In the Time of Greenbloom (11 page)

“Change places with me Teddy. I can't see anything.”

“What's that dear?”

“Oh,” she breathed, “don't be so tiresome! I'm stuck down here and I can't see over that great screen.” And she started to burrow angrily behind him until she forced him to step out into the aisle and was thus enabled to take his place.

Once there she craned out over the upright of the tall pew, gazing through her lorgnettes and through the archway of the rood screen, as still as a small statue. From where he stood John could see the side of her cheek and just the translucent segment of one pale eye to whose lid clung a half formed tear which she brushed impatiently away. The hand holding the printed card was trembling and when the first hymn began she was so rigidly preoccupied in trying to see what was going on up at the altar that she quite forgot to join in the first verse; and this, as Nanny would have said was ‘very surprisin'', because usually Mother sang very loudly
and eagerly and always at first a little faster than anyone else. She prided herself on not stopping at the end of a line unless there were a comma, and those of the family who were sitting near her took their time from her, so that by the middle of the hymn at the latest, most if not all of the congregation, like herself, would be just half a bar in front of the organ.

But today she did not seem to be at all interested in the singing and even her ‘amens' were quieter than usual. When they kneeled she no longer sank her face into her hands, but at every possible opportunity raised her lorgnettes in an attempt to see the kneeling figures just visible between the opposing lighted rows of the bridesmaids as they stood in the chancel.

Her attention; so desperate; as intense as though everything: the course of the service, David's happiness, and even the future of all the bridesmaids gathered up there before the altar, depended upon it, was very distracting. It was like being near someone in great pain, someone whom agony had deprived of speech so that she was no more than a mute and dreadful presence claiming all of one's sympathy and allowing no thought which was not directed towards herself.

In front of him, only a few feet away he could see Victoria as she stood and kneeled in unison with him. Her ears, he knew, heard the same swells and chords of the music from the great grey pipes of the organ; her eyes sought the chancel and the bride and he was sure that she longed to turn and smile at him intimately just as he himself longed to acknowledge the secret which they shared and which the smile would express. But neither of them could do so because they were both involved in and fascinated by Mother; and he knew that they were not the only ones. Beside him, the others were all watching her. Glancing down his pew he could see that although they were pretending to sing and pray their eyes continually strayed to all that they could see of her from their different positions; and he was sure they were afraid that at any moment one or other of them would have to go to her and
be near her; and what was more, they were watching jealously; he was sure of it; anxious to be the first to stand by her side if she should start openly to weep or to demand a change in the order of the service, the positions of the bridesmaids, or even a postponement of the whole ceremony.

He tried hard to switch his mind away from her, away from them all, to think only of Victoria standing in front of him, to remember the things they had written said and promised in the long days of the old summer and in their constant secret letters to one another.

But it was very nearly impossible. Even in the opposing pews he noticed that heads were turning and taking swift looks at Mother. She must have attracted their attention when she and Father stepped out into the aisle at the beginning of the service; and now everyone sensed the uneasiness of the family, the anxiety which had spread back down the ‘home' side of the church to the very last row of pews.

Mrs Cable, and Josephine, Prudence's sister, and their immediate relatives and friends were beginning to look silently disapproving. They were all very smart people and even before the service began he had known that they were different in every way from his own people. The men stood more casually and the women looked more used to their clothes; it was obvious that they had worn fine and expensive things before and had not just borrowed or bought them especially for the occasion. There were fewer of them too, the pews were less liberally filled and there were no common people at all. There were one or two stuck-up looking boys, some girls with plaits, and several pink-faced men with big stomachs, carnations, and proud white hair; and all of them, he was sure, had their weather eye on the Blaydon front pews and on Mother.

He began to pray earnestly that nothing would go wrong. He apostrophised God and said, “I will not think even of Victoria, O God, if you will only promise that Mother will not
do
anything, that she will just keep quiet until the end of the service.” And then he began to think of David and thanked
God hurriedly for having put him on the far side of the rood screen where he could not see Mother and where she could only see his back.

