The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square

by Lilly Bartlett

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ my dad says, matching her conversational tone.

  Her eyes bore into his. ‘Are you sure? You look a bit tired, actually. And flushed.’

  ‘It’s warm in here. I shouldn’t have worn a jumper. I’m fine,’ he snaps, turning from her to sip his drink. The tremor in his hand is obvious. His pride breaks my heart.

  ‘Jack, you’re shaking,’ she says. ‘I can see your hand. Any other symptoms?’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Just leave it, Helen.’ But as he reaches for his pint again he misses at first.

  ‘Jack, it’s your vision too, isn’t it? I’m sorry, but you know I can’t ignore this, not as your doctor.’

  ‘Then as my friend,’ he murmurs. ‘Please, Helen, not now.’

  ‘I didn’t notice the vision,’ Mum says. ‘Jack, why didn’t you tell me? I knew you weren’t sleeping well with the leg spasms.’

  ‘Will you just leave it, Elaine!’ Our drinks jump when he slams his hand on the table.

  Auntie Rose scolds Dad from where she’s sitting with her ladies. He doesn’t usually shout.

  ‘Will you please come see me?’ Helen asks, ignoring his bluster. ‘I can assess you and if it’s a relapse, we need to start treatment as soon as possible. You know that.’

  ‘Not till after the wedding,’ he says, grasping one hand with the other to stop the shaking. ‘First I’m walking Emma up the aisle.’

  Mum retucks her hair. ‘But you can have the treatment done before the wedding, Jack, and get it over with. Otherwise you may not be well enough to be there.’

  ‘I’ll be there, I promise you that. I’m not ending up in hospital again.’

  So Mum was right. That’s what he’s worried about. The last time he let Helen put him through the course of treatment there were complications and he ended up in hospital for almost a week. He had to be on a drip.

  ‘That won’t happen again,’ Mum says, even though none of us, not even Helen, can guarantee that.

  ‘Helen, I’m walking my daughter up the aisle first. Walking, Emma, do you hear me? End of.’

  When Dad says ‘end of’ it’s pointless arguing with him. That’s the phrase that killed my Dr. Marten dreams when I was ten.

  But then again, I did eventually get those shoes.

  At least he’s agreed to go to Helen for an assessment, if not the treatment. I just hope his symptoms don’t get any worse.

  The atmosphere at our table lifts slightly as our friends and neighbours start filtering into the pub.

  We all turn to look when PC Billy Bramble arrives. He’s still in his police uniform, which puts everyone a bit on edge. In jeans, Billy’s the idiot we all know. In uniform, he’s an idiot with the power to arrest. The phone stall boys greet him like the frequent friend he’s become. Their stall trading doesn’t always live up to the market inspector’s expectations and Billy’s been known to smooth things over for them. I wouldn’t say he’s corrupt – and neither would he, obviously. He helps the people he likes.

  ‘Billy too?’ I say to Kell. ‘You’re covering your bases.’

  ‘You never know. He could come in handy,’ she says. ‘We need all the help we can get.’

  Shahrzad and Stacy from the market are squabbling over which of them is better at doing make-up as they demonstrate on Doreen and June. Doreen’s makeover is as understated as Shahrzad is, but, with Stacy’s help, June could headline next year’s drag queen awards. Uncle Barbara is sitting with them but won’t let a mascara wand within ten feet. He wants to look like a man who enjoys a frock, not a man who enjoys looking like a woman.

  When everyone’s got their drinks, Kell raps her pint glass on the table. ‘Right, you lot. We’re going to sort out all the wedding details for Emma and Daniel before we leave tonight.’

  A few people start chanting ‘Lock-in!’. Uncle Colin answers with ‘Sod off!’

  ‘Who can cook?’ she continues, wrenching the attention back to herself. ‘Hands up if you can cook, anything at all. We need ideas for a few big dishes.’

  June’s hand shoots into the air. ‘I’m a dab hand at chicken and mushroom pie,’ she says. ‘I can do a few big trays.’

  I can’t take her seriously now that she looks like an elderly white RuPaul.

  Not to be outdone, Doreen shouts, ‘Beef stew with dumplings!’ She turns to June and says ‘Everyone loves it’, like June hasn’t eaten her stew hundreds of times.

  When Mum adds her lasagne to the menu and Kelly offers to help her make it, Daniel reaches for my hand. This just might work! Nobody can cook for a hundred people alone, but together we can do this.

