by Kerrie Noor
The councilor, with a glare at the two youths, muttered, “This is why budget cuts should be kept top secret . . .”
“Cuts?” said the reporter.
“Did I say ‘cuts’? I don’t think I did . . .” The councilor attempted a smile.
“You did,” said the journalist.
“Give her one,” shouted one hooded youth; the other shoved him over.
The councilor’s smile dropped as he threw another glare at the youths, who were now in a playful tussle.
“Ma’am, I think you have the . . . err . . . wrong end of the stick.”
“Wrong end of the stick? There is no wrong end of the stick, just money being spent on carpets while libraries are being shut willy-nilly . . .”
“I never mentioned willies . . .”
The two youths fell about laughing.
“Now you’re suggesting it should be top secret?” said the journalist.
“You’re taking everything out of context,” snapped the councilor.
“That literature should be monitored by the MFI?” said the reporter.
“I think you mean MI5,” muttered the councilor.
“Shag piles are for wankers,” shouted the youths.
The news desk flashed onto the screen, and as the newsreader began a joke about how “no furniture was hurt in the making of this news,” Mum flicked off the TV mid punchline and turned to us.
“Do you think George was watching?”
Helen’s phone pinged. “Well, Henry certainly was,” said Helen. “He’s been on the phone to Amy . . . according to her, he’s super pissed.”
“So what?” said Steven.
“Yeah, so what?” said Mum.
Helen answered her phone; the noise of a pub blasted her ear as Henry began to shout. “Now she’s on bloody TV!”
We all heard.
Helen asked Henry if he had been drinking.
“I’m having a wee beer in Argyll’s most famous pub.”
“He’s in the Comm,” muttered Helen.
“Just a quiet pint,” said Henry, “celebrating my daughter’s impending wedding—”
A few cheers from the bar.
“—and she appears on the TV.”
A few more cheers.
“I said to Brian here, if that woman can get on the TV—”
“She wasn’t exactly on the TV,” said Helen.
“—then my daughter’s wedding can get on that YouTube what’s-it-thing, and—”
“You tell ’em, Henry!”
“Amy on YouTube?” muttered Mum. “She’d rather have a hot poker up her what’s-it-thing.”
“—and . . . I have an idea that will give her more hits than Prince Harry’s Haka.”
Helen looked at me.
“It’s a rugby thing,” muttered Mum.
“That’s right, more hits than Harry Whatshisface,” yelled Henry.
“Good enough for Prince Harry . . .”
“Aye, good enough for royalty . . .”
“Jesus,” muttered Steven. “How many has he had?”
Henry laughed. “Don’t you worry. I said to Amy, ‘It’s all in hand.’”
“You tell ’em . . .”
“I’ve an idea that will knock the friggin’ socks off this town,” said Henry.
“Yeah, Henry!”
“Amy doesn’t want any socks knocked off,” said Helen.
More cheering from the pub.
“And neither does Gary.”
“Nothing but the best for our daughter,” said Henry to a chorus of applause and hung up.
Steven told her to ignore it. “What can he do now? The wedding’s tomorrow, and he’ll be hungover—hopefully.”
Mum threw me a look. “Exactly.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Dinner
There is more to support than a good bra.
It was Henry’s idea for Amy and Gary to do a special dance for the wedding, despite the fact that neither were dancers.
Gary’s ability to dance was on par with Steven’s ability to wrestle . . . and Amy’s wasn’t much better. They were more comfortable walking up a hill or fishing than dancing. In fact, the whole wedding thing was way out of Amy’s “comfort zone,” as she put it, and the last thing she felt like doing was trying to tango in a tight white dress in front of Gary’s family.
Gary didn’t say anything. He had no idea what a tango was; he thought it was a drink and said as much in the Loch Fyne Hotel, where Henry had brought up the whole “special dance” idea months ago.