He prayed so hard that he forgot to listen out for the promises of David and Prudence, and this was a leaden disappointment. He had longed to hear them saying “I
do
” and “I
will
”; to mark David's loved voice saying, “
For richer for poorer, for better for worse, in sickness and in health
,” but he was so concentrated on his own intercessions for quietness from Mother, for no alarms, no dreadful unexpected action or interruption from her, that the spoken words were passed before he was alert for them, and when they rose to their feet again he was ready to weep for having missed them.

But so far everything was alright, and with warm relief he saw that Mother was beginning to sing in her old style now that the last hymn had been reached, while simultaneously he sensed a relaxation in the attention of Michael, Melanie, and Nanny. He could feel the whole congregation warming to the task it had so nearly completed and saw that small smiles of satisfaction were being exchanged between adjacent pews; and then, when the organ paused for the Blessing before sounding out into the triumphant melody of Mendelssohn, when David and Prudence came down the aisle from the vestry and went lightly past them to the western end and the waiting car, he was able at last to greet Victoria, to stretch out his hand to her and stammer his delight. She said nothing; but her hand, softer than anything he had ever held, lay passively in his own and she smiled with such beauty and gaiety that he could not long meet her eyes and, instead, kneeled hurriedly to say a last prayer before leaving the church. But he caught her again in the porch whither she had been swept by the tumble of people on their way out.

He could not be sure, he never could be sure of these things, was forever uncertain as to whether or not he had imagined them out of the stress of his fears or desires; but she seemed to be awaiting him with a diffidence which was almost indifference; as though already she were regretting
the openness of the delight she had shown him only a few moments before. And he for his part, conscious of Melanie and Michael's observation of him and the closeness of the family, was stiff and awkward in his manner.

He heard her “Hello” and his own restrained somehow silly echo of it with dismay and anger, wanted to take her hand again but could not; and instead, jostled by the others on their way out into the gaping street, said firmly:

“You're coming with us, aren't you? I mean there's nobody with you, is there?”

“No,” she said.

“Come on then, stick close to me and we'll follow the others.”

Obediently, she edged up behind him and they joined the rest of the family on the pavement. A number of passers-by had stopped on either side of the red carpet: strange London women with big fronts and faces, one or two thin businessmen and some children. The little rectangle before which the cars and taxis drew up was very public and in the middle of it Mother was showing off. She had collected Mrs Mudd, Lizzie, Lizzie's father, and Gladys and was insisting that they should all travel in the family taxi.

“But there won't be room, pet!” Father remonstrated awkwardly.

She smiled him a fierce smile. “Nonsense Teddy! of course there'll be room, or if there isn't—” and she gave Lizzie's father a Harvest Festival grin, “then som'on us'll 'ave to walk, won't we Mr Smith?”

Mr Smith took her mood at once.

“They 'ull that, Mrs Blaydon! an' 'twouldn't do no 'arm for some on 'em fat folk to stretch their legs a little, would it?”

“If they wants their 'am and salad,” said Mother, more North country than ever, “then let'm splodge for it same as t'Bondagers.”

At this several of the onlookers tittered, Simpson whispered something to Lizzie, and Michael looked pained. When
Mother was in this mood there was no knowing how far she might go; but fortunately, at this moment, Alexander Flood appeared. His hair, very Harrovian, his sparkling white carnation, something expert and habitual about the fall of his morning-coat over his well-bred behind, discomforted them all even more; and Michael stepped forward eagerly.

“Really, Mother dear, I think it'd be simplest if we took a couple of taxis, don't you? I say, Alexander! you're so good with these fellows, do you think you could get someone to flag another taxi?”

“Nothing simpler my dear fellow,” said Alexander drawing himself up and stepping to the kerb. He raised a long hand, tilted his topper a little farther forward over the high bridge of his nose and in a moment two more taxis drew up in front of the awning. Then, with exquisite courtesy and leisure, as though his very facility bored him, he ushered Mother, Father, Michael, John, and Victoria into the first, Nanny, Simpson, Melanie and the Smiths into the second.

They drew away into the flux of traffic and Mother leaned forward to Father who was perched beside John on a folding-seat. She was angry at the curtailment of her turn by the intervention of Alexander.

