Going Home (31 page)

Despite all the palaver, weddings don’t vary that much in the essential details, do they? A group of people gathers at a church or somewhere similarly picturesque. They watch their friend/relative/enemy/colleague/secret lover get married. They drink champagne. They eat. The cake is cut. The speeches are made. People circulate. They get drunk. They dance until the wedding is over. Within that framework there are different kinds of flowers, bridesmaids’ dresses, waist-coats, speeches, food, photos, music and snogs. But it’s like there’s a Venn diagram of about six basic weddings and all of them overlap at certain points. For the person attending the wedding there is only one point at which they all meet: it’s much better to go with someone than to go alone.

Chin’s wedding was Wedding Variation Number Four: Notting Hill Boho Relaxed Shabby Chic (but God forbid that any of the Portaloos don’t have Cologne and Cotton hand-towels and Molton Brown liquid soap). I was going to wear a dress I’d bought in an amazing shop in Bloomsbury. It was 1930s, soft apple-green silk, empire line, with a chocolate brown trim, and a plunging neckline, which, with the empire line, hoicked my boobs up to my neck. I was pleased
with the result: it made me look like Simone Caldwell. I had some chocolate brown suede kitten heels and a matching wrap. Early in the morning I had my hair blow-dried in the beauty salon at the Oak Grange while Miles was in his bath, singing James Brown at the top of his voice.

I didn’t want to talk about the previous night. So I didn’t. And I was glad when I went back to our room to get my bag and make sure Miles was ready. He was standing in the middle of the room, fiddling with his buttonhole, trying to pin it on. ‘It’s weird that I’m an usher and you don’t have anything to do when she’s your flipping aunt,’ he said, swearing as the safety-pin pricked his thumb.

‘I’ll do it,’ I said, putting my bag and wrap on the bed and going over to him.

‘Hello,’ he said, kissing me. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘So do you.’

‘Let’s not make a big deal of this, Lizzy,’ he said.

‘It’s done now,’ I said, having pinned the rose into place. ‘All fine.’

‘I meant last night.’

‘Oh,’ I said, and took a step back. ‘Forget it.’

‘Yes, let’s,’ said Miles, easily. ‘I was drunk, I was a wanker. It was nothing. I don’t want it to ruin today, OK?’

‘Right,’ I said lightly. I wanted to say something more, but I didn’t know what. ‘Let’s go then.’

‘Great,’ said Miles. ‘You really do look beautiful.’

He picked up my overnight bag as I checked myself in the mirror. Suddenly I knew what I wanted to say. But it was too late then, and we left the room.

Miles dropped me off at Keeper House fairly early. It was only ten o’clock and already obvious that it was going to be yet another hot day. It was a record-breaker for May, according to the news that morning. The sky was almost
white, and the mulberry tree in the courtyard was totally still. He had wanted to come in to help, but I wasn’t sure of the status quo. Too many cooks spoil the broth? Or many hands make light work? Whichever, I didn’t want to risk exposing Miles to the ugly atmosphere of yesterday, especially with the added factor of bridal Chin. And I wanted to be on my own for a little while.

I’d forgotten my keys, so I had to ring the doorbell. I felt like a visitor, standing on the doorstep, and I realized my night away had given me a sense of perspective. As I gazed up at the front of the house, so peaceful and golden in the morning sun, I couldn’t believe it was only yesterday that Dad had been standing in his best suit in the kitchen, prepared to sign it all away. It was a miracle. It made all the arguments, the petty family issues and crises, seem irrelevant. None of it mattered.

There was a long silence, so I rang again, and eventually I heard Mike’s muffled voice coming towards the door. ‘It’s Lizzy,’ I heard someone else say – Mum, I think.

The door swung open, and there was Mike, in a crumpled old morning suit, with a piece of toast in his mouth, and next to him, David.

I felt cold, standing on the doorstep in the bright sunshine. My hands and feet had turned to water, and my stomach churned. I leaned against the doorframe for support, and stared up at him. Then I pulled myself together. ‘Hello,’ I said, stepping over the threshold.

‘Morning, Titch,’ Mike exclaimed. He kissed my cheek. ‘Well, we’re all very grown-up here, aren’t we? David – Lizzy. Lizzy, this is my friend David. I believe you two know each other.’

‘Hello, Lizzy,’ said David, shaking my hand mock-formally.

