White Wedding Read online

  ‘Hi,’ she said, lifting the phone to her ear.

  ‘Hi, hon, where are you?’

  ‘I called in to see Mum and Nan before I meet the painter.’

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Three-quarters of an hour, maybe.’

  ‘Don’t be too long, will you?’

  ‘No, I won’t be,’ said Violet, grappling with the annoyance that she felt.

  ‘Can you pick up a bottle of white non-alcoholic wine for lunch tomorrow? That one Dad really likes. I think it’s an Eisberg Riesling.’

  Violet winced. She had forgotten she was going to the Leachs Senior tomorrow.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’m making a meat and potato pie.’

  ‘Okay,’ replied Violet.

  ‘Do you want peas or beans with it? I don’t mind, I’ll have whichever one you decide.’

  Violet rolled her eyes. If she told Glyn she wanted to eat her pie with Italian smoked oysters, he would get them for her. So many women would envy her his concern for her needs.

  ‘I don’t know, I’ll decide later.’

  ‘Okay. See you soon, then. Love you.’

  ‘See you soon.’ She pressed the call end button and shoved the phone back in her pocket. She turned round to find Nan in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘So, how long to the wedding now?’

  ‘About two and a half months.’

  ‘About?’ replied Nan. ‘When I was getting married to your grandfather and anyone asked me that question, I knew the time down to the exact minute.’

  Violet opened her mouth to speak, but she feared that if she did she might never shut it again.

  ‘You all right, my little Violet?’ asked Nan. As her sharp grey eyes locked on to her granddaughter’s, Violet felt as if Nan could see right through to the workings of her brain and make sense of them – which she couldn’t.

  ‘Course I am,’ said Violet, pinning on a smile. ‘What makes you ask?’

  ‘Oh nothing,’ said Nan after a pause. ‘I just sometimes feel that you’re not as happy inside as you try to pretend you are on the outside.’ She opened the fridge and took out a tiny bottle of Belgian lager and then went to the drawer for the bottle opener. It took Violet a few seconds to work out what her nan was trying to prise the top off with.

  ‘Nan. Where on earth did you get that?’ Violet pointed to the large carved-wood bottle opener.

  ‘Edith brought it back for me from Corfu,’ said Nan. ‘Why, what’s up with it?’

  ‘Have you seen what it is?’

  Nan turned it round in her hand. ‘It’s made out of an olive tree,’ she said, unable to add anything else to the description.

  ‘Nan, it’s an enormous willy.’

  Nan looked at it again in the light of this new information and then burst into a peal of laughter. ‘Well, I never noticed. And I’ll bet you Edith didn’t either. She does all the sandwiches for the church meetings. I hope she hasn’t bought the vicar one. Oh my, how funny is that.’

  Still giggling, she held out a hand for the plate of Jaffa Cakes, just as Susan came in through the back door, pushing it fully open with her ample bottom as her arms were full of dried washing.

  ‘Susan, look at this. It’s a penis,’ said Nan.

  ‘Good grief, so it is,’ said Susan. ‘How come we never noticed? Oy, you, no chocolate,’ she said, seeing Nan’s fingers reach for a biscuit.

  ‘Oh, one won’t do me any harm, Susan.’

  ‘You’ve just had tests for diabetes,’ snapped Susan sternly. ‘They told you no sweet stuff. I don’t know what to do if you fall into a coma.’

  ‘You’ll be glad to get rid,’ winked Nan. ‘You’ll be planning the funeral song as soon as my eyes close.’

  ‘I’ve picked it already,’ said Susan. ‘“Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead”.’

  Nan squawked with laughter. ‘I thought you’d be saving that for your mother.’

  ‘No rules saying I can’t have it for you both,’ replied Susan, picking up a cup of newly poured tea. She sighed with pleasure when it hit the back of her throat. ‘How did the dress hunting go?’ she asked.

  ‘Rubbish,’ huffed Violet. ‘I couldn’t find a thing.’

  ‘There’s always my dress if you’re desperate,’ suggested Susan.

  Nan and Violet exchanged horrified glances that made them both blurt out a big fat giggle.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ said Susan, affronted.

  ‘It is,’ put in Nan.

  ‘It can be altered, Nan,’ countered Susan.

