Stranger at the Wedding

by Jack G. Hills

  Donald was just about to fill his mouth with a forkful of pie and chips but instead asked the obvious question.

  “What happened?” He enquired before shovelling the food into his mouth and waiting expectantly for the answer.

  “The girls were inseparable. You couldn’t tell them apart you know, no one could, not even their parents. Samantha was the angel though, good and kind, she always went out of her way to talk to you, always laughing and giggling, whilst the other… Christ she had a devilment inside her. Everyone could see it, everyone that is except Samantha, if she heard people talking about her sister, she’d stick up for her and defend the little monster to her last breath but that was typical of her…always thinking of others before herself. There was never any proof you know but we all knew it…”

  “Knew what?” Donald asked exasperatedly with his mouth full. He didn’t know if the landlord was purposely being so annoying for effect or whether he was just like some old windup toy that might get stuck and would need a prod or a push to get it started again.

  “Oh it was particularly sick. Old Mrs Jones’s cat, which she’d had for years and was the love of her sad life was found nailed to the door of the church. It’s only a rumour but word was that it had been tortured first then nailed to the door and then left to die.”

  “And what had that got to do with Samantha and her sister?” Donald stopped eating and pushed the plate away. The thought of some poor moggy dying like that had put him right of his steak pie.

  “Well as I say it was only hearsay but the day before the sister had been caught by Mrs Jones taunting her cat and throwing stones at it, well she’d reported the girl to the vicar and asked him if he couldn’t have a word with the mother, which he did and that got the girl a good beating from her father. The next day the vicar found the dead cat… As I say there was no proof but everyone knew who the perpetrator was.”

  “So what was the accident?” Donald finished off his beer and asked for another pint. Gossiping, as Mrs Trubshaw had proved, was thirsty business.

  “Ah that, yes that’s when everything changed… they’d grown up by then, the two girls. Oh they were still inseparable and Samantha was still covering up and making excuses for the excesses of her sister but life had calmed down and we all sort of rubbed along together… I mean you have to in a small village like ours don’t you… anyway it was during the great storm some years back, it had been raining for days and the river which cuts through the middle of the village was higher than I can ever remember it being but what took your breath away was the force of it. It was as if the Great Flood had been sent to purge the village.

  The twin’s father was here having s drink when his wife burst into the bar in a right old state, crying and screaming, saying that the devil child had run away and that Samantha had run after her. Well you’ve got to remember it wasn’t fit to turn the cat out, let alone have two girls running around the countryside, so the father he makes his wife stay here and have a brandy whilst he goes to look for the girls… then the next thing we know is that Samantha is stumbling in through the door there saying she couldn’t help them and that her sister and father had both been washed off the bridge and had disappeared into the maelstrom created by the flooded river.” The landlord stopped talking and filled his glass from the whisky optic and then downed the spirit in one well-practised movement.

  “Did you find them?” Donald asked in disbelief.

  “Aye we found them three days later, about ten miles down the coast. Neither the police nor the pathologist could say how it had happened but it was as if in death they’d found a love that in life they’d never had as a father and daughter. Well it ruined the mother, she was a complete wreck after that and never really recovered. As for Samantha, she was so traumatised by the whole affair that she sort of lost her mind… not in a mad way mind you, but more so that she couldn’t remember anything. In the end I think the doctors sent her off to some institute to see if they could help… been in one ever since, if I’m not mistaken.”

  The news didn’t make Donald feel any better about the way he’d treated his friend but at least he knew now why she’d been sent to the Ambleside and if he ever met her again, Donald promised himself that he would put right the wrong he’d done her. Over another pint he decided that it might well be best if he didn’t trouble Samantha’s mother with a visit, perhaps bringing up the past might not help her, especially if she’d started to recover from such a shocking loss.

  “I’m amazed that Samantha didn’t tell me she had an identical twin sister.” Donald restarted his conversation with the landlord, who’d been busy taking the bottles of spirits from the glass shelve behind the bar to wipe the dust off them. “Apart from Samantha being the most angelic of the pair, wasn’t there any other way to tell them apart?”

  “Not physically no. I think the only difference was that Samantha couldn’t eat sweets owing to the fact that she had been born with diabetes. It was sad really because if any little girl deserved sweets as a treat it was her… you know I remember her sister used to taunt her continuously with anything sugary. It’s how you spotted which girl was which… all you had to do was offer them a wine gum or a bar of chocolate and whilst Samantha always politely smiled and refuse, the devil child would snatched it out of your hand and run off laughing. Yes it was sad to see but I don’t think I ever saw her take a sweet or a chocolate or a sticky bun, which is just as well because if she had, she would’ve collapsed and possibly died, according to the old doctor.”

  Donald stopped drinking and carefully replaced the pint glass on the bar. If ever there was a time when he needed his memory to be clear, it was now. But like an old friend, just when he needed its help, it deserted him, and the more he tried to remember the worse it became until in the end he abandoned his efforts and took another drink of his beer.