It was the first time Helen had met Gary’s parents, Edna and Ted. The date for Amy and Gary’s wedding had been set, and they all decided to meet, celebrate, and “chew over a few wedding ideas.”
Helen, still recovering from her parking attendant debacle, asked Steven and I to join.
To be honest, I’d rather have my wrist burnt with a hot poker than go through wedding talk. Steven, however, wanted to support his sister . . .
“So,” said Henry, polishing off the last of his smoked salmon, “what song are you going to dance to?” He smiled at his daughter. “Or is that a secret?”
“Dance?” said Gary. He looked at Amy.
“We weren’t,” said Amy, returning Gary’s panicked look.
“But the couple always has the first dance,” said Edna.
“Exactly,” said Henry.
“Everyone will be expecting it,” said Edna.
“Everyone?” said Helen.
“Of course,” said Edna. “It’s a given.”
“I hate dancing,” muttered Gary.
Edna patted her now-depressed-looking son’s hand. “All’s you need is a simple waltz.” She gestured to Ted. “If Bozo the Clown over there can, anyone can.”
Ted stopped. “If I had a drink for every time you said that, I’d be an alcoholic.”
“Waltz?” said Henry. “I was thinking something with a kick to it: salsa, tango, Zumba . . .”
Helen and I looked at each other. Was he mad?
Henry pulled out his iPhone and began to flick through YouTube with a “what about this?” to Ted.
“Very Hollywood,” muttered Ted.
“It’s their wedding,” said Helen.
“Exactly,” muttered Henry, absorbed.
“Waltz is fine—teachable,” said Edna.
“So why are you choosing the song?” said Helen.
Amy, glancing at Henry’s phone, flashed a look of horror at her mum.
“We don’t want anything big, just something small, casual.”
“Small, casual? Not for my daughter—my daughter should have something amazing, earth-shattering.” He ruffled his daughter’s hair. “Nothing but the best for my daughter,” he said.
“Still think a waltz would be easier,” muttered Edna. “Or perhaps a mild salsa at a push.”
“But he’s no dancer,” said Ted, gesturing with his knife.
“Don’t point,” snapped Edna.
“I’ll point if I want to,” snapped Ted, “I’m paying for this stuff . . .” Ted pushed at his untouched garnish.
Edna threw him a shut it look.
“Better off at the chippie,” muttered Ted, “least I’d be full.”
“If they want something small, what’s wrong with that?” said Steven. “Why spend money on something you don’t want?”
“Our wedding was a nightmare to pay off,” said Ted. “And I was still hungry afterwards.”
“Yes, but it was worth it,” snapped Edna.
“Worth it? All that money for a photo album?”
“Well, I for one was glad. One of the few chances I got to dress up.”
“I could have built a hotel for that price,” muttered Ted.
Edna threw him a look. “What the hell would you do with a hotel?”
“Sell proper food for a start,” said Ted with a disgruntled push of his plate.
Amy looked at her father. She patted his hand and told him how much she appreciated his help, “but really
, all we want is something small, cozy, just a few friends—couple of tables, a few laughs, nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” said Henry. “I was thinking the presidential suite at the Columba for you.”
Amy gaped at her father. “That’s huge, takes hundreds.” She looked at Gary. “Do we know that many people?”
“Do they really need a big wedding?” said Helen. “I mean, it’s not everyone idea of fun, is it?”
“Fun? What’s fun got to do with marriage?” said Ted.
“You’re just being ridiculous,” snapped Edna. “Here, have my drink and shut up.”
“We never had much for our wedding,” said Helen.
“Neither did we,” said Steven.
“Exactly,” said Henry.
“We were married in a portacabin,” said Helen.
“On the beach,” said Steven.
“Sounds like heaven,” muttered Ted.
“Exactly,” said Henry.
“Followed by scampi and chips,” muttered Helen.
“What I wouldn’t give for some scampi now,” snapped Ted, emptying his glass.
Steven looked at me questioningly.
“Chocolate cake,” I said. “You made it.”