Thank God Miles hadn’t come in. Now I was inside, I
realized how lovely it was to see David. It was the first time since I’d put the phone down on him. And since I’d started going out with Miles. But it was fine. Because of the water being all under the bridge. I smiled back at him, until I realized he was directing his warmth towards Mike, and not me. His hand was cold, heavy in mine, and he didn’t even meet my eyes as I stared at him. I couldn’t help it. I had always thought Miles looked like him but now it dawned on me that they were quite different. He was tanned. Where had he been?

He released his hand from mine and I felt something rasp against my palm. There was a plaster on his middle finger. What had he done? Was it just a papercut or something.

Mike turned to me and put his arm round me. David put his hands into his pockets.

‘Lizzy,’ Mike said, ‘I think your mother needs you. There’s some kind of horticultural crisis unfolding up at the marquee. Chin – well, she’s on edge already, but your mother’s worried she’s about to go nuclear. Other than that, all’s fine.’ He turned to David. ‘Chin and I had a bit of a dust-up yesterday. Anyway, all in the past. Atonement, I’m all for it. Look at me, atoning away, left, right and centre. So, David old thing, I’ve done you now. Are we square? Lizzy, you still here?’ He removed his arm from my shoulders. ‘Go away now, old girl. I want to talk to David.’

‘I don’t see why,’ I said, nettled.

‘Mike and I need a quick chat,’ said David. He turned to my uncle and said quickly, ‘Honestly, Mike, I know you’re sorry. I’m sorry too. I think we both fucked up.’

‘Well,’ said Mike, ‘the boot’s significantly more on my foot than yours old thing, but decent of you to say it. Hallelujah. Hang on a sec. Let me go and see if the light of my life is up yet. She’ll want to see you, I know. Two shakes.’

He bounded upstairs, singing ‘All People That On Earth Do Dwell’.

‘I’d better go outside and find Mum,’ I said. ‘Golly, it’s ten thirty already. We’ve got lots to do.’

‘Yes, you have,’ said David. ‘Sorry about this.’ He gestured around him, as if to explain his presence.

‘Not at all,’ I said politely.

‘Mike called me yesterday evening. He’s got a bout of penitence he needs to get off his chest. He just wanted to apologize, clear the air, all that kind of thing. He – well.’

‘He was crap. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m glad he’s apologized. What about Rosalie?’

‘He owes her more than an apology,’ said David, briskly. ‘I’m fine – he just messed me around. A lot of crap happened because of him. You know.’

He stopped. Oho, I knew. But, I reminded myself, these were the waters that were now way under and past the bridge.

David rocked on the balls of his feet, his hands still in his pockets. ‘Anyway, I had to bring over some more cutlery from Mum, so I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.’ He looked down at the floor, then at me and said ruefully, ‘I’m the mummy’s boy who gets up early to run her errands. I’m going to the bottle bank next.’

‘Right,’ I said, not sure what his point was.

‘And Miles,’ said David, sounding his name like it was a rock dropping into water, ‘Miles swans off to luxury hotels with his new girlfriend for the night.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

David patted his breast pocket. ‘Where are my car keys? Look, Lizzy, it’s OK, all right? I’ve got to go. I haven’t time to say hello to Rosalie.’

‘Oh, right,’ I said, realizing suddenly that it was hard for him, hating the thought that he was miserable – and also,
intensely, not wanting him to leave. ‘Look, I’m sorry, you don’t have to rush off because of me. It is weird, I know, but we’re just going to have to get used to it. Stay a little while. I’m going to the garden.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ David said. ‘Thanks for the sympathy, Lizzy. Very kind of you.’

My face was burning. He opened the door and held its edge lightly. ‘I just meant there’s no time left. I can’t stay. Give my love to Rosalie. See you later, Lizzy. Hope it all goes well. You look great.’

The door slammed behind him, and I patted my flaming cheeks. How dare he? But how stupid of me.

