“It’s costing a packet,” said Clifford now (Clifford could be quite mean on occasions). “I can’t think why the bridegroom can’t chip in.”
“At least you’re not having to provide a dowry,” Mavis told him, picturing Clifford collecting together a small herd of cows and goats, and perhaps some gold coins as well, to be delivered to his daughter’s new family.
“Well, it feels like it,” Clifford grumbled.
“And the speech. Have you written that yet?” Mavis asked.
“Oh yes. I did that ages ago. I’m quite looking forward to it, actually.” Clifford liked being the centre of attention.
“I hope it’s not too long.” Mavis hated long speeches.
“Funny. That’s what Kate said. Short and clean were her orders.”
“I suppose the dirty jokes are for the best man,” Mavis said.
“Not if I can help it,” said Clifford.
The two weeks between this conversation and the wedding proved quite extraordinarily difficult for Mavis. While she tried to keep her mind engaged with other matters, her thoughts would keep returning to Clifford and his family. Clifford himself was understandably preoccupied, and while it was obvious that he was making an effort to keep off the subject, it was inevitable that it should crop up. Meanwhile, Mavis’s imagination ran riot. She pictured Dorothy (as much as it is possible to picture someone you’ve never met) busying herself with guest lists and table plans, with flowers and dresses and last-minute cancellations. She imagined the bride, too. How was she feeling? Were there any last-minute doubts? And how many people harbouring such doubts went through with the wedding anyway? Mavis could see that weddings gathered a momentum all of their own, and that as they accelerated towards the actual day, it must become increasingly hard to stop them. Mavis had had a friend who had called her wedding off on the actual morning of the wedding, and while Mavis had been full of admiration for what had seemed to her to be a most courageous decision, the girl’s parents hadn’t spoken to their daughter for months afterwards. Weddings, it would seem, didn’t just belong to the couple in question; they became the property of anyone who had an interest, vested or otherwise, and as such had the potential to wound (or delight) a great many people.
On the morning of the wedding, Mavis woke early. She imagined the bride having breakfast in bed and then luxuriating in a bath full of fragrant bubbles, while everyone bustled around her doing — what? What was there to do on the morning of a wedding? Mavis had no idea, since she imagined that most of the things that needed to be done would be well in hand by now, but she was sure there must be last-minute things — a final alteration, perhaps (Dorothy kneeling on the floor, her mouth full of pins, doing something to a hem?), the attentions of a hairdresser, and perhaps someone to attend to make-up.
And Clifford, what would he be doing? Mavis imagined him bumbling about, getting in the way, before it was time for him too to get ready — perhaps doing a last-minute run-through of his speech, getting dressed, maybe asking Dorothy to fasten or adjust something. Dorothy. Jealousy spread through Mavis in a sudden wave, taking her by surprise (she was not normally given to jealousy). Weddings brought families closer, didn’t they, so if ever Clifford was to feel close to Dorothy, it would be on a day such as this, an occasion in which Mavis could never play any part. She gritted her teeth. Just let this wedding be over, she thought. Just let it be over. In just twelve hours’ time, the whole thing would be finished, everything would return to normal, and Clifford would be hers once more.
Afterwards, Mavis realised that she had always intended to see the wedding, although it was only during that last fortnight that she had acknowledged the fact. This was a big day in Clifford’s life, and while she couldn’t exactly share it, she meant to be there. She had no illusions about how she would feel; she knew that it would be difficult. But apart from anything else, she was curious. She wanted to watch the guests arriving, to see the bride, and most important of all, Dorothy. Mavis had never seen Clifford’s wife, and this was the ideal opportunity. Of course, Dorothy would be looking her best — as the mother of the bride, that was her job — and in any case she was bound to be far more glamorous than Mavis herself (most women were), but Mavis still wanted to see her. She wouldn’t have put it so vulgarly as to say that she was eyeing up the opposition, but that was what it amounted to.
Once before, Mavis had tried to see Dorothy. She had taken a taxi out to Clifford’s home, which was some miles away, and had spent a morning hovering outside. She knew that the family weren’t away and she felt sure that Dorothy must go out at some stage, but although she had waited for two hours, no one had either entered or left the building.
The house itself was a substantial Victorian building, attractive in an ugly kind of way, with what appeared to be a substantial garden. Mavis had glimpsed a washing line to one side and found herself trying to examine the garments to see if they could tell her anything about their owners. She thought she recognised a couple of shirts of Clifford’s, and there were children’s dresses and shorts, and a lot of underwear, including several pairs of stout, no-nonsense women’s knickers. Mavis was enormously cheered by the knickers, which looked quite large. Did that mean that Dorothy was fatter than she was? Oh, please let Dorothy be fat! Even a little bit fat. Then she could be as beautiful as she liked, if only Mavis (who had always been quite slim) might be allowed the better figure.
