The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  Kell pulls a metal frame from a pile of papers and fabric cut-offs. ‘Shoe rack?’

  ‘Nah, girl, it’s for holding bobbins.’ She gets Kell to hold it up with the flat side against the wall. ‘Keeps you from always searching for your threads. There’s another one here somewhere, a wooden one for the smaller spools.’ Slowly she makes her way around the perimeter of the room amongst about a hundred years’ worth of tailoring debris. She lifts a large sheet covering a hulking cabinet. It’s for trimmings, she tells us, a haberdashery cabinet for ribbons and buttons and whatnot. ‘It’s here somewhere. I wouldn’t have chucked it.’

  Kelly runs her hands over the cabinet’s smooth wood while I peek into its two dozen glass-fronted drawers.

  ‘Mrs Delaney, have you modernised at all since your grandparents had the shop?’

  ‘No need to. Sewing’s not changed. Sewing never changes.’

  It’s a practical answer from a very practical woman.

  We find two dressmaker’s dummies and old-fashioned irons and, eventually, Mrs Delaney’s wooden spool holder. Ten or so little racks are attached to its frame, with small pegs every few inches to hold the spools.

  ‘My grandad was given that when he finished his apprenticeship,’ she says. ‘It’s not fancy, but it’s always done its job.’ She hunts around for some colourful spools to demonstrate. ‘See? It goes on the wall. Tidy.’

  Kell is thumbing through a large bound book with fabric pages. There are several more stacked on a bulky table. The cutting table, Mrs Delaney tells us.

  ‘There ain’t no market for them cloths anymore,’ Mrs Delaney says. ‘Nobody wants your ginghams and such. Too old-fashioned. It’s a shame. I used to make some lovely summer dresses with them.’

  She strokes the bolt of black and white striped cloth I’ve just picked up from a pile. ‘Ah, that one. That was for a customer’s daughter’s Sweet Sixteen birthday party. Every time the girl came in for a fitting she had me raise the hemline and whenever her mother came she made me lower it. It was the sixties. The mother was fighting a losing battle.’

  As she unwinds more fabrics I start to see that there are memories folded into every bolt of cloth in the shop. This is more than Mrs Delaney’s business. It’s her life.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘I’ll make us a cuppa.’

  As we sit in the back sipping our tea, I look more closely at the fabric sample books. ‘Mrs Delaney, would you use these for anything now? If not, I wonder if I could have them?’ I pick a fabric sample at random, a sunny floral print. ‘They’d work for serviettes, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘They’re about the right size,’ she says, ‘but they’ll need hemming or they’ll only unravel on you. You could use my machine.’

  ‘But I can’t sew,’ I say.

  Her look of disappointment makes me cringe. ‘I guess I’d better teach you how, then, before your poor Gran turns in her grave. It won’t take too long once you’ve got the hang of it.’ She roots around under the cutting table. ‘Here. Cut out the ones you want.’

  Kell and I cut out dozens of samples as our tea goes cold – colourful florals, ginghams, stripes and some pastel solids. As the riot of patterns pile up, an idea starts coming together in my head.

  What if we made the party décor a mishmash on purpose? Like an old-timey street party in the square. That might even work better than trying to do something formal. Finding cut-rate swans or free chocolate fountains would be tricky at this point, so maybe we can convince Daniel’s side that it’s all meant to look a bit chaotic and home-made.

  It’s got to be worth a try. We haven’t got many options left.

  Back in my kitchen later, after Dad has taken Auntie Rose off to the pub to meet the ladies, I hand Kelly an apron. ‘I guess you’re wondering why I’ve called you here today.’

  ‘You know I can’t cook,’ she says. ‘Unless it’s fish.’

  ‘It’s not fish. And it’s not cooking. It’s baking.’ I start pulling flour and sugar out of the cabinet. ‘We’re going to bake our own wedding cake.’

  ‘You’ve lost your mind.’

  It won’t even need to be huge. We’ll just cut it into tiny pieces so everyone gets a taste. I’m imagining three tiers with simple white icing and some flowers picked from the garden. Maybe some strawberries or something on top.

  ‘You’ve never baked in your life,’ Kelly accuses.