  “What was Samantha’s sister was called?” He asked the landlord.

  “Her sister? Oh I don’t know about that.” The licensee replied, as he checked to see if anyone was listening. “It’s just that we don’t mention her name round here anymore… you know it’s sort of bad luck to speak ill of the dead. Call it a local superstition, but it’s one we don’t like to break round these parts.”

  “Obviously, but what’s her name… you know, when you are talking ill of her?” Donald asked angrily.

  “Well I’m sure there’s no need for that, I was only trying to help. She was called Tabatha… Samantha and Tabatha… now if that’s all I can’t stand around here listening to you go on.”

  After a somewhat restless night, when all Donald could think about was Samantha and her dead sister Tabatha, he caught the first train up to Edinburgh and then the first train north to Inverness.

  During the three and a half hour journey up through the highlands, the thought of Samantha seeing her sister and father drown in such terrible circumstances, and then having to bear the guilt of that evening, weighed heavily on Donald’s mind. She’d gone through all that and he’d left her alone… but worse he’d not even known about her sister or the fact that she was a twin, so what sort of friend did that make him… an uncaring, selfish one, who had thought of no one but himself.

  As the countryside rolled by and the gentle slopes turned into the more rugged highlands and mountains and the large towns were replaced by small hamlets and villages, Donald turned his mind to Martha and with each mile travelled, he pushed all thoughts of Samantha and her sister into the darker recesses of his memory.

  He’d only had the one card from Martha, but it had given him the hope that his sudden appearance wouldn’t be rebuffed and he wouldn’t have the door slammed in his face. He’d confronted his own demons and he knew that his love for Martha had grown stronger because of that.

  Now there was nothing left to stand in the way of their happiness.

  The bus ride up to Cromarty took almost as long as the train journey had from Edinburgh but as he stepped from the coach in the centre of the town, he tho
ught little had changed since he’d last been there. Standing silently in a cloud of black diesel fumes, Donald waited for the smoky beast to disappear out of the town square before he took another step.

  It felt eerie being back, as if time had stood still and everyone had moved away. The moment of his return was special and he knew when he moved it would be over, the spell would be broken and he would never feel that way again… but that’s when he realised that he didn’t want it to return.

  As Mrs Trubshaw had so eloquently put it… the wheel of his life had turned full circle, now he was home for good.

  He stepped off the pavement and as if he’d been caught by some sort of time-bubble, the town suddenly seemed to burst into life. A group of giggling girls walked round the corner and went into the shop causing the doorbell to clang just as loud as any church bell on a Sunday morning. Outside the pub, a group of men exchanged a friendly greeting, as others went inside for a drink, whilst a couple went home to their loved ones. The seagulls that had been so quiet upon his arrival now greeted him with a chorus of raucous chants that followed him all the way up the high street, until finally he could see the Monroe house.

  Even from a distance, he could see that Martha had been busy, the front windows and door appeared to have been freshly painted and the small front garden, which he’d never manage to touch had a neatly trimmed box hedge and bright shiny black railings. It seemed too perfect to touch or disturb in any way, so Donald thought he’d approach the house from the back garden and maintain the element of surprise for as long as he could.

  The narrow slipway that ran down the side of the house was exactly as he remembered it… still full of sand blown up from the beach and running down its centre was the gully. It had obviously been raining over the past couple of days, he noted with a sense of normality, as the rainwater was still trickling from the downpipes and the gully, which ran all the way down to the beach and was wet and clogged with damp sand.

  At the beach, Donald stood for a moment and took in a deep breath. He’d not tasted such salty and invigorating air since he’d left… oh the other places all had something to offer, but as he looked across the shoreline towards the sea, he couldn’t help but think that this must be the best sight in the entire world and the smell… it was simply heavenly. Surely paradise he thought, couldn’t smell any better and as a few speckles of salty sand hit his mouth and he licked his lips, he knew he’d found his home… it was as if the sea and the enveloping coast had always been his home.

  The six or seven seals that were spread lazily out on the sandy shore, nonchalantly lifted their heads from the beach and stared across the sand towards where Donald was walking noisily through the line of seaweed and jetsam that had formed a high-tide mark along the otherwise pristine beach. As if waving a welcome to him, they rolled onto their sides and raised a flipper in acknowledgement of his approach and like any prodigal son he returned their greeting with a wave of his own.

  To his left were the upturned wooden hulls of four small skiffs. Looking like so many turtles hunkering down in the sand, they sat motionless waiting for their owners to reappear and flip them right side up before sliding them, like skates on ice, across the sand and out into the Firth, where for pleasure and sometimes profit, Donald had seen them many times silently and effortlessly gliding over the water. All resistance to their movement seemingly futile, as the oars dipped and cut into the water beneath them.

