by Lizzie Lane
‘You don’t mind that it’s a bit dusty and that there’s no music …’
‘I don’t mind at all.’
The truth was that a falling bomb had blown off one of the flying buttresses that had supported the nave of St Mark’s for centuries. The dust had been cleared in time for the service but a residue remained.
A slim figure in black slid into the church before they did, pausing only briefly to glance at her before going in.
‘That must be the vicar. I’d better go.’
He held onto both her shoulders as he kissed her, a warm, considerate and gentle kiss, almost fearful.
‘You look grand,’ said Uncle Jim.
She slid her arm through his and thanked him.
The dress was Venetia’s, of a lovely cream colour with vague impressions of pink rosebuds. The corsage nestling on her shoulder was courtesy of Uncle Jim who boasted a garden at the back of his terraced house and an allotment beyond that.
‘It’ll be cabbages not roses I’ll be growing from now on,’ he said to her. ‘Can’t eat roses. But war or no war, there’ll always be brides wanting roses.’
‘Well,’ said Magda taking a deep breath. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Once I get me vocals in order. Can’t walk down the aisle unaccompanied now can we?’
Jim Brodie cleared his throat and began to hum the wedding march.
Magda laughed.
The church was indeed a little dusty and piles of rubble blocked what extra light would have been coming in from the west wing.
She kept step with her uncle’s humming halfway down the aisle where breathlessness and a tickly throat caused her uncle to start coughing.
‘Sorry, Father,’ he said to the vicar who awaited them in front of the altar.
‘No apology is needed, my son,’ the vicar responded. ‘Unfortunately my organist, as well as the church, has sustained a slight injury, hence we are unable to air Mendelssohn’s wedding march as we should be doing.’
‘Perhaps I could help.’
The voice was unrecognisable and had come from one of the back pews.
Magda recognised the slim young man whom both she and Danny had presumed was the vicar. On closer inspection he seemed too young, even though he was dressed in black.
He swept past them both, head down as though embarrassed by his brazen interruption at such an important time in their lives.
‘You are an organist?’ asked the vicar.
The young man nodded. ‘You could say that.’ He paused before taking his place. He looked directly at Magda. ‘I’m sorry to spring this on you, but my name is Michael Darby. I’m a theology student. I also believe I’m your brother.’
A rush of subdued conversation and surprised looks ran between Venetia, Anna Marie and their respective menfolk.
With an air of confidence – as though presenting himself to his long lost-family was something he did every day – Michael sat himself at the organ and began to play, the stirring notes of the wedding march soaring up into the Norman rafters of the church.
Magda looked up at the stained-glass windows filtering colours along beams of sunlight. All her family were here. Everyone she’d ever loved. Her sisters. Her uncle, and now it seemed also her little brother. And Danny of course.
Her throat was dry as parchment. She only hoped it would recover long enough for her to say the words, ‘I do.’
Her uncle delivered her to Danny’s side. Danny took her hand and slid her arm into his.
‘Ready?’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ she murmured back as the vicar began to address the congregation.
‘Dearly beloved …’
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First published in 2013 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
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Copyright © 2013 Lizzie Lane
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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