A Winter Bride

by Isla Dewar

  It was crowded. It seemed to Nell that the place was full of men in crumpled linen suits drinking brandy and puffing cigars. Of course there were women, too. They wore low-cut dresses and sipped from long-stemmed glasses. The walls were painted dark red, the bar glistened with rows and rows of bottles and in the corner a young, handsome man was playing a baby grand piano.

  A woman in an absurdly tight dress came forward, put her glass on the piano and leaned on it. She nodded to the man, grinned round at the assembled customers who all clapped, and started to sing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’. It was May Rutherford.

  Nell stepped further into the room. She couldn’t believe this. What was May doing here? Of course, she was safe here. She couldn’t be extradited back home. Nell remembered reading that many British criminals ended up here. But, my God, May Rutherford here in Valencia, leaning on a piano and singing in her throaty voice. Who’d have thought it?

  Nell scanned the room, looking for Harry. He was behind the bar, wearing an immaculately ironed pale-blue shirt and dazzling pink tie. Perched on his head was a floppy linen hat. He was pouring drinks and holding one finger to his lips, hushing anybody that dared speak while his wife was singing.

  Nell stood frozen like a statue in the centre of the floor staring at May, even though she knew it would only be a few seconds before she was noticed.

  May stopped singing. ‘Nell,’ she shouted. ‘Oh, Nell, it’s you. I always knew you’d come one day.’

  Nell said nothing.

  May turned to Harry. ‘It’s our Nell. Isn’t this place just like Piccadilly Circus? Stay here long enough and in time everyone you know will come by.’

  Harry looking stunned, recovered, smiled and waved.

  May started her long, twinkling mince towards Nell. The tightness of her dress made anything other than tiny, shuffling steps impossible. ‘Nell,’ she said with her arms spread wide, reaching out to her. ‘This is lovely. It’s made my day. It’s made my month, my year. You’ve got to have a drink. Harry, pour Nell a glass of champagne. And me too, come to that. We’ve got to celebrate. A glass of champagne on the house for everyone …’ Nell found herself clutched in May’s embrace, ‘How long are you staying? There’s a job for you here if you want it,’ she whispered fiercely in her ear. ‘You’re more than welcome. Have you got my glasses? They’re worth a fortune.’

  For a moment, Nell’s mind drifted off. Her first daydream in a long time. She could stay here. She could have a small apartment, nothing fancy, just two rooms and a balcony where she could drink thick, black coffee in the morning watching the world go by. She could work in this bar. She wouldn’t wear anything tight like May. Perhaps wide silky trousers that flowed as she moved and a dark pink shirt with a high collar, but unbuttoned to show just a hint of a curve of her breasts. She could flirt with these men in crumpled linen suits. Maybe they were all criminals, gang leaders on the run from the law. It was a bit Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart. She could learn Spanish, and spend her days in this fabulous, beautiful, ancient city.

  As May finally released her, Nell took a step back and studied her ex-mother-in-law. She could see that she’d got older. Her face was etched with lines, thick with make-up. Her eyes were caked with blue eye-shadow. Her lips were terrifyingly scarlet.

  Nell clenched her fists and felt repulsion and fury. This was the woman who’d yelled at customers who hadn’t eaten their greens. This woman had deposited secret cheques in her bank account so she could hide it from the taxman. And then run off with the wages she owed her. She had caused that awful afternoon at the bank when Nell had learned her account was empty. This woman had booked a church and a hotel without bothering to ask first if Nell had even wanted to marry her son. This woman was awful.

  Nell turned and fled.

  ‘Nell,’ she heard the thick throaty cry, ‘Nell, what’s got into you? Come back.’

  But Nell ran. Back to the Plaça de la Verge and there was Hamish standing with his hand clasped to his forehead looking first this way, then that way, stumbling back and forth not knowing where to go. She called his name.

  He came to her and took her to him. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Just for a walk to clear my head.’

  He held her at arm’s length, scrutinising her with a concerned look on his face, ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m fine. I just needed to get back to you.’

  He held her again. ‘Nell, you know I want to marry you. You know I … Well, you know—’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Nell said.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Go On, Say It

  It was six years before they married. They’d procrastinated. There were so many other things to do. The hotel was busy from May to October, and then again at Christmas and New Year. At quiet times there were repairs to see to, accounts to update and bar stocks to check. They kept saying, ‘Next year, we’ll do it then. We’ll have a big party and invite the whole village. It’ll be fun.’

  Then Nancy came along. Nell refused to walk down the aisle when pregnant. ‘I’d be waddling. Nobody wants to waddle down the aisle. We’ll do it later.’

  Hamish said, ‘You said you wanted to get married before you had children. You wanted to do things in the right order.’