  I gesture to my tummy. ‘I’ve never done lots of things, but it doesn’t seem to be stopping me. We just need to follow the instructions. That’s why there’s a recipe. It’s not rocket science.’

  Though it is science, and neither Kell nor I paid much attention in class.

  ‘What does “cream butter” mean?’ Kell asks.

  ‘It must mean liquid, right? Cream is liquid. Pop it in the microwave. It says to use a cup. No, try one of the mugs,’ I say when she reaches for a tumbler.

  A mug of sugar goes into the liquefied butter. ‘Dare you to eat some,’ Kell says.

  ‘Baking is very precise, Kell. I wouldn’t want to mess up the quantities.’

  ‘Sorry, Betty Crocker. Does it matter that you don’t have self-raising flour? Or do you think it’s the same as plain, like flammable/inflammable mean the same thing.’

  ‘It’s just practice. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  While we wait for the cakes to bake, I fish one of the cards out of the box on the table. I wanted to wait till they’re completely finished to show Kell, but this is the girl I trusted first with news of my lost virginity, pregnancy and everything in between. I can’t keep a secret from her when it’s staring her in the face. Together we keep secrets from other people.

  I find her invitation. ‘For you. You have to imagine it has an envelope.’ They’re just some blank cards I found at the market, really, with a wrapping-paper heart stuck to the front and a little flower collage inside. But at least they’re unique.

  Instead of regular invitations, which all started to look samey-samey after a while, we’re writing a letter to each guest telling them what they mean to us and inviting them to the wedding. Kelly’s is short and sweet.

  Dear Kelly,

  You’re my best friend in the world, my soul-mate and my partner in crime. You’ve always had my back and I’ve had yours. We couldn’t be closer if we were sisters and I can’t wait to share my wedding day with you.

  ‘You’re not actually going to cry over that, are you?’

  ‘No,’ she says, wiping her eyes.

  ‘Good, because if you fall to bits, you’ll only set me off.’ Her emotion makes me uncomfortable. It feels like the other side of the anger she unleashed at the spa. ‘They’re simple, but we like them. Did I tell you about Philippa’s ideas? She expects us to send everyone gifts! I’ve told her we want to keep it low-key, but she doesn’t seem to understand what that means.’

  ‘They don’t understand anything about us, Em.’

  ‘Well, in fairness, we don’t understand them either.’

  ‘Who cares? I’m not interested in them. They’re not our people.’

  ‘But they’re going to be mine, Kell, so I have to care. They’re my new family.’

  At that, Kell bursts into tears. I knew they were too close to the surface.

  ‘It’s just a matter of time before I lose you,’ she says. ‘You’re here now but soon you won’t be. You’ll get a great job and move in with Daniel and like you said, those are going to be your people. Then I’ll be lucky to see you when you come to visit your parents. I’m just sad about it, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen, Kell. This is my home.’

  ‘Only until you move in with Daniel. Then that’ll be your home and this is where you’ve come from. You can see the difference, right? And I guess that’s the way it should be. You’re moving on. You won’t be stuck down the market for the rest of your life like the rest of us. You’ve got the chance for more, and I do really want to see you make a different life. But I hate it too. I know I c
an’t hold you back because that’s not what’s best for you, but I hate letting you go.’

  The only thing I can say is that she’s wrong, so that’s what I do. ‘And you can make a different life too, you know. You’re not tied to the business. You could do something else.’

  ‘Nah, I can’t. I don’t have the same drive that you do. You’ve always had it, swotting up in school and reading all the time. Christ, you used to go to museums for fun. You’re not like me. You’re meant to have more.’

  ‘I have enough with you and my parents and everyone here.’ Now my eyes are filling up.

  ‘I’ll rephrase that, then,’ she says. ‘You should have more.’

  I can’t think too much about leaving here or I’ll sob from now till the wedding. I know it’s not like the olden days when girls went off to their husband’s homes never to be seen again, but I can’t shake the feeling that something important is changing and I’m not sure I want it to. I’m scared. Excited, but really scared, if you want to know the truth.

  The timer dings on the oven and I’m grateful to pull my mind away from my thoughts. But when I slide the tea towel along the oven handle to peek at the cakes, I can’t see them over the side of the tins.

