ve had to take this on after years of gentle decline. So,’ she asked Thea as they went back to the kitchen and sat at the table, ‘do you think it’ll be your perfect wedding venue?’

  ‘I love it,’ Thea told her, feeling suddenly a bit tearful. ‘It’s just beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, Thea, don’t get upset, darling!’ Sarah said, squeezing her hand. ‘I expect you’re overwhelmed with preparations and so on.’ As Paul served the boeuf bourgignon, she asked, ‘Now the important question: have you got your dress yet? I expect you have so if you don’t think it’s bad luck, can you give me an idea what it’s like?’

  Thea decided to go for distraction rather than admit the truth. After all, what kind of daft prospective bride is so untrusting of her good fortune that she hasn’t even looked for a dress to be married in, only two months before her wedding?

  ‘Well, Sean says he’s going to wear a wetsuit and bring his favourite surfboard to be his best man. So obviously I have to wear something that will match.’

  ‘Hell, why not?’ Sean interrupted. ‘Seems a good idea to me. My board is my best mate.’

  ‘And are you having bridesmaids, Thea, or keeping it uncluttered?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘We want it to be very, very simple. There’ll be both our families and you, of course, and friends of Sean’s from the village but otherwise just … us, really. And all a bit – you know – sort of homemade and unfancy. I can’t do fuss.’

  ‘Not even a best woman?’ Paul asked. ‘Isn’t that the thing women have these days?’

  ‘I …’ To Thea’s horror her eyes filled with proper big fat tears. ‘I was supposed to have my sister Emily. But …’ And she couldn’t say any more apart from, ‘She says she won’t come all the way down here.’ She sniffed. Sarah passed her a box of tissues and Sean put his arm round her.

  ‘She will, in the end. She will,’ he said.

  ‘But why not?’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘It’s not as if it’s … I don’t know, Australia or something!’

  ‘She’s just had a baby and she’s not … not quite her usual self. But it’s not only about that. Being so completely cut off by the snow last year had a really bad effect on her. She hated it; it really got to her. She was absolutely terrified! Really shaken by that isolation. Sam – that’s her husband – promised her he’d never make her go away at Christmas again and she’s making him stick to it.’

  ‘Oh heavens, snow? Is that all?’ Paul said, laughing. ‘Seeing as that was the first proper snow in about a hundred years and made the national news, I think you can reassure her that she’s more likely to drown in the eternal Cornish drizzle. You’re her sister. She’ll change her mind before the day, I bet you any amount of folding money.’

  ‘Is this the right way?’ Thea asked Sean as they drove his old Land Rover out through the hall gates and turned left, which wasn’t the direction they’d arrived from. ‘Are we taking a detour?’

  ‘It’s a mile or so longer but I wanted you to see something,’ he said to her. ‘It can’t wait; I’ve been dying to show you ever since I first noticed. I was going to keep it for later in the week – not to mention in daytime – but I think you need to see it now. It’ll cheer you up.’

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ she said. ‘Stuff’s just been getting to me. School’s tricky – the head is constantly on my case and Emily won’t even talk to me. Mum says she’s really depressed and I’m worried for her. It’s kind of frozen any urge to get anything weddingy done at all. Maybe asking her to come down here at Christmas really is too much. But—’

  ‘It’ll be fine, trust me. And if you don’t trust me, trust this …’ He turned the car down on to a narrow track in the woods and it bumped over potholes and rocks.

  He stopped the car and told Thea to hop out and together they stood under the trees.

  ‘Look up there,’ he said, pointing through the bare branches, black and stark against a pewter moonlit sky.

  ‘Ahhh – yes, I see it! Wow – huge clumps of it!’

  ‘And still growing too. So you see? The mistletoe was lucky for us last year; it will be for this. All will be well.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Mummy. Mummy? Wake up, Mummy.’ Emily felt a jabby little finger prodding her shoulder and as she opened a weary eye she found she was nose to nose with Milly. What huge, intense blue eyes she had, Emily thought as she surfaced from a deep doze.

  ‘What is it, sweetie?’ Emily murmured, automatically gathering the sleeping Ned beside her into her arms. Milly could be a bit heavy-handed and had once got hold of the baby’s wrist to drag him into place on the sofa so she could prop him up in a line with her soft toys.

  ‘I want to be in your bed too. It’s not fair.’

  ‘You’ve got your own lovely bed with a pink princess duvet cover on it. You don’t want to be in here. It’s too crowded.’ Emily yawned and glanced at the clock. It wasn’t six o’clock yet and was less than an hour since she’d last seen it. She’d woken up to feed Ned at five and then hadn’t been able to doze off again, as usual. Nights had become slow, monstrous hours of closed eyes but little sleep. It was as if every time she tried to let go, a zillion worries would take the chance to invade her head and shake themselves about, each one taking its turn a
t the front of her thoughts. Whenever she got close to banishing one, another would slot neatly into the vacant place until all she was left with was a frazzled, anxious gloom. It was, she decided in one of her more lucid midnight moments, like mixing paint on a palette. If you put too many colours in, you always ended up with mud brown. What sleep there was, was punctuated by the snuffling breath of Ned, his tiny wriggles, the jerking herself wide awake when he became still and silent, as she panicked that his breathing had stopped. And then there was Sam, who snored and shifted and was an ever-present danger to the baby of flailing arms and thoughtless turning. But if Ned slept in his crib, even though it was right by their bed, he might be taken. Emily wasn’t sure what by, but the worst imaginings alternated between evil demonic sprites and bizarre cannibalistic burglars.

  ‘Having your baby in bed with you is safe enough if you’re careful,’ she had been told by the nurse at the clinic. It wasn’t exactly the most enthusiastic endorsement. The implication was loud and clear that if anything happened to him, it would be entirely her fault. But Emily wasn’t a smoker, or overweight (not by much, anyway; after all, who was at maximum slenderness two months after childbirth apart from the Duchess of Cambridge and Victoria Beckham?). She wasn’t doping herself to a stupor with alcohol and as she barely slept between feeds and nappy changes nobody could accuse her of lack of vigilance.

  ‘There is room. Daddy isn’t here.’ Milly scrambled eagerly across Emily’s body and flumped herself down on the far side of Ned. ‘See?’

  So where was he? Sam wasn’t a great one for early mornings and recently when he’d been doing the school run she’d had to shake him awake while the children brushed their teeth. Sometimes they’d be waiting by the door, coats on, and he’d be stumbling down the stairs still pulling on a sweater. ‘You look like those awful women you see in the tabloids who rock up to school in pyjamas,’ she’d told him only last week.