After Cleo (23 page)

We scurried in from the furnace to arrange ourselves around a long cafe table. Rick wondered aloud if it was always this hot in Australia, and ordered a bottle of cooling white wine. Alcohol intensifies its effects in hot weather – a fact some guests seemed aware of. While they sipped juice and mineral water, Ginny and I became shamelessly louder. We anointed ourselves the noisy end of the table. Some things never change.

Tumbling back into the car, we laughed and gabbled the last leg of the journey away.

If ever a town was designed for romance, it must be Daylesford. Sprinkled over volcanic hills and basins, it has a delightfully colonial atmosphere. A history of gold digging and mineral spas add a touch of glitz. Shops, shaded by deep verandahs, specialise in everything from handmade chocolates to alpaca wear.

With its clear country air, Daylesford's pleasures are simple and sensuous. If there isn't a wedding to attend, you can stroll around the lake and have a soak in the hot pools. Good food and wine plentiful. The coffee's passable too.

A large group of us met for dinner that evening at the Farmers Arms. Tables full of happy faces prepared for a boisterous night ahead. Much as I wanted to join them, the words on the menu started dancing in a sickening blur. A rockslide of exhaustion, combined with a reaction to our lunchtime excesses, rumbled in.

These black holes of tiredness were a new thing. I used to be able to dig deep and push through weariness. But this time, when I'd most wanted it, the energy reserves were empty. I simply had to retreat. It was a reminder that major surgery takes more than five months to recover fully from. I made embarrassed excuses and retired to the cottage where I filled the spa bath and watched the hills turn purple, then suddenly indigo.

Next morning, a roll of thunder startled us awake. Dark clouds clustered malevolently around the hills. While the landscape was parched, and local farmers would be praying for rain, I hoped Rob and Chantelle's day wasn't going to be marred by it. I needn't have worried. The clouds quickly evaporated into transparent blue and the thermometer started sprinting upwards.

Sharing the cottage with Ginnie and Rick turned out to be a bonus. Ginnie had packed an array of fashion accessories to solve every imaginable style crisis. When Katharine realised she'd forgotten the belt to her purple dress, Ginnie whipped a black sash from her suitcase and tied it so expertly around Katharine's waist that it looked better than the original.

Rob and Andrew, freshly shaved and nervous, knocked on the cottage door. They needed somewhere to iron their shirts.

My throat went dry as the momentousness of the occasion set in. Nobody
has
to get married any more. When wedding vows were invented, people didn't expect to live much past their thirties. Staying together for a lifetime probably meant only ten or twenty years. Today's couples, even those who marry in their thirties, can realistically hope to celebrate a fiftieth wedding anniversary. To promise fifty years of love and loyalty to one person in today's world is beyond daring.

‘Do you know how to do this?' Rob asked, handing me an ivory rose with its stem encased in green tape, and a long pin.

Attaching a rose to my son's wedding jacket was the last thing he was going to ask of me as a single man. While we'd always be close, I was officially stepping back. It was time for him to carve a future of his own making with Chantelle.

None of the surge of jealousies and insecurities mothers are supposed to experience at times like this surfaced. All I could feel was immense happiness for Rob. For a man in his early thirties, he'd had a lifetime's heartache after losing his older brother. With help from loving friends and family, not to mention Cleo, he'd grown into a fine man. Having recovered from the mire of debilitating illness, he was a successful engineer. More importantly, he had loyal friends – and now love. This day deserved to be celebrated in style.

The only hint of sadness came from Sam's absence. If he'd lived and grown to adulthood, he'd have been in the cottage with us too. Sam the extrovert, the joker, would be revelling in the fun. He'd be ribbing his brother, throwing his head back in laughter and later on giving a toast designed to cause his brother monumental embarrassment. If he'd lived, perhaps by now Sam would have been married with a family of his own – though it was hard to imagine he would have succumbed to conventional patterns.

I thought of my parents, too, and how much they'd loved a party. Dad, his eyes twinkling, would be raiding the fridge. Mum, ravishing in some outfit she'd thrown together for the occasion, would be waving her hands about and enthralling a circle of admirers with an outrageous yarn.