  ‘I did,’ said Nell. ‘But that was before I knew about waddling. I want to be a beautiful bride.’

  But Nancy was followed by Ben, so it was the waddling excuse again. After that, Nell was busy helping in the hotel and looking after the two little ones. ‘I’ve no time. It’ll have to wait.’

  In truth, she didn’t mind. She was happy with how things were. In summer she’d take the children to the beach, watch them play on the sand, stare into the rock pools and jump the waves as they rippled towards the shore. From time to time she’d see dolphins slip by, moving effortlessly several yards out to sea. They made her heart leap. ‘They’re a sign of good weather,’ Hamish told her. Sometimes she and Hamish would take the children up the long track to the forest. They’d find a spot where they could eat sandwiches and scan the horizon for deer. Every time they passed their kissing spot where they’d been snapped locked in an embrace they’d catch one another’s eye and smile. They had secrets. They had a history.

  In winter the deer came down from the hills and wandered the hotel grounds looking for food. Nell loved to watch them. Sometimes the snow came so thick and deep, plodding to the log pile at the side of the house was tough going. The chill numbed her face and hands. Nell would complain bitterly about the biting cold and the endless whiteness of everything. ‘It’s a trial getting to the village and it’s only a step away.’ Yet, there was the beauty of it, the silence and the sudden isolation was a wonder. At times like this the hotel was empty as nobody could get through. Nell and Hamish would spend hours together when the kids were asleep, sitting by the fire, feet up, drinking tea, planning their summer and napping. Hamish thought napping with someone was the most intimate thing you could do. ‘It’s a trust thing,’ he said. ‘Slipping off into sleep feeling warm and relaxed, knowing you’ll wake together is calming. It’s comfortable. I like it.’

  Nobody in the village bothered that the pair weren’t married. It was the way of things. Oh, at first there had been some gossip, but as time passed, they’d moved on to fresh sources of chit-chat and discussion. The two became ‘our Hamish and our Nell who can’t be bothered getting married’. This pleased Nell. It felt like she belonged.

  Once she saw a newspaper article about Carol and Alistair. It was a feature on their new home, which was a delight. Modern furnishings, but with an old-fashioned homey twist. Beautifully crafted tables and sofas from Italy mixed with junk shop finds make the Rutherford’s home a joy. Carol had completed her university course, gained a degree and was planning to teach. Gosh, Nell had thought, who’d have thought it? She always seemed pretty thick to me. She hadn’t finished reading the article because some guests from America had arrived and she�
��d had to check them in. When she’d looked for the newspaper intending to finish reading about the two people from her past, she’d discovered that Hamish had used the paper to light the fire in the lounge. It was gone. Oh well, she’d thought. Doesn’t matter.

  Every so often Byrony wrote with news from London and asked if Nell would visit, and each time Nell would say to Hamish, ‘I think I’ll go see Byrony. One day.’

  Hamish agreed it would be good for her, ‘One day,’ he agreed.

  ‘One day,’ they’d say in unison. Procrastinating again.

  The village changed. Houses were built, all tacked on at the end of Main Street. Fresh faces arrived, every one of them creased with tension and worry. ‘People on the run,’ Nell said. In time, these faces would relax as the worries drifted away and the procrastination kicked in.

  Some people arrived looking hopeful and fled months later. They found the pace too slow. They couldn’t stand the weather: sudden storms; lashing rain followed by splashes of sunshine. They didn’t know what was coming next. They missed pavements, city smells, shops, restaurants, and the array of strangers to ponder. Nobody stayed a stranger for long here. These people hated the intimacy of this place. Everybody knew everybody. Everybody knew everybody’s business. What they didn’t know they assumed and turned into gossip. It seemed to Nell that these people ran away, screaming and waving their arms in the air.

  Hippies turned up in their Volkswagen camper vans. They’d park near the shore and sit in groups playing guitars and smoking pot. They called one another ‘man’ and spoke of a new world of peace and love. Some of them moved into abandoned cottages miles into the hills. They wanted to grow their own food and raise their kids away from the hustle and demands of bureaucracy. Nell was sure they all lived on lentils and beans, so, now and then, she’d take them leftover food from the hotel. They always thanked her and invited her in to sit by their smoky fires and drink coffee. She liked their clothes and their music. She liked their banter. She ordered a copy of Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland from the local shop. When it arrived it was put in the window with brown paper over the cover and a note that said Our Nell’s weird LP. Nell was so enamoured she left it there for weeks before picking it up.

  Nell never forgot the Rutherfords. Things happened to make them sneak back into her mind. A waitress on a busy night in the dining room barged past her, whirled round to apologise and a steak slid from the plate she was carrying and landed on the kitchen floor. ‘Don’t barge and whirl. Glide,’ said Nell. ‘Our guests are here to unwind and they mustn’t know it’s mayhem in here.’