  Shahrzad and Stacy fight over who can make the most delicious green salads and finally agree to have a salad-off, which I hope goes better than their makeover competition, and Uncle Colin shyly offers to do a huge pot of creamy mash.

  With every offer my eyes threaten to overflow. They’re doing all this for us – Daniel, me and my family. Every dish is a little ‘I love you’. I’ve never been so grateful for my tribe.

  Then my colleague, Zane, raises his hand. ‘You got a cake yet?’

  ‘Emma made a corker the other day!’ says Kell. ‘Forget criminology, she’s got a future in baking. Actually, it is criminal.’

  ‘No, Zane, we don’t have a cake.’ Just to check I ask Daniel ‘You don’t happen to know how to bake, do you?’

  ‘Sorry, no, my skills lie in panna cotta.’

  ‘Panna what?’ Auntie Rose says.

  ‘It’s an Italian custard,’ I tell her. She rolls her eyes.

  ‘I could make you one,’ Zane offers. ‘Actually, I need to tell you anyway. I’m starting catering college. Marco went spare today when I told him.’ He’s clearly pleased with this reaction. ‘Don’t look so shocked.’

  I don’t mean to, but Zane’s the last person who comes to mind when I think of cake baking. Or cooking. Or college. ‘Sorry, of course, yes, thank you, Zane. You’ll wear a hairnet, though, right?’

  He laughs, reaching for his springy dreadlocks. I hope that means yes.

  Everyone’s got ideas to help with the food and drink. June’s granddaughter, who runs the family caff, is going to loan us all the plates and cutlery. Uncle Colin can get us a few barrels of beer if we can figure out where to put the taps, and the phone stall boys have a connection who can get us bottles of champagne for next to nothing.

  ‘Your friends are incredible,’ Daniel says as we kiss goodnight outside the pub later. ‘They really pull together for each other. You’re so lucky.’

  ‘We’re so lucky,’ I say. ‘You’re part of the family now too.’

  He nods. ‘We are so lucky.’

  A few days later Mrs Ishtiaque stops me on the way to Mrs Delaney’s. As usual she’s as colourful as her flower beds. This time her saree is electric blue. ‘Emma, I am hearing everybody is helping with food,’ she says over our garden wall. ‘I would like to make you the curry you love. It is my gift to you and your Daniel.’

  I shouldn’t be surprised that our news made its way round the neighbourhood so fast. And it’s very kind of Mrs Ishtiaque to offer, but curry doesn’t really go with the rest of the food. I can’t get Philippa’s fear of falafel carts out of my mind, and curry definitely won’t impress Daniel’s side. So I thank my neighbour but decline her offer. I just wish she wouldn’t look so sad when I do.

  ‘What did Mrs Ishtiaque want?’ Mum asks as she locks the front door. The new bolts are taking some getting used to, but so far Auntie Rose hasn’t complained about being incarcerated.

  ‘She just offered to make a curry for the wedding. I thanked her but told her she doesn’t have to.'

  ‘But you love her curry.’

  ‘I know, but it's just not...’

  ‘Good enough for your new in-laws?’ Mum says.

  ‘I was going to say right for a picnic theme.’

  Mum purses her lips but doesn't say any more.

  Chapter 15

  Kelly is already at Mrs Delaney’s
and she’s brought one of the phone stall boys with her. Jez was in our year while his brother, Gazza, was two years ahead of us. They used to be plain old James and Gary before puberty made them street. For a time all their friends walked around with nicknames like Fazza, Bazza and Razza. Most of them dropped the names and the bravado by the time girls actually started paying attention to them but not Jez and Gazza.

  Kell and Jez did have a thing in sixth form for about a minute and a half. Kelly claims a lapse in judgement and I’m sworn to secrecy about the whole thing. It’s not because Jez is a minger. He’s actually quite fit, with a cheeky smile and nice brown eyes. But Kelly’s sister used to be mad for him and she’d be gutted if she knew.

  ‘He wouldn’t lend me his tools, the git,’ Kell says when she sees us. ‘I don’t know what he thinks I’m going to do with them. So he’s come along as an extra tool.’ She smiles at her own joke, which Jez either ignores or doesn’t catch.

  ‘I know what you’ll do, you’ll cut your arm off,’ he says, picking up a hand saw. ‘And then you’ll blame me. Leave it to the man.’

