Getting The Picture (26 page)

‘The flowers, they are beautiful,' Claude said loudly after nodding at them all, and they nodded back a touch too enthusiastically, although, in fact, it was only James who had noticed the flowers before.

‘My daughter did them,' he whispered back.

‘And Nell,' Mark added quickly.

The bouquets of red roses, heather, and huge tartan ribbons decorated the end of each pew, and a huge red-and-white arrangement stood at the altar. James would have included more green, he thought, to set off the wood, but he knew Nell and Robyn wouldn't have thought about that. He promised himself he wouldn't mention this to Robyn, but would just tell her what Claude had said and how proud it made him of her. He ignored Mark.

‘George here yet?' Steve asked, and Mark shook his head.

‘Not like him to be late,' James said. ‘Did you all get your list of instructions?'

They nodded their heads.

‘Wedding protocol, in bullet points,' Mark said, ‘Both he and Florence have been driving Nell mad.'

Suddenly, from the back of the church there was a scuffle and everyone turned around. When the music started, there were a few questioning looks at first and then people started to smile.

It was tango music. Loud, hot, and rhythmic. Suddenly in that cold English church those gathered started to dream of the sun, and of walking barefooted in the grass, and most of all, of the
passiono
.

Something blue

Perhaps if George hadn't been late and hadn't had to run up the aisle to get there before them, Mrs. Oliver wouldn't have got the giggles. His red shirt was the final straw.

And if she hadn't laughed, she wouldn't have set Robyn off, or Nell, or Angie. And that wouldn't have made little baby George cry. They were like dominoes, or bowling pins. One ball upset them all.

From his position at the front of the church, still panting from his run, George tried to forget what he had just been praying for. Coming towards him were his girls. And they were walking willingly towards him, with everyone's blessing. Or nearly everyone's. He winked at Mrs. Oliver, and then turned quickly towards the altar and winked at that too, hoping his message would be carried up to Maureen. Just give me one sign, he prayed. Tell me he's not still bothering you. That we're all at peace now and this can be for real.

The priest came forward and held his arms up for silence. ‘Who givest this woman?' he asked.

Just any old sign, George asked. A beam of light, or a statue bleeding, that will do.

Nell and Angie took a step forward at exactly the same time, but when Angie automatically moved back to let her sister take over, Nell took her arm. ‘Not this time,' she hissed, and she pushed Angie to the other side of Mrs. Oliver. ‘We do,' she said. ‘Both of us, together.'

Maybe the roof could fall in, George thought, or the glass window could shatter. Or if you weren't feeling quite up to that, love, you could just turn the flowers blue. I didn't know about Martin. You should have felt able to tell me.

He gestured for Steve to come forward too as his best man, but somehow it seemed even better when the whole row of men mistook his signal, stood up and gathered around him. The Frenchman, Claude, even kissed him, once on either cheek. George should have minded because this wasn't how things were done properly but he had other things on his mind. It was like a bloody party up there. A whole bloody committee, and then some.

I forgot people were more important, George prayed. So fell us all if you can't forgive me, but do it gently. Although, please, if you have any mercy, don't do it all. We don't want to go just yet. We've too much we want to do first.

He turned to Mrs. Oliver. How could he have been so stupid to risk her slipping away too? ‘Florence,' he told her. ‘Let's take each other for better or worse.'

Mrs. Oliver let out a belly laugh. ‘For worse, if you ask me,' she said. ‘We're a pair of old fools, George. Look at you in that shirt.'

The priest coughed, trying to bring their attention back to him. ‘We are gathered together here today,' he started.

But he'd lost his audience. He hadn't done what George was always banging on about and stamped his authority on the meeting from the beginning. Standing up there, at the front of the church, handing the baby from one to another, jostling each other for space, congratulating and commiserating, the members of the Seduction Committee, and then some, were like some music hall party who were in danger of bursting into song at any moment.

I meant no real harm, George prayed. I was just trying to survive. The best I knew how. I should have fought him off for you earlier. Really tried to find out what was going on. Give us your blessing now.