  The waitress blushed and Nell bit her lip. Oh, God, I sound like May Rutherford.

  Proud at seeing his guests leave relaxed and glowing after their holiday, Hamish boasted that they made people happy. ‘That’s what we do, and we do it well.’

  Nell told him not to say that. ‘It reminds me of someone I’d rather not be reminded of.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘My old mother-in-law, May. She was a wicked witch and I got caught up in her spell.’

  Hamish said that was absurd.

  ‘No, really,’ said Nell. ‘I adored her. I actually wanted to be her. She was so wildly generous and glamorous, if you like scarlet lips and violent blue eye-shadow. She threw herself at life and I loved that. Of course she was a rogue as well. She and her husband sold really dubious cars and, in her restaurant, she’d refuse to serve pudding to people who didn’t finish up their main course.’ She shrugged and said, ‘Ho hum, I don’t think about her much these days. I ended up hating her, but now I think she never got over her impoverished childhood. She threw money around. She loved expensive things. I think she only ever wanted to be loved. Sometimes, I almost feel sorry for her, and wonder what must she have been feeling inside. Sometimes I almost forgive her, but only sometimes, and only almost.’

  In the end it was Bella who forced the marriage. Nell was three months pregnant with her and decided that this child ought to be legitimate. ‘And it’ll make honest children of the other two, as well. We’ll do it before I start to waddle.’

  They married in January. Nell jokingly complained about being a winter bride for a second time. But this time it was her choice. She’d found the perfect outfit: a simple empire-line dress in a dark – almost black – satin that skimmed over her blossoming stomach. Nell could almost hear her mother whisper in her ear, ‘Marry in black, you’ll wish yourself back.’

  Hamish thought this excellent news when she shared the old rhyme with him. ‘I’m going to take it to mean that you’ll wish yourself back to me when you’ve been away. You’ll always come back to me.’

  The party afterwards included most of the village, hotel guests, anyone who happened to pass by, and Byrony, up from London. They ate from a buffet prepared by the hotel chef and just about drank the bar dry. They danced to the music of Beautiful Insight, a local hippy band who specialised in Creedence Clearwater Revival numbers. They planned to honeymoon the following year, taking their children with them. ‘Anywhere but Valencia,’ said Nell. ‘People I don’t want to run into ever again live there. Or Florence. I don’t want a second honeymoon there.’

  They would decide on a honeymoon location later. One day.

  It was just after midnight on the night of their wedding; the newlyweds were outside cooling off. The night was bitterly cold, thick frost on the lawn, a damp chill mist hung in the air. As Nell and Hamish spoke to one another steamy breath burst in small clouds from their lips. Hamish said they’d better get inside soon or they’d catch their deaths out there.

  The front door of the hotel burst open, and Byrony shouted that it was time for the official march past. ‘The ultimate wedding celebration.’

  Half-a-dozen young men burst out into the night and steamed down the drive to the gate. All were naked but for red bow ties. The wedding guests gathered to watch them run, all shouting, ‘Go, Go, Go.’

  Nell said she thought they only did that to celebrate winning at football matches.

  ‘This is just for you, Nell,’ Byrony said. ‘A treat.’

  ‘Oh … And it is,’ said Nell, laughing

  Hamish said he thought it a bit crazy. ‘They’ll catch their death running like that on a night like this. It’s about four below out here.’

  Nell and Byrony looked at one another and smiled.

  ‘He’s not ready for London,’ said Nell.

  Hamish said he never was and never would be. ‘I love living here.’

  He pulled Nell to him and whispered, ‘You know.’ It was something he said to her every day. Nell replied, as she always did, ‘Yes, I know.’

  Bella was born at twenty-past-three on the morning of the third of June in the local hospital. She weighed seven pounds and eight ounces, had a shock of black hair and seemed to look round at the world with a bemused expression. The midwife said she was going to be a dreamer. Oh no, Nell thought, anything but that. But at least I can warn her about the pitfalls.

  Hamish held the child put his lips to her head and said, ‘You know.’

  ‘No,’ said Nell. She was tired and spoke softly. ‘You tell her properly. And say it to her and to all our children every day. They must grow up knowing they are loved. They must have confidence so they can go into the world and do what they please, and be the people they want to be. No drifting into daydreams, no hiding. Go on, Hamish, say the words. Say them out loud.’ And he did.

  He started with Nell.

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  First published in hardback in 2011 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing

  This edition 2011

  A Random House Group Company

  Copyright © Isla Dewar 2011

  Isla Dewar has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  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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