  Kell, Mum, Mrs Delaney and I watch Jez try to saw through one of the horizontal two-by-fours in the frame by the window. He’s standing with his feet wide apart for leverage, his shiny tracksuit bottoms showing several inches of boxers in the back. He gets the saw started, but then it keeps stopping every few inches and he has to start the cut again. ‘What is this, Mrs Delaney?’ he asks. ‘It must be solid oak. We’ll need a bigger saw.’ He hacks at the support till the saw sticks again and bows alarmingly.

  Finally, my mum steps forward. ‘Jez, you’re going to hurt yourself. Give it here.’

  Jez doesn’t want to hand over the saw, but he also doesn’t want to go against my mum. And I wouldn’t advise it anyway.

  Mum squares up to the frame, places the saw at an angle and starts cutting up the supports with swift easy strokes. ‘Why don’t you put some tea on? It won’t take me long to get this down.’

  Jez is mortified that my mum is more of a man than he is. He shouldn’t be. She’s always done the DIY in our house. But no one’s surprised when he doesn’t stay for tea.

  While Kell brews us a cuppa, Mrs Delaney and I go into the fitting area that’s curtained off at one side of the shop. ‘I can’t wait to see it,’ I whisper as she unzips my wedding dress bag.

  ‘I just hope it fits,’ she whispers back.

  The satin is cool against my skin as I slide the dress up over my hips and get my arms through the sleeve holes. ‘The moment of truth,’ she says, buttoning up the back. She yanks the material with both hands, squeezing an ‘Oof!’ out of me. ‘Good thing your gran left some room at the seams,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to let it out. Hang on, let me get the top buttoned up so your mum can see it on.’

  Not only has Mrs Delaney taken off the horrible puffy sleeves and satin dog collar, she’s also calmed a lot of the pouf in the skirt. It’s no longer a giant billowy toilet roll topper. She’s put a few short pleats in at the top so that it fans out from my hips, but the miles of satin are gone.

  When I step out from behind the curtain Mum does a little squeal. ‘It doesn’t look like the same dress!’ she says. ‘Mrs Delaney, you’re a genius. You’ve even changed the shape.’

  ‘And I added a train, but, Emma, if you don’t like it, I can take it off.’

  That’s what’s different about the back. There’s a gorgeous lace overlay that swishes gracefully behind me. ‘Is this the material from the window?’

  Mrs Delaney nods. ‘It was wonderful to get to work with it again, and with the pared down skirt I think it works. Luckily the satin is as yellowed as the lace. Do you like it?’

  ‘I love it! It looks so vintage. I can’t thank you enough.’

  ‘There’s no need to, girl. You’re fixing up me shop and that means I might have something to grow old on. Course, that’s years away.’ She laughs. ‘Now, get out of the dress so I can take it out.’ She turns to Mum. ‘That’s gonna be a big baby.’

  We all stare at her.

  ‘It’s obvious. At least, it is to me. Do you have any idea how many pregnant girls I’ve made dresses for in my lifetime? That’s why I took out the volume and added the little pleats. More material will only make you look bigger. These darts hide a multitude of sins.’

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m like a vicar,’ she says. ‘A woman of the cloth, if you will. I’m not telling nobody nothing.’

  Mrs Delaney offers to show me how to use the sewing machine so I can stitch up the serviettes. I mean the napkins.

  ‘Could I help you?’ Mum asks. ‘I’m not great at sewing, but I can use the machine if there’s an extra one about.’ Her smile is shy and most uncharacteristic. ‘I’d like to do this with you, Emma, just you and me.’ I spring a leak when Mrs Delaney says my gran would be proud to see us.

  While I’m trying not to stitch my fingers together, Kell goes to the front where Mum has dismantled the frame. ‘I’ll clear up this wood before Her Highness arrives.’ I know she’s only doing it so Cressida can’t look down her nose at us. Not that she would, but that’s what Kelly’s worried about. She didn’t want Cressida and Daniel’s sister coming out our way in the first place, but Mrs Delaney needs to take their measurements so she can pretend to make their dresses.

  I’ll be gobsmacked if we pull this off. The actual dresses are in a bag in the back in a variety of sizes – Shahrzad can send back whatever we don’t use. She got an extra one that Mrs Delaney cut fabric samples off to show Abby and Cressida when they come in. She’ll claim the cloth is being delivered in a few days.