  ‘I’m sorry for laughing, Mum, but no way will a dress that’s made for you fit me,’ said Violet.

  ‘And aren’t you the lucky one, where that frock’s concerned,’ said Nan.

  Susan and Violet were as unlike physically as a mother and daughter could be. Violet had a slight five-foot-five build with the very pale skin and straight white-blonde hair of her father, whereas Susan was dark and curly haired, slim-waisted but full-busted, and five inches taller than her daughter.

  ‘Look, I’ll go and get it and show you what I mean,’ said Susan, putting down her cup. She trotted up the stairs and Violet slapped Nan’s leg gently.

  ‘Don’t be naughty, you.’

  ‘Pat designed that dress. You could tell she didn’t like your father. She was hoping he’d be so horrified he’d run off.’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Violet as her mum’s quick footsteps sounded on the stairs on the way back down.

  Susan appeared with the long white dress in a polythene cover. The dress really was an amalgam of all the worst bits of the early seventies. It had a high lacy neck and huge puffball sleeves. There was no definition to the waist and it had a strangely placed bow high up on the back. There was no volume to the skirt, but at the bottom of the dress was a deep and disturbingly horrific lace flounce.

  ‘I thought,’ began Susan, ‘that if you got someone to take off that frill and drop the neckline a bit . . .’

  ‘And cut off the sleeves and that bow that looks as if it’s trying to escape upwards,’ added Nan, still chuckling.

  Susan ignored her. ‘It’s lovely material.’

  ‘Apart from the net-curtain bits,’ Nan batted back.

  ‘Which I’m suggesting you take off,’ Susan volleyed.

  ‘I think I’ll pass, Mum,’ said Violet decisively.

  Susan took a long hard look at her dress and then pulled the plastic cover back over it. ‘No, you’re right. It’s bloody awful. You never wanted to play with it even when you were a little girl, Violet. I should give it away.’

  ‘Obviously you can’t give it to charity,’ chirped Nan. ‘You’d traumatize the people who opened up the bag.’

  ‘I kept it because it had such happy memories for me,’ said Susan. ‘I had to wear it, because Auntie May made it and she wasn’t well at the time. She died not long after the wedding.’

  ‘Too bad she didn’t die before it was finished and give you the chance to get a proper dress,’ said Nan, as Violet gave her a gentle but firm nudge.

  ‘God forgive you, Nan,’ said Susan, trying hard to stifle a laugh.

  ‘You should have seen the bridesmaids’ dresses she made as well,’ said Nan to Violet. ‘I hope I never seen that shade of green again outside a sewer.’

  ‘Oy, my mother designed all the dresses,’ tutted Susan.

  ‘I know. Coco Chanel must have been terrified of losing her crown.’

  ‘It was a lovely day, though, wasn’t it, Nan?’ said Susan, slipping back into a cosy spring-scented memory. ‘And it was the seventies, so the dresses didn’t look as out of place as they would today.’

  ‘Aye, it was a lovely day,’ said Nan, thinking of her son, full of life then, a young man with his future stretching out before him. ‘The sun was shining and you were smiling like lunatics – you and our Jeff.’

  Susan’s eyes bloomed with water.

  ‘Right, best get cracking,’ she said, rising quickly to her feet. ‘I want to
Vax the upstairs carpets before I go out to the book club.’ She turned to Nan. ‘I’ll leave you two alone. I assume you haven’t got round to telling her yet.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Nan.

  ‘Telling me what?’ asked Violet. Her phone was rumbling in her pocket again. She didn’t need to look at it to see who it was.

  Susan smiled enigmatically then disappeared up the stairs.

  ‘What’s going on?’ pressed Violet as Nan took some little shuffling mouse steps over to the sideboard. She opened a drawer, took something out and sat down again. She pressed a set of keys into Violet’s hand. Then she answered the questions in Violet’s eyes.

  ‘They’re for Postbox Cottage. The tenants have left and I’m not renting it out any more. I’m giving it to you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. Unless you’re getting as daft as me.’

  ‘Nan—’ Violet began to protest but Nan held up her hand.