  ‘But baking a cake is so easy,’ Kell teases.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘We could stack up a few dozen layers to get a couple inches of cake.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  I need another plan for the cakes. And one for my married life, while I’m at it.

  As soon as Kelly leaves, I ring Daniel. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t live in West London. We have to find somewhere East.’

  ‘All right,’ he says, ‘but where is this coming from? Is it the hormones?’

  ‘Sod off with your hormones!’ I hang up and burst into tears.

  Later I text him. Yes, hormones. But I still want to look here. xxxx

  Getting a new job and marrying Daniel is enough change for one woman. Hormones or not, I can’t leave my roots too.

  Chapter 13

  I’ve been too wrapped up in wedding plans to notice how tired Dad’s looked lately. Mum has to tell me. ‘He’s relapsing,’ she says, the worry etched on her face. I feel as if a knife is twisting in my tummy. ‘As usual, the stubborn git won’t admit there’s anything wrong, but he can’t hide the spasms when he’s sleeping. They’re worse than last time. It’s not just his legs.’

  Sometimes it feels like a losing battle with Dad. Even though the disease itself isn’t usually life-threatening, it’s getting worse. If it turns into the more aggressive type, then he’ll be in serious trouble.

  It’s already hard for him to be stuck in a wheelchair most of the time and not able to work when all his friends are still out earning a living. And I know he’s more uncomfortable than he lets on. He never talks about what it feels like having his symptoms. Our GP, Helen, told me, though. Her favourite cousin’s got it too and she keeps a blog. It’s a very honest view of the disease, but it makes for uncomfortable reading, knowing it’s probably how Dad is feeling too.

  ‘I know why he’s keeping quiet,’ Mum says. ‘He’s afraid he’ll miss your wedding if they send him into the hospital again for treatment.’

  ‘That’s still weeks away and besides, he’ll miss more than my wedding if he lets it get worse, Mum. What are we going to do?’

  ‘I’m telling Helen,’ she says. ‘Your Dad’s gonna kill me, but it’s for his own good.’

  Our GP is as tough as old boots and never lets angry patients faze her. I once saw her wrestle a man to the ground when he went to smoke outside the pub. She’d only given him his diagnosis that afternoon and – emphysema or no emphysema – she wasn’t about to let him make it worse.

  I wouldn’t cross her and hopefully Dad won’t, either. I’d hate to see him wrestled to the ground.

  ‘Do we have to tell Gran and Grandad about Dad?’ I ask.

  ‘Not yet.’ Her eyes slide away from mine. ‘I suppose I’ll have to deal with them once we know more. Have you told them about the wedding? You really need to.’

  ‘Not yet,’ I mumble.

  The cowardly apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  I might not see my grandparents as much as I should, but I see them about twice as much as I want to. ‘I’ll go round on my way to drop off the invitations.’ I can’t make Daniel come with me. I love him too much for that.

  The Liddell family divide stretches much wider than the few roads between our house and theirs. We used to spend all the holidays together with Uncle Colin and my uncle formerly known as Mark, and their families. I’ve got happy memories of playing football in Gran’s garden with my cousins, even though they always stuck me in goal. Then Uncle Barbara emerged, and so did my grandparents’ True Colours. That’s what Mum calls them. True colours are never a compliment.

  ‘Who is it?’ Grandad shouts through the door when I ring the bell. Even though he can see me through the peephole.

  ‘Grandad, it’s me, Emma. I’ve come to say hello.’

  About twenty-seven locks clack and jangle before he opens the door. ‘Beryl, company.’ Our hug is awkward and he smells of Pot Noodles.

  Inside it’s oppressively hot. That’s because their rent includes utilities. My grandparents aren’t the type to pass up a freebie, even when it dries out their dentures.

  ‘Well, this is a surprise,’ Gran says from the kitchen doorway, and not in a way that puts me at ease. I’ve done nothing wrong, yet I feel like I should apologise.

  Even before she was an outright bigot she was never one of those kiss-the-hurt-away, cake-baking grannies. Mum and Dad tried to get me to like her, but it was no use. Constant disapproval is written all over her leathery old face.

  ‘Sit,’ Grandad finally says, moving to his favourite chair. It’s more burn holes than upholstery, but he won’t get a new one. One day he’s going to take a nap and go up in flames.