  Mrs Delaney wrinkled her nose when she saw the dresses, though luckily not in front of Shahrzad. She’s going to take them completely apart, restitch the seams straight and alter them for each bridesmaid, with a custom lining. We’ve stacked up bolts of pastel green, yellow, pink and blue lining for Cressida and Abby to choose from when they come in. Kelly says she’ll pick whatever Cressida doesn’t.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ the vicar calls from the doorway. ‘What a pleasant surprise this is, eh, Mrs Delaney? We didn’t expect a crowd.’

  It takes me a second to recognise him. It’s not that I haven’t seen him loads of times, or that he’s dressed any differently than normal in jeans and a V-neck jumper over his clergy shirt and dog collar. I’ve just never seen him here at Mrs Delaney’s. Which begs the question.

  ‘What brings you here, vicar?’ Kell asks.

  ‘I’ve come to play cards with Claire, as is my custom,’ he says. ‘But I can see you’re busy, Claire, so I’ll come back at a more convenient time.’

  ‘Thanks, Del, I should be free in an hour. I just need to do the fittings for Emma’s bridesmaids.’

  ‘Ah, the wedding. July the fifteenth, isn’t it? I trust the plans are all underway.’

  ‘There’s still a lot to do, but I think we’re getting there, thanks.’ He might be a man of God, but I don’t want to burden him, seeing as he’s not on the holy clock with me. He is a very good listener, though, and I find myself listing all the details we haven’t yet worked out.

  ‘Music?’ Kelly helpfully reminds me. ‘You don’t have that either, though I don’t know why you don’t use my Spotify account. I’ve told you I’ll do you a playlist. It’ll be killer.’

  ‘But I can’t.’ I’ve told Philippa that we’re auditioning bands. I’ve even sent her sample tracks I found online. ‘It needs to be live music.’ Mum and Dad might have enjoyed Kelly and the phone stall boys lip syncing and dancing to Beyoncé at their anniversary party, but that won’t impress Philippa.

  ‘Why not Del?’ Mrs Delaney wonders. ‘He’s got a beautiful voice. And his playing ain’t ’alf bad, either.’

  The vicar graciously accepts this praise, adding, ‘Emma, I would be greatly honoured to perform, should you require any musical entertainment. However, I am but a humble amateur music maker and I understand if you wan
t instrumentalists of a higher calibre for such an important day. I bow to the superior talents of those classically trained, and await your judgement.’

  At this he makes a sweeping bow. Despite talking like he’s on stage doing Hamlet, I think he’s just offered to play some tunes for us.

  ‘That would actually be amazing, Vicar! Could you really?’

  With his hand on his heart he could be a beauty queen who’s just won the crown. ‘I’ll be delighted to do what little I can to contribute to your day. Will you have a piano in residence or should I make arrangements for mine?’

  A drunken vicar with a travelling piano at our wedding. I’ll just have to spin it somehow to Daniel’s side so it doesn’t sound like we’re getting a sozzled amateur belting out show tunes.

  ‘What about tables and chairs, Vicar?’ Kelly asks. ‘Don’t you have loads of them at the church?’

  She shrugs at me when I protest that it’s too much to ask. But Kell believes that more is more when it comes to favours. Del says we can take whatever we need from the church hall as long as we get everything back in time for the Slimming World meeting.

  ‘That’s music and tables and chairs sorted,’ Kell says when Del leaves. ‘Food is all set and Colin’s doing the beer. Bridesmaid’s dresses are in hand, thanks to Mrs Delaney. What else?’

  ‘Serviettes will be done,’ says Mum, stitching carefully along the hem of a piece of calico. ‘And I think I can make bunting too, if Mrs Delaney doesn’t mind us using the cloth samples. What about tablecloths?’

  My eye falls on Mrs Delaney’s bolts of lace piled on the shelves. ‘Maybe we could borrow some of this?’ I ask her. ‘If you’re sure you won’t use them for dresses, that is.’ Imagine how romantic the tables will look draped in Belgian lace.

  She shakes her head. ‘They’re too yellowed for me to use, so you’re welcome to them.’ She nods approvingly. ‘They’ll be lovely with the serviettes.’

  That’s the tables done, then, with plates and cutlery from June’s granddaughter. ‘I can’t believe this is really happening!’ I squeal.