But then, just as the priest was about to give up and shout at them all to come to order, peace was restored. It happened so suddenly, it was as if an unseen voice had told them all what to do. The rest of the party slipped back into their seats, and even the baby settled down. George and Florence came to stand before him, seriously and quietly.

‘Did you bring a handkerchief? I don't do neat crying,' Angela whispered in Nell's ear from the front pew, but Nell was busy wiping away her own tears on her coat sleeve. Angela took her sister's hand and squeezed it. She looked across at Claude. She'd tell him later she definitely wasn't coming back to Paris with him. Robyn was kissing the top of baby George's head as she promised she'd turn him into the perfect man, and she tried not to think about Martin. James was planning which houses he could introduce Robyn too that would get her interested in architecture again, and stop her needing to care about people so much. It wasn't healthy. Lizzie Corn was thinking how handsome Steve was and how a tall man made you feel safe. Troy was so small, surely Laurie would see sense while she was away. Claude was planning how he'd like his son to get married in an English church too one day, he and Angie standing proud at the front. She'd see sense about this silly independence business. Next to him, Mark was working out how he was going to be able to drag Nell away after the service. God, she was looking hot.

The vicar looked at the wedding couple. When he first heard their ages, he'd thought this all might be a quaint story he could use in a sermon, but this had turned out to be the strangest wedding he'd ever had to officiate at, what with the groom in his red shirt and the bride winking at everyone, that tango music and all those ghastly relatives. Plus they'd requested the whole service. The bride had insisted even on the begetting bit; they could still have some fun trying, apparently. Although he doubted, surely not, what with their joint ages nearing two hundred. ‘A marriage,' he began, ‘is a sacred thing. Not to be entered into lightly.'

George and Florence nodded fiercely at him.

‘Get on with it then,' demanded Mrs. Oliver. ‘We haven't got all that long left and we want to enjoy ourselves in what little time we have. Don't we, George?' She nudged her husband-to-be painfully in the ribs.

He tried not to wince, and that's when he got it. His sign. It didn't come in the form of broken windows, or shafts of light, or even blue flowers. And that's how he knew it came from Maureen. Because big gestures had never been her style. No, the sign she had sent could all too easily have been overlooked. It was Florence's elbow in his side, and all those faces in the front rows laughing along with them both. And how no one was looking over their shoulder anymore. George felt a sense of peace, one he hadn't felt for a long time.

‘We do,' he told the shocked vicar, who had never in his life been interrupted quite so much. ‘For bloody infinity, however long that may last.'

Acknowledgements

Grateful thanks are due to the many people who kept me going in different ways, both large and small, while I wrote this book including Mary Atkinson, Christopher Barker, Nicholas Bate, Gillie Bolton, the Clink Street group, Alice Elliott Dark, Sue Davis, Alison Grant, Deborah Heath, Rupert Heath, Celia Hunt, James Friel, Alex Johnson, Anne Kelly, Dorothy Ledsham, Shaun Levin, Michelle Lovric, Mo McAuley, Cheryl Moskowitz, Scott Pack, Henry Peplow, Stephen Peplow, Lynne Rees, Ann Salway, Francis Salway, Hugh Salway, Rachael Salway, Catherine Smith, and everyone at the Virginia Center for Creative Arts.

Sarah Salway is the author of three novels,
Something Beginning With
,
Tell Me Everything
and
Getting The Picture
, in addition to volumes of short stories, poetry and non-fiction.

Sarah teaches creative writing regularly across Britain, is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, a previous Canterbury Laureate and Royal Literary Fund Fellow at the London School of Economics and Political Science. Her work has appeared in publications including the Scotsman, Scotland on Sunday, Financial Times, Psychologies magazine, PEN International, The
Virago Book of the Joy of Shopping
, Poetry London,
The Poetry of Sex
, and has been commissioned for BBC Radio 4.

www.sarahsalway.net

Something Beginning With

Tell Me Everything

Leading The Dance

You Do Not Need Another Self-Help Book

Digging Up Paradise

Messages
(with Lynne Rees)