  I’ve often wondered what they do all day. They eat only white bread sandwiches and the aforementioned Pot Noodles, so they’re not cooking as such. Even when we used to come for Christmas it was Mum and my aunties who prepared the meal. They’ve never had a pastime or hobby aside from criticising, and the only visitors they get are the newly recruited evangelical door-knockers who don’t know any better.

  ‘So, I have some good news,’ I say as Gran perches stiffly at the far end of the settee and flaps the neckline of her sleeveless sundress to get a breeze stirring in there. As she does this her arm waddles swing merrily. ‘I’m getting married. The wedding’s in five weeks.’

  Right away she wants to know what the rush is. I just manage to stop my hand reaching for my tummy. What a nightmare it must have been for Mum and Dad when they got married. No wonder they wouldn’t tell anyone about me.

  I lie and tell her we’ve been engaged for a year, just to let her wonder why I’ve kept it from her till now.

  ‘Who’s going?’ she asks.

  ‘His name is Daniel,’ I say, ignoring her question, ‘he’s amazing and yes, we’re totally in love. Thanks for asking.’

  She tries on a contrite expression, but it doesn’t fit well. ‘I’m very happy for you. I suppose your whole family will be there?’

  She might have been the one who cut herself off from the rest of us when she stopped talking to Uncle Barbara, but she hates that we’ve carried on just fine without her. I know what she’s asking and I’m not giving her the satisfaction of an easy answer. Instead I ramble on about Daniel’s family and all his friends. Grandad nods off when I start naming all of my side who’ll be invited. ‘And my bridesmaids will be in pretty floral dresses. We went shopping for ideas at Selfridges.’ I’m totally name-dropping. Selfridges is the pinnacle of la-di-da fashion around here. ‘Me, Kelly, Uncle Barbara and two from Daniel’s side.’

  It’s the moment she’s been waiting for. She pounces. ‘Who?!’

  ‘Do you mean Kelly? You remember, she’s my best mate. Or Abby, Daniel’s little sister or his frie
nd Cressida? Or do you mean Uncle Barbara?’ I pause for a second to savour this moment. ‘They’re all my bridesmaids.’

  She looks like someone just spat in her shoe. ‘That’s a perversion. Emma, don’t tell me you’re seriously making a mockery of your marriage like that. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘Having people we love in our wedding party is perverse and disgusting?’

  ‘Don’t play the fool with me. You know. And I’ll tell you something else for nothing. We won’t be part of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. Then I won’t send you an invitation.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do you any good if you did,’ she says, folding her undulating arms. ‘We’re not coming.’

  ‘Then that’s all settled. You’re not getting an invite, so you don’t need to worry. It saves me the postage.’

  Grandad wakes with a snort as I stand to let myself out. ‘Thanks for coming, Emma,’ he says, ‘see you again.’

  Uncle Barbara wouldn’t like that I’ve taunted his mother like this. Even after the venomous old cow’s treatment, he’s always been respectful. Which proves he’s a better woman than I.

  But my Gran-standing will be for nothing if I can’t find a bridesmaid’s frock to fit him and – even if I could afford one – Selfridges doesn’t stock dresses for a clientele of potbellied rugby player proportions.

  I know exactly who can help me find the right dress, though. I go straight to the market to see Shahrzad, who runs my favourite dress stall. She’s got a curator’s eye, she knows her clientele inside out, and trends hit her stall months before they’re even on the high street. If not for her dad’s heart attack during their usual Friday night fish and chips, which was mistaken at the time for bad indigestion, she’d probably be designing for the catwalk now. It was the last fish and chips her dad ever ate and she and her sisters were left to run the stall to support their mum. Being a real Anglophile, though, maybe her dad wouldn’t have minded dying with the taste of battered cod in his mouth, all things considered.

  Shahrzad was in the year below me in school, but we’re friendly through her best mate, Stacy Boyle, who runs the shoe stall. You’d never think they were friends to look at them. Stacy’s all pink hair and piercings, where Shahrzad always wears her long dark hair in a loose bun atop her head and hasn’t even got pierced ears. She’s as demure-looking as Stacy is bold, but together they could kit out the nation.