  ‘I know you’ve never liked Glyn’s flat and, well, I shan’t ever be living there again in my state. I’ll only be getting worse and I want to know that you have it before anything happens to me. I want to enjoy giving it to you.’ Violet gripped Nan’s hand and felt very close to tears thinking about life without this lovely old lady in it.

  ‘I’m sorry, love. I’ve made you cry.’ Nan pulled out a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at Violet’s eyes. ‘That’s the last thing I want to see you do. When you’re happy, I’m happy. I want to think about you having your turn at life and being settled with a nice man who thinks the world of you.’

  Violet’s tears flowed faster. Tears about being happy, which she could use to disguise her tears of sadness about her nan.

  Nan had been terrified about this illness, terrified that her brain would be dead far in advance of her body, meaning that Susan would have even more to do. She knew that for all her brusque manner, Susan would never let her go into a home. Soon Susan would stop going to her book club meetings. She’d say that she was getting bored by them, but Nan would know that it was because she no longer felt she could leave her mother-in-law alone for an hour and a half.

  Nan presumed it was a dream last night when she was talking to the angel about her fears, but it felt too real to be that. The angel said that it was such a good idea to give the cottage to Violet. And she also said that Nan wasn’t to worry about Susan because she wasn’t destined to be lonely and unloved. Nan didn’t disclose that, though, because talk like that would have worried her family. Or had them ringing for the men in white coats.

  ‘Your mother doesn’t half get dressed up to go to her book club,’ said Nan playfully. ‘I reckon there’s a fella there she fancies.’

  ‘Mum? Give over.’

  ‘I bet you anything there is,’ said Nan.

  ‘That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ said Violet. ‘I wish Mum would meet someone.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Nan sighed. She worried that if there was someone on the scene, Susan would feel too disloyal to the memory of Jeff to let it develop, and that would be such a shame. Susan deserved to be loved and looked after, so Nan really hoped the angel was right. She studied the key sitting in Violet’s hand.

  ‘That cottage is yours whatever,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean, “whatever”?’ asked Violet.

  ‘It’s not a wedding present. It’s for you because I want to give it to you. YOU. It’s yours and you can do whatever you want with it. You can move into it, rent it out or sell it and buy somewhere else. It’s legally yours to do with as you will. I did all the signing and sealing with the solicitor when I was “of sound mind”, as they say.’

  ‘Oh don’t joke,’ said Violet. Her world felt as if it was turning on its head. Her mum and Nan were constants and she never wanted them to change or grow old or ill, but she knew she was helpless to stop that. ‘And of course I wouldn’t sell it. I’ll live in it.’

  ‘Well, you might for a bit, but it won’t be big enough if you have children.’

  A picture of Glyn and her living in the cottage with children flashed across her mind. Except they weren’t really children; they were mini versions of him with his head on their flabby little bodies.

  ‘Just you remember something for me,’ said Nan. ‘If you’re unhappy, you’ll kill me quicker than anything happening in my brain.’

  Violet fell against her nan’s fragile shoulder and the old lady put her arm round her. She smelled of a lovely old nameless scent with a hint of face powder: warm and safe.

  ‘There’s nothing better than a good marriage,’ said Nan. The warmth of the memory with her life’s love was suddenly chilled by the thought of her first husband, whom she married at seventeen and divorced aged twenty-one. No one in the family knew about him. No one need know how many cuts and bruises she sustained at his hands, and the baby he made her miscarry. ‘And there’s nothing worse than a bad marriage,’ Nan went on. She looked hard at her granddaughter. ‘If you have any doubts in your head at all, don’t put that ring on your finger.’ She touched her own wedding ring. It had worn thin over the years but still she could recall the feeling when Grandad Jack slid it on to her finger and whispered to her, ‘You’re mine now and you’ll stay mine.’ It brought a delicious thrill to her heart.

  ‘Your grandad used to drive me insane burning holes in everything with his bloody pipe, but it’ll be nice to see him again,’ smiled Nan.

  ‘Do you really believe in heaven, Nan?’ asked Violet, gulping down the tears that were rising to her eyes.

  ‘Course I do,’ said Nan with a wink. ‘Where do you think that angel came from last night?’

  Chapter 8

  Bel had just unlocked her front door when the phone rang.