They were all with us anyway, curling around us like shimmering ribbons. They were in our laughter, our mannerisms, our physical features. They'd always be part of us. Narrowing my eyes, I could almost see a small black cat weaving around Rob's ankles. Yes, Cleo was with us, too.

As Lydia, gorgeous in her floral dress and makeup, stepped through the door, she brought some of Mum's glamour. Watching Katharine bounce her freshly tonged curls as she twirled in her purple dress recalled Mum's theatricality.

Wandering past the bathroom and glimpsing Rob adjusting his gold wedding tie in the mirror, I saw Dad's style and sensitivity. Past and present merged in celebration.

Handsome as a prince, Rob planted a damp kiss on my cheek. Our son was too grounded to be aware of his movie star looks. He and Andrew climbed into a car to arrive traditionally early at the chapel.

‘Are we ready?' asked Philip, taking my hand. The girls weren't quite. Even though they were perfect as summer flowers, they needed one more coat of lip gloss each. Tissues, lipsticks and powder compacts were tucked away in evening bags. I checked my waterproof mascara. The cottage door finally clicked shut behind us.

Celebration

Blessings take many forms

A skylark's melody pierced the summer air as Philip, the girls and I climbed a grassy lane to the convent, its domed tower looming over us as we reached its gates. Bees bustled in lavender bushes. Petunias dazzled red and white. The rooftops of Daylesford spread below us, melting into golden fields and blue hills.

Rob and Andrew pulled up in their car seconds after we'd arrived. It would've been quicker for them to walk. Guests waved from an upstairs verandah. They'd arrived early. We weren't the only ones excited about this wedding.

The photographer greeted us and arranged us in family groups. He pretended not to be irked by the enthusiastic amateurs clicking away at his elbow, stealing his shots. His photos were going to turn out better anyway, he said.

I'd wondered how a hundred people were going to fit inside the tiny chapel, but they squeezed in four or five to a plain wooden bench. With bare floorboards and lofty ceilings, it was a simple space. More than a century of prayer had seeped into its honey-coloured walls. A trio of candles glowed at the altar alongside a splurge of ivory roses.

Thank goodness there were no windows apart from the stained glass images above the altar. We were insulated from the heat. With luck our more delicate guests would survive the ceremony.

A pair of guitarists plucked out Cole Porter while the room buzzed with anticipation. Standing at the altar in his well-cut suit, hands behind his back, Rob could've been mistaken for European royalty. His teeth flashed as he exchanged small talk with his best man.

‘I never thought I'd get married,' Lydia whispered, taking a tissue from her evening bag and dabbing her eyes. ‘Or if I did I wouldn't bother with any of this fuss. But weddings are lovely.'

Something inside my ribcage melted. The joy of seeing Rob about to be married was surpassed for a second by the possibility that Lydia hadn't turned her back on finding fulfilment by conventional means. I toyed with an image of her sitting in front of a flat-screen television with a couple of kids and an adoring husband – but that was possibly taking things too far. Choosing furniture with an architect spouse for a flat in Montmartre, maybe? Or sipping prosecco with a devoted doctor of philosophy in an attic in Berlin? Anything was possible.

I'd been continuing to monitor the news in Sri Lanka, of course. Government troops had just captured the northern town of Kilinochchi, held for ten years by the Tamil Tigers as their administrative headquarters. Sri Lanka's president was hailing it as an unparalleled victory and was urging the rebels to surrender.

Frisson rippled through the chapel when the musicians struck up the unmistakable notes of ‘Pachelbel's Canon'. The stately piece that often features trumpets and other ‘serious' instruments sounded more laid back played by a pair of guitars. Everyone knew what it meant. Heads swivelled. Eager glances were made toward the door at the back of the chapel. The door's amber glass radiated a gold halo. There was movement behind the glass. The musicians charged into a second, more vigorous round of ‘Pachelbel's Canon'. Guests fell silent in expectation. The door stayed closed.

The congregation became restless as the temperature edged up from pleasantly warm to stifling. Even Rob, his back to us, started twitching his left leg. Had the bride discovered some awful damage to her gown inflicted by our renegade cat?