Mavis was careful to ascertain from Clifford the whereabouts of the church where the wedding was to be held without actually seeking directions. Whatever happened, she didn’t want him to guess what she was going to do, and she even mentioned plans for that weekend so that he would think she was going to be busy. By dint of asking several vague questions and then phoning the vicarage pretending that she was a guest who had lost her invitation, she managed to obtain the information she needed.
It was a grey, billowy day in early June. The forecast had been good, but the sun had yet to make an appearance, and Mavis was relieved. It meant that she could cover herself up without looking too eccentric, and to this end she dressed in an old raincoat, headscarf, and dark glasses. She must have resembled a wounded celebrity hiding from the paparazzi, but she achieved the desired effect. A careful examination of her reflection in the mirror before she left home reassured her that, short of wearing fancy dress, she was as unrecognisable as it was possible to be.
She arrived at her destination in good time and positioned herself discreetly on the other side of the road, with a good view of the church. No one appeared to pay any attention to her. People always stop to look at a wedding, and several others had paused in small groups to watch and gossip. She was just another onlooker, another outsider.
As she watched the guests arriving at the church, she was overwhelmed with a sense of such isolation that it made her catch her breath. The embraces, the laughter, the excited chatter, and the anticipation were all going on just across the road, and here she was, Clifford’s lover, the woman who only a few days ago had been performing the most intimate of acts with him, feeling as though she were a spectator from another world. This was a family in celebratory mode, doing what families do best — everybody happy, any cracks carefully papered over for the occasion, and all to be photographed for posterity.
Dorothy was instantly recognisable — a great mountain of a woman, swathed in apple green silk, a complicated arrangement of tulle and feathers trembling on her head as though overcome by the importance of its role in the proceedings. Her large, rather pale face was not unlike Clifford’s, and Mavis wondered briefly whether married couples, like dogs and their owners, came to resemble each other over time. Dorothy seemed to tower over the other guests, who had parted before her like the Red Sea, and when she reached the porch, she busied herself tweaking and smoothing the small bridesmaids who were waiting there, her large hands waving and gesticulating importantly. Watching her, Mavis wondered that Clifford had ever had the courage to breach the more intimate areas of such a for
tress, and she felt for him. Poor Clifford. No wonder his sexual advances had been so timid in their early days together. Dorothy looked like the kind of female who would be more likely to consume her partner after intercourse than to cherish him. No wonder, too, that Clifford was such an expert in the field of male helplessness, for who would need to be capable with a large bossy Dorothy to put him right (Dorothy had always seemed to Mavis to be a particularly bossy name).
As Mavis watched Dorothy finally disappearing into the gloom of the church, she spared a thought for the bridegroom. If appearances were anything to go by, it was going to take a brave man to stand up to a mother-in-law such as this one.
But all thoughts of Dorothy instantly left her as the bridal car drew up at the church gate.
No one could describe Clifford as handsome, but he was one of those men who could look truly distinguished when the occasion demanded it, and this occasion demanded nothing less. The morning suit, the new haircut, the gold tie matching the yellow roses and — honeysuckle, was it? — in the bride’s bouquet, all combined to give him a sleekness and elegance that Mavis had never seen before. As he handed his daughter out of the car, Mavis was reminded of all the occasions when he had done the same for her, and for a moment, her feelings of isolation were compounded by grief — grief for her solitary state, grief for the smiles and the affection between father and daughter, and for the first and only time, grief for the daughter she herself would never have.
Kate was tall, handsome rather than pretty, and going by the tendrils escaping from her headdress, Mavis noted that she was the redhead of the playground all those years ago. The wedding dress was nice enough, but it looked to Mavis like all wedding dresses: it was white, and there was far too much of it. Mavis had never understood why it was that brides should wear on their wedding day dresses that were, to all intents and purposes, fancy dress — something they would never dream of wearing in the ordinary run of things and would almost certainly never wear again. She recalled poor Princess Diana — such a pretty girl — emerging from her coach so enveloped in that dress that she looked as though she were struggling out of an enormous wedding cake. No doubt she would have had to take half a dozen attendants with her every time she needed the lavatory. It didn’t bear thinking about. If Mavis had ever married (and during her brief engagement, she had had time to give the matter some thought), she would have worn something long and pretty, but definitely not white. White suited very few people, and it certainly didn’t suit Mavis.
When the wedding party had disappeared from view and the church door had safely closed behind them, Mavis crossed the road, and taking her courage in her hands, she walked up the church path. The sun was struggling out from behind the clouds, bringing to life the warm stone of the church itself, and a fresh grave, still covered with bouquets of wilting flowers, was a stark reminder of another rite of passage marked within this ancient building. The churchyard seemed strangely quiet and empty after the bustle and noise of a few minutes ago, and Mavis could hear the sound of traffic from the distant motorway and the insistent call of a cuckoo.
She lingered under a window, listening to the strains of the organ, to the distant murmur of voices and the singing of hymns, imagining the solemn vows, the muted joy, the hats, the flowers. Did young couples making these promises realise how big a commitment it was to which they were pledging themselves? So often, she had heard the familiar words of the marriage service, had listened to people glibly (or so it seemed to her) promising to stay together till death should intervene, and had wondered whether the thought of death really occurred to them at all. No doubt Clifford had once made similar vows in a church such as this, almost certainly in all sincerity. Mavis hoped very much that Kate would prove more successful than her father at keeping her promises.