  Donald’s senses absorbed the sights and the sounds… the seagulls calling out, the water breaking effortlessly upon the beach, the gentle breeze wafting across the sand picking up anything that it could find and all the while, the aroma of the sea assaulted his olfactory membranes. Momentarily he thought there was something missing, but as he closed his eyes and looked towards the heavens, he knew there was nothing else. At that moment Donald understood that he had everything any man could possible want. Whether he was or wasn’t Tom Cox… that man had died along with his wife at the wedding. His name was Donald… suddenly his eyes, which he’d closed to savour the moment, snapped open as the realisation slapped his face like a cold northerly blast that had just flown all the way from the Arctic. It had never occurred to him before because it hadn’t been important, but now… now it would be very important.

  If he was going to live in the town and marry Martha… he needed a surname. Donald Who would no longer be a fitting name for a marriage vow.

  Revived by the thought but a little bemused by what his new name should be, he walked head down, through the dry sand back towards the garden, where he’d spent some of the happiest times of what life he could remember. Almost too late and just a stride from the garden’s entrance he saw the new gate with its carved motif of seals. At first he wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or a little bit hurt. He’d been going to replace the old gate for so long and never had and now it seemed someone else had beaten him to it. But worse was the thought that in his absence, Martha had employed a skilled woodcarver or artisan to work alongside her and that thought brought out in him an emotion that was all but alien to him… he was unashamedly jealous.

  Pushing open the gate, his fingers traced the fine outlines of the seals and the surrounding wood and his mind was suddenly wracked with doubt and dread… what if Martha really had found someone else, what if the artisan had wheedled his way into her affections, what if the letters were just a cruel joke. He wouldn’t, couldn’t blame her of course, he’d been away too long and she was so beautiful… there must have been a queue of men just waiting for the opportunity to seek out her affections.

  As his heart sank and he crept into the garden, it was obvious that the changes weren’t merely architectural. The garden was neater than he’d remembered it to be and it was certainly bursting with more vegetables and flowers. Martha he thought, had been modest in her letters, when she’d described how little she’d managed to achieve.

  Walking around the neat beds of flowers and rows of green vegetables, his mood began to lift and brighten as he realised that nothing had really changed. The plants might have been newly planted but the layout of the garden and the plots was exactly as they planned before he’d left. The planting and the rotations of the beds matched his plans in every way. This wasn’t the work of someone who wanted to forget him or of someone new, this was their garden and it only served to encourage his feeling that he’d come home.

  From somewhere nearby, the robin’s sweet call banished the last of his insecurities and looking round he spotted the small bird darting over the soil, as it looked for grubs and worms. Striking lucky it picked up a small yellow larva and flew up into its perch in one of the apple trees, where it voraciously devoured the wriggling insect. Donald smiled at the welcoming sight and considered for a fleeting moment whether he should adopt the name Donald Robin but it sounded too flighty to be taken seriously and not Scottish enough for Dr Monroe’s liking… and he so wanted to impress Martha’s father with how serious he was about his daughter, living there and making a home in the town.

  The back door was slightly ajar when he reached the house. He’d not spent as much time as he would have liked looking round the garden but the rest could wait until after he’d announced his arrival home. Of course seeing an open door didn’t always mean that there would be someone at home or that there would be a welcome waiting… for in Cromarty it was still common practice to leave doors unlocked and windows open. But what it did mean was that there would be no creaking back door hinges, to give his surprise homecoming away.

  Inside, the kitchen was empty although it gave all the appearance of being occupied. The sink was full of murky, flat water, which surprisingly for the Monroe house, concealed a plethora of dirty dishes and cutlery. On the kitchen table, a lone piece of wholemeal toast, lay on a plate and with it an open jar of marmalade. Complementing the whole scene and looking like a still life painting was the cup of black tea, sitting cold and abandoned.

  Suddenly the excitement of coming home disappeared and was r
eplaced by the heart-stopping dread that something terrible had happened. He wanted to cry out, to scream for help but he knew that shouting out would help no one and certainly not Martha. With his ears pricked up like an attentive guard dog, he slowly and silently made his way towards the hall. With each cautious step he expected a door to fly open and someone to spring out of hiding shouting “SURPRISE!”

  Maybe they’d got wind of his homecoming and had prepared some grand gesture of welcome. But he didn’t think that likely, as he’d told no one of his plans and the house felt cold and unwelcoming… it was as though it was trying to warn him to turn tail and run.

  Surprisingly, the hall door didn’t creak or groan as he remembered it once did and for the second time since he’d arrived home the green eyed monster raised its ugly head and filled him full of jealous doubts. But such thoughts of infidelity belonged in the box marked Rachel Cox, not Martha Monroe… he knew she was better than that. So with a quick shake of his head, he once more banished all the nagging doubts.

  Stood at the bottom of the stairs, Donald glanced up to the top landing and strained his ears for any sign of life. He wasn’t sure if he expected to hear the scampering sounds of mice or the booming footsteps of a pair of size ten boots. But whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t the sound of the faint, muffled voices that emanated from the living room.