“Teddy, look out of the window and see if Mrs Mudd and the Boult's are all right.”

“John,” said Father, “do what your mother tells you.”

John got up and put his head out of the window. He could see nothing but red buses and the receding spire of the church. London was a thousand cities and already they had moved into a new one. He sat down again and lied brightly: “Yes, they're just behind us and Mr Boult is sitting in the front with the driver.”

Mother sat back. “We mustn't just think of ourselves,” she said more quietly, “they're our people and they've come all this way to horrible old London for our sake. Just because this is a so-called fashionable wedding we mustn't forget our responsibility to them; although they may not say much they know what I'm going through. There were tears
in Old Smith's eyes when he was speaking to me just now—”

“Probably,” interrupted Father drily, “at the thought of all the drink he'll have to forgo.” He gave Michael one of his most cumbersome winks.

Mother's mouth closed tightly and there was a slow silence.

Father pretended to be unconcerned. He looked at John, then at Victoria, his gaze brushed past Mother and came to rest again on Michael.

“Surely we must be nearly there, Mick? Hadn't you better ask this fellow where he's taking us? When they think they've got a greenhorn in the back they're just like the old cabmen, they'll take you all over Town to get a bigger fare out of you.”

Nobody answered him; they were all looking at Mother whose mouth was still a thin pink line and whose eyes were looking straight ahead of her. Outside the windows, the traffic moved faster and faster; everyone seemed to be overtaking them, and in front of them the taxi-driver sat grimly, as though he were following some slow tortuous procession of his own and was determined to be at the end of it.

Michael spoke. “Go on with what you were saying, Mother, about old Smith:
I
noticed that he was looking a little upset.”

“So did I!” said John, taking Michael's cue. “He was, wasn't he, Victoria?”

“Who? That old man with the cap and the moustache?”

“What's the use,” said Mother in her removed voice. “I shall say no more! What we've just seen was enough; that dreadful service, all those worldly people and
her
rudeness to me in the Vestry when they were signing the Register. I don't know how I stood it; it was all I could do to sing. Everybody felt it, I know they did. They're taking David away from us! They want to turn him into one of those fashionable effeminate clergy like Willie Wilson, and it's not what God intended. He always wanted to be a missionary and instead she's going to suffocate him with wealth and
drink.” She looked at Father. “Yes
drink
! Laugh at that if you can, and then when you've finished laughing at me, ask David what Gertie's wedding present is to be.
Ask
him!”

“I'm sorry pet. It was only a little joke.”

“Of course it wasn't a little joke. You know what Lizzie's gone through with her Father—night after night in the Cross Keys until I got him to sign the pledge. You were deliberately trying to hurt me simply because you were annoyed at not being able to officiate at the wedding of your eldest son. Well, it's not
my
fault.
She
arranged it all, she's got a Bishop in every pocket. It's true, isn't it? you can't deny it.”

“I was a little vexed Kitty, and I'm sorry if I hurt you.” He patted her knee.

“You had every right to be—the whole thing taken out of your hands, out of
our
hands. We wanted them to be married in our own parish amongst our own people in Beddington. The Bishop would have come, he never refuses me anything, and you could have assisted and everyone could have been there; the Bellinghams, the Bolshotts and Lady Blake. It would have been wonderful, and what is more, it would have been
right
; it would have pleased everybody. But no! that didn't suit her at all. Having done the impossible and found someone willing to marry her flat-chested daughter, she has to proclaim it to her world and subject us all to this silly flunkeyism. We have come all this way, put on these ridiculous town clothes, and bring half the parish with us, solely in order to eat humble-pie at Gertie's expense. And
her
people, who are they? only business,
trade
! David was at Oxford, you were at Oxford, Pall and your Father were at Oxford whereas old Cable was only a board-school boy, I'm sure of it; but no one will ever know! that's where she's so clever—because he's been dead so long; he had nothing but money and she uses it to influence the Bishops. It's what I've wanted to say all along at every Church Assembly—they'll never get real Christianity in England till the Church is disestablished—and this year I
shall
say it and I'll get York to back me up.”