Steven’s face lit up. “Yes . . . delicious.”
“No scampi for my daughter, or”—Henry glanced at me—“chocolate cake. My daughter deserves the real thing.”
“What are you saying? My chocolate cake was plastic?” said Steven.
“I like that sound of that,” said Gary. “Chocolate cake, sand between your toes—no dancing.”
“I liked our wedding,” muttered Helen, “it was just afterwards . . .”
Henry, not listening, expanded on his ideas for a wedding, and no amount of “but Dad” daunted him. He knew Amy’s favorite colors, Gary’s favorite foods, and just about every hotel in the area; even I was impressed.
Edna certainly was.
“Wonderful . . . splendid,” she muttered as the puddings arrived, while Ted, glumly staring at his “deconstructed” trifle, moaned about the lack of cream.
“At least I’m not paying for the shindig,” he muttered, which everyone chose to ignore.
Gary, in silence, sipped his water. I could see him adding up the cost of Henry’s suggestions.
“It sounds so expensive,” said Amy. “We can’t afford anything so . . . extravagant.”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m paying,” said Henry.
“What?” Elma dropped her fork.
“No,” said Steven.
“You can’t,” said Amy.
“Seriously?” muttered Gary.
“Let me get you a drink,” said Ted.
Helen threw me a fucking hell look.
“It’s not often your only child gets married,” exclaimed Henry, pushing the lunch bill towards Ted . . .
Several meetings, phone calls, and texts later, Gary, a Dolly Parton fan, agreed to dance to “Island in the Stream”—bribing the best men and bridesmaids to join in “at the first chorus,” even agreeing to a few dancing lessons . . .
And Henry had almost come to terms with it all, until, that is, Mum appeared on Scottish TV . . . and he, with only a photo in the local paper, was cheesed off.
For some reason, it sparked in Henry a ruthless competitiveness not seen by many, except Helen. The father of the bride wanted more: something worthy of YouTube.
Dolly Parton, it seemed, was “old hat.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Dance
A newly married couple’s first dance is more eye contact than technique.
On the morning of the wedding, we raced around with hair dryers and irons while Mum watched. Helen was a bundle of nerves, dropping mugs of coffee and snapping at Mum for getting in the way.
Steven tried to calm her down with many “what the hell can Henry do now?” comments, and finally after a large whisky, she stopped swearing and headed over to help her daughter.
The wedding reception was not far from Lochgilphead, right by the canal at the Cairnbaan Hotel.
We met Helen outside the church. I was in my blue suit; Steven, looking handsome in a kilt, was clutching Baby Bea, also in blue, while Helen was wearing an orange lace dress with a navy blue jacket and an impressive “catch any breeze” hat, along with shoes that required half a bottle of whisky to balance in.
It was the sort of outfit that would never see the light of day again and the sort of hat that was so large it doubled up as a very colorful umbrella.
It took Helen about an hour of shopping before she had given up and allowed Mum to take over who ordered, online, the sort of clothes that someone in a wheelchair would have no problems wearing, and someone who never wore heels, let alone a hat would require a decent amount of anything alcoholic to feel comfortable in.
“You can’t go wrong with lace and velvet,” said Mum and Helen ended up looking as she did: nothing like her usual hardworking self, and stunning.
I wanted to hug her, tell her she looked fantastic; instead, Steven handed me Baby Bea and did it, and he was still doing it when Amy arrived.
Henry, looking surprising fresh in a kilt and superbly long sporran, walked Amy down the aisle while Helen sat next to her brother, muttering “codpiece” under her breath until she saw her daughter’s glowing face . . . and then she stopped as a tear filled her eye.
The wedding service had been a traditional and yet delicious affair, which went, according to Gary, “as smooth as a baby’s bum.”
The photos took forever, the meal went down without a hitch, and the speeches . . . well, what can I say?
Henry stood to cheering on par with a football pitch, recognized as “he who saved the storyteller.” He basked in the moment, milking the applause without mentioning Helen once.