Another
round of ‘Pachelbel's Canon' started up, the notes wavering in confidence. The guests started whispering, then chattering among themselves. They'd almost given up hope the modern-day wedding march was going to produce anything. And if the bride
was
going to appear it would surely be at the start of yet another round of . . .

The door glided open. A dark-haired bridesmaid dressed in scarlet strode forward, her lips as red as her dress. Her legs, tanned and athletic, paced toward the altar. She was a ravishing young woman, but all eyes were on the vision several metres behind her.

We drew a single breath as Chantelle drifted past on her father's arm. The gown Jonah had been so fascinated by shimmered pink and peach on her lovely body. Pearls and crystals on the gown's bodice glistened in the soft light. It was as though the gown had been specially designed for this chapel. With her hair swept up and adorned by a single rose, she was perfection.

Unable to wait any longer, Rob turned to admire his bride. His smile trampolined off the walls as Chantelle's blue eyes beamed back at him. No sonnet could've done justice to that moment – an electric nanosecond, gone in a flash but eternal as the sun. Everyone in the room felt the chemistry between the couple.

My vision blurred. Whoever invented waterproof mascara was a genius. The paper tissue guy runs a close second. Gallons of fluid must have leaked out of my eyes over the years. This time they were tears of happiness.

After the ceremony, guests poured into the reception area and found their seats. Doors were flung open on to the terrace. The warm evening breeze was gentle as a kiss. Food, champagne and laughter were followed by more food, champagne and laughter. And the speeches.

While I'd known Andrew, the best man, since he was about fourteen, he'd seldom said more than two sentences to me. He seemed such a reserved character, I'd wondered how he'd handle best man status. But when Andrew rose to give the traditional toast, he became Seinfeld of the Southern Hemisphere.

Andrew enlightened us about a few things Rob would've preferred kept secret – including the illegal removal of a neon strip light from a gentlemen's convenience. Chantelle's brother gave a speech on behalf of her family. Philip stood and said a few words, followed by Steve.

With the speeches over, people lifted their forks and spoons to dig into their desserts, but Chantelle's uncle, who was MC, called a halt. There was to be one more speech, he said.

We examined the room curiously to see who the unexpected orator was. A chair was scraped back and Lydia stepped forward as gracefully as her unaccustomed heels would allow.

Smiling at us all, Lydia announced she didn't want to make a speech so much as give a blessing. It would be a chant to invite celestial beings to take part in the celebration, and to share our happiness with those who had departed. Guests fell silent as the unfamiliar language rolled over them. It was the same sing-songy chanting I'd heard in hospital.

As it died away and Lydia returned to her seat, there was a pause while people wondered what to do next. My cheeks turned hot with embarrassment. Chanting in private was one thing. If she'd asked me beforehand, I'd have said inflicting it on a group of revellers was inappropriate. Fortunately, the musicians took charge. Joined by a drummer, they morphed into a dance band. The new Mr and Mrs Brown, who'd rejected the idea of a bridal waltz, invited everyone to join them on the floor.

Fuelled by champagne and romance, couples surrendered to impulse. A silver-haired pair circled cautiously, creeping like crabs in a half-remembered quickstep. The bridesmaid crossed the room and took the hand of a teenage boy. His embarrassment was quickly surpassed by delight at being chosen by the second most beautiful woman in the room.

Self-consciousness melted away as teenagers shimmied, and strangers asked each other to dance. Looking around, I realised almost every living person we loved was there in one room, dancing, kissing . . . and, oh no, the bride grabbed me, turned around and slapped my hands on either side of her waist – forming a conga line! A pair of hands grabbed my waist from behind. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Lydia beaming back at me. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her dance.

I thought conga lines belonged to 1950s movies. But as more and more people joined the human snake, all of us stamping and swaying to the same rhythm, a primal sense of belonging took over. Any separateness we'd felt as individuals evaporated. On this night, for this incredibly joyous occasion, we were one pulsating creature, a tribe. I never wanted the conga line to end.

After the cake was cut and feet turned numb, people retreated to a bar downstairs. Reclining in a bean bag, I was joined by a relative who's a devout Catholic and just the sort of person to be offended by our non-conformist occasion.