By the time the marriage ceremony was over and the church bells had started ringing, Mavis was safely back on the other side of the road in the shade of a plane tree (the sun was becoming quite hot). The church doors opened again, and the wedding party spilled out blinking into the sunlight, milling about, laughing and chatting, forming and re-forming in their various groups to be photographed. After a while, cars started to arrive, confetti was thrown, and guests began to move on (presumably to the reception). It was time for Mavis to go home.
That evening, making supper for herself and Maudie, Mavis tried to analyse her feelings about the day. It had certainly been painful, and she hadn’t enjoyed the experience. But on balance, she was glad that she had been there. So much of Clifford’s life was a closed book to her; now, at least she had had this small glimpse of that other Clifford, the husband (albeit a cheating one) and father, the Clifford whom she could never really know.
A few days later, Mavis and Clifford were speaking on the telephone.
“Well? How did it go?” Mavis asked, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice.
“How did what go?” Clifford’s tone was surly.
“The wedding, of course.”
“Well, you tell me.”
“What do you mean by that?” Mavis asked.
“What do you think I mean?”
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” said Mavis, infuriated.
“Do what?”
“Answer a question with a question. Speak in riddles.”
“Well, let me put it this way. You are in a better position than I am to judge how the wedding went.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Clifford! How can I possibly —”
“You were there. You saw it. You tell me.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
“I wasn’t there. I wasn’t a guest. You can’t blame me for — for wanting to see it.”
“I would call it spying. It was sneaky, Mavis. It’s not what I expect from you.”
“Well, what do you expect from me? It was a very important day in your life, and I wanted to see you. Is that so awful?”
“Yes. I’d say it is. Lurking under the trees like that.”
“I wasn’t lurking like anything! I was trying to be inconspicuous, and I think I succeeded.”
“Not inconspicuous enough,” said Clifford.
“Oh. So what would you like me to have done? Worn a mask? Would that have been inconspicuous enough for you?”
“A mask might have been an improvement, certainly. But what I would really have liked was for you not to have been there at all. You had no place there, Mavis. No right.”
“I had every right! It’s a public place. I have as much right as anyone to stand on a pavement.”
“If you say so.”
“Cliff, please, let’s not have another row,” Mavis said. “It’s such a waste of time. Of our time.”
“Well, if you will pull silly stunts like this, what do you expect?”
Since she was the very last person who could ever have been accused of pulling ‘silly stunts’, Mavis actually laughed.
“It’s not funny, Mavis.”
“No, of course not.” Mavis hesitated. “Cliff, can I ask you something?”
“I suppose so.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Your shoes.”
“My shoes?”
“Those awful old flat shoes. I’d know them anywhere.”
“I’ll remember that for next time,” said Mavis boldly, thinking that Clifford must have amazing eyesight to be able to recognise a pair of shoes at such a distance.
“You do that.”
“So, can we put this silly argument behind us now?”
“I suppose we’ll have to.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Mavis decided to change the subject. “How’s the heart?”
As she knew, Clifford couldn’t resist an invitation to discourse on what was currently his favourite subject, and he launched eagerly into an account of each little ache and pain, every little dose from his puffer, and the necessity of taking aspirin for the rest of his life. There followed a long (and unnecessary)
account of the dangers of even the smallest amount of aspirin taken on an empty stomach, because of the risk of ulcers. Mavis knew that Clifford’s stomach was rarely empty, but forbore to point this out. However, she cursed the doctor for even suggesting the possibility of yet another medical condition, since this would only add further fuel to the already flourishing fire that was Clifford’s hypochondria. However, she appeared to have been forgiven (even if she considered that there had been nothing to forgive), and that at least was something.
“May I see the photographs?” she asked when they were about to ring off.
“What photographs?”
“The wedding photos, of course. I’d love to see them, Cliff. Just one or two.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said Clifford graciously. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t see just one or two.”
“You looked — really handsome.”
“Thank you.” Clifford’s voice positively glowed.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you next week.” Mavis hesitated. “Perhaps with the photos?”
“I’m sure there’ll be some photos by next week. I’ll try to remember to bring them.”
Well, that was all right in the end, Mavis thought as she replaced the receiver, although Clifford was becoming very sensitive these days. It could just be that his conscience was bothering him. This happened from time to time, and on these occasions, Mavis always had to tread carefully.
She went in search of Maudie, who wasn’t where Mavis had left her, and found her stuffing a pile of underwear into the fridge.
“Mother, what are you doing?” she asked her.
“Just putting on a spot of washing, dear.” Maudie poked a vest in between two milk bottles. “But there doesn’t seem to be much room in this machine.”
Mavis sighed. Maudie was getting worse, and she wondered just how long she would be able to continue to look after her and whether, when the time came, she could bear to let her go into a home.
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 39