Amy didn’t clap; neither did Gary.
“Nothing but the best for my daughter,” he finally toasted as the waiter topped up our drinks.
People began to look expectantly at the stage. Henry had promised something special in his speech, which had the rest of the wedding party a little on edge, apart from Helen; she was looking as comfortable as she did working on a roof (her favorite place to relax).
She and Henry were getting on like a house on fire, at times looking like a happily married couple.
Henry had been plying her with drinks.
“It’s all good,” said Helen, pulling up a seat. She slipped off her hat as we watched Henry work the room. He caught Helen’s eye and winked.
Helen chuckled.
“What’s up with him?” I said.
“God knows,” tutted Steven.
“You and me,” Henry mouthed to Helen, “so proud of our daughter,” then sent another drink Helen’s way.
Helen nodded with a smile.
“It seems the ‘knock their socks off’ comment was just a drunken promise,” she sighed with long sip of her drink.
Henry waved at her; she waved back.
“Just the dances now,” muttered Helen.
Helen followed me to the ladies’ looking the happiest I seen her in ages. It was empty apart from a buxom-looking woman applying lipstick with two-bottles-of-Prosecco precision.
Helen looked at herself in the mirror. “I’m beginning to wonder about heels and hats. Do you think it would have made a difference?” she said.
“Difference to what?” I said.
“Our marriage,” she said. “Perhaps if I had made an effort, dressed up more?”
I threw her a you are joking look.
“I mean, we did have a daughter together,” said Helen.
“It’s the wedding,” said Ms Buxom with a smack of her lips. “Always brings exes together.”
“Aye,” said a voice from the toilet.
“Together?” muttered Helen.
Ms Buxom eyed Helen. “That Henry—he is your ex, I take it?”
“Well, yes,” said Helen.
Ms Buxom pulled a face. “Arsehole of a speech.�
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“Totally,” yelled the voice from the toilet.
“It’s supposed to be about your daughter, not him,” said Ms Buxom.
“That’s what I said,” said the voice from the toilet.
Helen looked confused.
Ms Buxom pulled out a mascara. “Take it from me,” she said.
“Aye, take it from her,” said the voice over the flush of the toilet. “She’s an expert.”
Ms Buxom threw a glare at the toilet door.
The toilet door clicked open and a blonde appeared. She flashed a smile at Helen and me, staggered to the washbasin, and gestured to Ms Buxom. “She went weak at the knees when she saw her ex at a wedding.”
The Blonde thrust her hands under the tap. “Next thing she’s in the back of his car, heels in the air like a sixteen-year-old giving birth.”
“They don’t want to hear about that,” snapped Ms Buxom.
“Totally smitten,” said the Blonde with a flick of the paper towel.
“Aye, all right,” said Ms Buxom.
“One glass of Prosecco,” said the Blonde, slapping lipstick on like sun cream, “and she’s a friggin’ horse to be ridden.”
“I told you, it was more than a glass, and it was just the once, all right?” said Ms Buxom.
“All he had to do was crook his finger . . .” The londe laughed with a smack of her lips.
“Yes . . . well . . . we all make mistakes,” said Ms Buxom, wrenching the lipstick from the Blonde’s hand.
The Blonde skidded.
Ms Buxom steadied her friend and with a “mind” and marched her to the door; she glanced back at Helen.
“The trick is not to make the same mistake,” she said.
“Same mistake?” laughed the Blonde. “Who are you kidding? You can’t stop making the same mistake.”
Ms Buxom pushed her out the door.
“Who was that?” I said.
“No idea,” said Helen, “but there’s no way I’m ending up in the back of Henry’s sport car; putting the seat belt on in that thing is hard enough, let alone any tongue gymnastics.”
We headed back to Steven at the table. The bar was full, and right at the front were Ms Buxom and the Blonde cracking jokes with Henry—he was buying the drinks.