Gibbo and Bozzer left for the church at about a quarter past eleven. Thirty minutes later we all congregated in the hall, waiting for Chin to appear. It was like the gathering of the clan in a Walter Scott novel, minus the kilts. Jess, Tom and I. Jess had on an SJP-style jacket with a flared silk skirt, and looked like a doll, with her curls bobbing round her head. Tom was sleek and shiny in a beautifully tailored new morning suit and plump blue tie. Mum and Dad, Kate, Mike and Rosalie. Mum, already crying, was in a diaphanous Ghost-style creation with a matching pale green hat, while Kate was regal in one of those dresses one finds advertised in the back of the
Telegraph
Saturday magazine made of what they call fine lawn cotton: puffed sleeves, elasticated waist, button-through, crazily floral. Next to Kate, the fashion
yang
to her
yin
, Rosalie wore an extraordinary rose-pink taffeta suit. It had a long tulip-shaped skirt, a creamy, low-cut separate bodice, and a jacket tailored to within an inch of its life, making her waist look like a hand-span. She looked like the Fairy Godmother from
Shrek 2.
I assumed it must be the kind of thing rich people wear on cruises or to benefits when they’re not quite sure
of the dress code but don’t want to be accused of not making an effort. Standing beside her, Mike looked like an old shoe in his beaten-up morning suit, which had been Tony’s and was slightly too big for him. Nevertheless, there was something reassuringly real about him next to Rosalie.

A door upstairs slammed and Mando shouted down, ‘She’s coming!’ We all bristled with excitement.

She was lovely, in my grandmother’s veil, with the prettiest tracery pattern of flowers scattered across it, a simple cream silk sheath dress, plain and beautifully made. Her hair shone, her eyes shone, her face was aglow with happiness and excitement, and she fitted the bill perfectly. Some people aren’t naturally bridal and others are. I hadn’t thought Chin would be but she just was. She was the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen. At the sight of her coming down the staircase, clutching the carved banister, tears filled my eyes and I bent over to shake them on to the floor rather than let them run in mascara stripes down my face and dress.

Mando came down after her, fussing with his tie, his buttonhole and his hair, waving his arms as Chin stepped across the threshold towards the waiting car. ‘Careful!’ he breathed. ‘Oh, the dirt…Oh dear.’

‘Coming, John?’ Chin said, as Dad waited for Mum to pin on his buttonhole. He stepped forward and gave her his arm. She raised herself on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said.

They set off for the car and we all followed them, led by Mike. ‘See you there,’ Chin said, smiling at him.

‘Yup, sis. You’re beautiful,’ said Mike, holding the door open for her. ‘Come on, you lot, we’ve got to go. Don’t want to arrive after the bride. Rosalie, where are you? There. Marvellous.’

Dad smiled and got into the car.

Mike turned to us. ‘Tom, you’re taking your mother, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Tom said, swinging his car keys in his hand. ‘Right. Let’s go. Lizzy, are you ready?’

It’s funny how the mind stores certain events and gives them a significance they don’t appear to have when they’re happening. When I look back now I find it strange that I remember sitting in the church. Miles next to me, his hand in mine – in fact all of the wedding ceremony so clearly. The sound of Chin’s voice and Gibbo’s. The heavy scent of lilies. The promise Gibbo had made to us at Christmas in the pub, that if he married Chin we would find out Norman Gibson’s middle name: Tom, Jess, Miles and I stood bristling with repressed hysteria as Ginevra Mary Walter took Norman Lorenzo Gibson to be her lawfully married husband. (His grandmother was Italian.) And I remembered Mike reading from the Song of Solomon, then Kate reading a Shakespearian sonnet, in her clear, beautiful voice, something about true love and impediments, and I remember thinking it made such sense and that it was heartbreakingly sad, coming from her. ‘The marriage of true minds’. I liked that.

And I remember standing outside the church with all my family. We were all a bit embarrassed, as if we were on display and didn’t want to be. Jess took photos of us standing around before the official photographer started snapping away – Mum, fussing; Chin, stunning but mutinous; Tom, licking his finger and smoothing his hair down; Mike and Rosalie standing stiffly side by side, looking like pioneers in an early daguerreotype. Gibbo, tilting alternately left to right, which none of us could understand till the official photos came back and we worked out he’d just been swaying ecstatically from side to side all day, like a very long tall Weeble.

When we were finally allowed to disperse, Chin took Kate
and Tom by the hand, whispered something, and they walked over to Tony’s grave; Chin put her bouquet of lily-of-the-valley next to the headstone. I found myself trying to picture him. How different would our family have been if he hadn’t died? I suspected he had been the favourite, the pacifier. I suspected that when Kate met him she wasn’t a cross, inscrutable woman who stomped and huffed, but beautiful, graceful, quiet, which was why Tony had fallen in love with her. Perhaps Mike too. Would he have turned out differently if his brother hadn’t died? I don’t know – but I couldn’t help thinking, as I watched my uncle’s wife and son standing by his grave, that to understand a family you have to know more about them than who’s still in the room.