  ‘Er, Miss Candy, this is Pip from For Goodness Cake.’ Bel raised her eyebrows at the ridiculous name of the shop every time she heard it. ‘Er,’ carried on the terribly puzzled female voice on the end of the line, ‘I’ve received your email about the alteration to your wedding cake design. And I just wanted to check that I’ve got this right.’ Then she read out word for word what Bel’s email had said.

  ‘That’s it. That’s exactly what I want,’ said Bel.

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Bel heard Pip’s pronounced gulp.

  ‘Can it be done?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course. If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It’s what I want,’ said Bel.

  ‘Definitely?’

  ‘Oh absolutely,’ said Bel. ‘You’ll do it?’

  ‘I will if that’s really really what you want.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Well, then, I’ll do it,’ agreed Pip, still not sounding convinced. She had done cakes for some wild and wacky occasions but this one would take the biscuit.

  After Bel ended the call, she scratched hard at the skin on her arms where it had grown increasingly flaky over the past few weeks, like a nervous-eczema flare-up. She’d be a pile of powder by the time she got married at this rate. They might as well cut to the chase and do the ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ service.

  The house phone rang again, just as she turned away from it.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ trilled the merry voice of her stepmother.

  ‘Hi, Faye,’ returned Bel.

  ‘I thought I’d let you know, I’ve just picked up my outfit for the wedding. It had to be taken in a bit at the waist – I must have lost weight.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Bel, wishing she could get off the line to open a very early bottle of red wine.

  ‘And Aunt Vanoushka will be in Dior.’

  Step-Aunt Vanoushka. Owner of a barn conversion with five bedrooms, each with an en-suite (which she pronounced enn-suit), as she told everyone, and a hot tub in her Swedish garden summer house. Every pretension that it was possible to have, Aunt Vanoushka had it, from her Louis Vuitton set of luggage to her garden ‘moat’, which encircled a small island where she’d had a dovecote erected. She had a Lhasa Apso stud dog called Arctic Master of the Polar Hunt for t
he Sun – which made as much sense to Bel as the lyrics to ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’. Thanks to the three tons of Botox she’d had injected into her head, Vanoushka’s expression would remain the same if she lost all her shares in a market crash or won the Euromillions lottery. And recently she’d had her lips so inflated that she could have rented them out as a bouncy castle. It wasn’t hard to see what Shaden was going to turn out like in twenty-five years’ time.

  There was no doubt that Vanoushka would have another expensive top-up of rubber-face before the wedding. Something Bel was trying hard not to think about: how much time and money were being spent on her behalf for this wedding. But if she didn’t push such thoughts to the back of her mind, she would never be able to do what she had to do.

  ‘Dior? Oh will she?’ Bel attempted to sound impressed.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help you arrange things?’

  ‘No, it’s all done, thank you,’ said Bel, wishing she had a pound for every time Faye had asked her that question. She knew how much Faye would have loved to help her; but Bel was independence personified and had insisted on doing everything herself. Plus, Faye wasn’t the real mother of the bride. That woman had been snatched away from her baby daughter and it would have been the ultimate betrayal to her mother to have another woman step in and help with table plans and menu choices. If her real mother wasn’t around to help, no one else would do.

  ‘Okay, darling,’ said Faye, managing to cover ninety-five per cent of her disappointment. ‘We’ll see you for the family dinner on Thursday, then. Just call me if you need anything.’ She emphasized the last word and she meant it.

  Bel knew she had been unfair to Faye over the years. Her stepmother had done nothing other than be a secretary who had fallen in love with her widowed boss, then married him after a whirlwind romance and been kind to his daughter.

  Bel went upstairs and opened her large French wardrobe door to look at her mother’s beautiful dress hanging there, freshly dry-cleaned for her by Faye, altered to fit her small waist and waiting for her to wear. It was so beautiful: a dress for the elegant woman her mother must have been, although the details Bel had of her were sketchy. There were only a couple of grainy photographs and her father didn’t talk much about his first wife. Bel knew it upset him to think about her or talk about the loss of her, so she had built up the picture of her mother in her imagination instead. There she could clearly see the statuesque beauty of Helen Candy, her long raven-black hair and red lips as she walked towards her husband-to-be in this dress, ready to say her sadly prophetic vows. Till death us do part.