‘I could quote Othello at you if you wanted,’ Griff said.
‘I could do it myself,’ Carwyn said, grinning. ‘I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.’
EPILOGUE
There had been no argument: Griff had lost so much weight that he had to consign his best suit to the clothing bank, and he enjoyed himself enormously in the best men’s outfitters in Canterbury – he still didn’t fancy a trip to London – shopping for a replacement. He had almost outraged the flower ladies who were decorating the church by importing far more flowers than Mary had ordered, but since he messed in with them, and supplied coffee and cakes to sustain them, he became a part of their team. In straight mode. Not a hint of campness to outrage their village souls. When the organist went sick with a whitlow, Griff conjured one whose face I’d only seen on CD covers.
On the Big Day itself, he kept his promise to apply Mary’s slap, and mine, of course. Mary, giggling with the nip of pink champagne he pressed on her, fumbled her way through the long row of tiny buttons up my back and stroked the tippet’s fur the right way. Then she sat down, quite silent. At first I was worried I ought to jolly her along, but then I saw her face, so full of joy that it was clear she couldn’t find words to express it. As I slipped her dress over her head and helped her into the long flowing top, which she’d insisted on to cover what she claimed were bingo wings, I realized how lovely she must have looked when she was young – and how beautiful she was today.
Aidan, who I’d thought wouldn’t be seen dead at such a rustic event, instituted himself as a sidesman; not for anything would I have passed on a whispered question from one of the choirboys hanging round outside – was he what they call an undertaker?
The three of us walked with unconventional speed up the aisle: clearly, she didn’t want to waste another moment of her life away from Paul’s side. The distinguished organist, not used to such cavalier treatment, insisted on playing the rest of the piece although it was clearly redundant.
Paul looked handsome, supported by one of his equally handsome sons, whose presence had Griff nudging and winking at me encouragingly. Robin, officiating in his favourite church, looked his usual divine self and preached an appropriate but blessedly short sermon. Little Imogen, in Freya’s suddenly maternal arms, slept soundly throughout.
Even the sun, which had lurked behind clouds long enough to make the day seem cold, emerged for the photos. Smiling at Carwyn, who’d somehow wangled an invitation from Mary, I remembered another quotation. Byron? No … Browning! Griff always said it was always taken out of context, and was in fact deeply ironic, since the poem involved regicide and betrayal. But it seemed to fit today:
God’s in His heaven—
All’s right with the world!
fn1 See Guilt Trip
Guilt Edged Page 24