Sign of the Times (26 page)

Chapter Thirty Eight

The mock up menu was back from the printer.
 
It looked great.
 
The actual paper would be like that used for good wedding invitations, stiff as a board.
 
It had scalloped edges and would nestle inside a leather bound cover, embossed with gold lettering bearing
The Steadings,
the phone number, email address and website.
 
All Carl had to do now was dream up the menu.

Carl parked in the nearest thing resembling a parking space in what remained of his car park
and
surveyed the buildings before him.
 
The builders were making progress.
 
Another few weeks and it would be ready to start putting fittings and furnishings in.
 
He headed for his office, as he was interviewing serving staff.
 
He didn’t want to risk all the good people being snapped up by other establishments hiring Christmas staff next month.

The interviews were a mixed bag.
 
He discounted the retired woman who wanted very specific hours.
 
The other two he would keep under his belt.
 
A quick look on Google kick-started his speech-writing crusade.
 
He was unsure if he should do anything risqué. His mother might not like that, although the newlyweds would take it in good spirit.
 
The last wedding he’d gone to, the best man had taken off his waistcoat, turned around to toast the bride and groom and shown the assembled crowd a blown up poster of the groom at university, bollock naked in a drunken stupor.
 
It had raised a lot of howls and was one of the best speeches he had ever heard.
 
But he remembered that the elderly relatives had been appalled.
 
On second thoughts, he’d better not risk it.

“Good evening everyone.
 
Before I start, let me just say that the formative years I spent in the groom’s company means he had as much of a part in developing my sense of humour as anyone.
 
So, although I have tried to make this speech as funny as possible, please blame Robert if it's not.”(laughter).
 
He’d stolen this from a website.

He discounted another offering on the website, suggested for weddings where Highland dress was worn.

“Just in case the bridesmaids were wondering, nothing is worn under my kilt – in fact, I’d go a step further and say everything is in perfect working order.”
 
No, Lucy would kill him.
  
The male members of the bridal party would be wearing kilts.
 
Robert had decided on Hunting Stewart.

“Robert, out of all my brothers, is the only one to have asked me to be his best man.
 
OK, that might be because I was about ten when Fraser got married, but all the same.” (laughter).
 
“There’s one photograph that we’ve never really been able to show Jackie before.”
 
Carl would either hold it up or project the image of Robert, aged one, his face covered in chocolate, wearing a filthy bib, a yellow dummy stuck in his mouth and not a stitch on.
 

Carl read over what he’d written. Perhaps he should ask the other members of the family what they’d like to hear about.
 
A few more clicks of the mouse and then the website blocked him, asking him for payment before it would show him any more examples.
 
Damn, was nothing in life free?
 
Carl’s stomach grumbled.
 
Locking his office, he climbed up the hill to the shop to get a sandwich.

“It’s me,” Izzy said.
 
“Just calling to say that’s us booked up for Dad’s birthday.
 
I take it you’ll be down on Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Good, cos I want to discuss what we need to take with us.
 
OK, must dash, my four o’clock’s here.”

On impulse, Carl decided he would go to the airport to meet Lucy.
 
She walked out of Domestic Arrivals and was so distracted she banged straight into Carl.
 
He kissed her, then wrapped his arms around her, not wanting to let go.
 
He felt as if he lost her each time and had to start over.
 
She was so distant.
 
Even now, he felt reluctance in her.
 
“I wanted to surprise you,” he told her.
 

“Ye-es, well you did that all right.”

“Nice surprise?”

“Very nice surprise,” Lucy assured him.
 

Lucy had some extra-curricular activities planned for them
,
so they arrived home quite late.
  
Deciding it was his lucky night, Carl initiated round two.
 
Lucy’s phone rang just as he came and he urged her to leave it.

*

Carl was at Glasgow Airport earlier than expected for Fraser’s flight.
 
The last few weeks had disappeared and the wedding was now only ten days away.
 
Inside the airport, Carl walked upstairs, past the money exchange and the post box and waited for them to emerge from Domestic Arrivals.
 
He didn’t have long to wait.
 
Fraser and Maisie, sporting matching mahogany tans, were two of the next passengers through. His brother, reserved as ever, didn’t hug him, preferring instead to clasp his hand.
 

“Good flight?” Carl asked.

“Not bad, although we did have some screaming kid kicking the back of our seats for the last two hours.
 
Bloody parents.”
 
Carl detected an Aussie twang in his brother’s voice.

“Fraser!” their mother ran out the door and showered her eldest son in kisses.
 
When they pulled apart, she beamed at him, and then greeted Maisie, in a slightly less exuberant fashion
.
 
The rest of the family soon tumbled over the threshold, to greet them.

“Fraser,” Izzy acknowledged her brother.

“Good to see you, Izzy,” and his sister gasped as Fraser clasped her to him.
 
Carl raised an eyebrow.
 
Fraser must be mellowing.

*

“I’ll be back tomorrow about eight,” Carl said to Lucy.
 

“Have a good weekend,” she said, as he slung his rucksack over his shoulder and closed the door.
 
Things had been a bit strained between them recently.
 
Not even their proposed holiday drew them together.
 
They never seemed to be in at the same time and Lucy was spending more time at work, although she was travelling less. Mistakenly, he thought that meant he would see more of her.
 
But she pointed out that she needed to catch up with other, long neglected matters.
 
He was beginning to feel envious of those other matters.
He
felt neglected.
 
Anyway, now wasn’t the time to feel maudlin. They were off to Knockhill to enjoy themselves.
 
Thirty-six men regressing to childhood for the day.

An hour later they arrived at the racing circuit.
 
The other minibus had arrived first, so Robert, Fraser and Grant came across to greet them, followed by a gaggle of Robert’s friends.
 
Apart from Gary and Grant, who had opted for the racing car, everyone was doing the rally experience.

They resembled a swarm of buzzing bees, with the constant drone of their chatter, as they headed over to the track.
 
Their instructor explained about checking in and getting suited up.
 
Robert would have his rally experience early and then his Ferrari experience as the culmination to the day.
 
Some of the brood became a tad nervous before their turn, others were simply brimming over with nervous excitement.
 
The instructor talked them through the various techniques, how to cope with oversteer and how to manage weight transfer.

Finally it was time for the high-speed runs.
 
As Donald flew round the track, nearly careering off a few times, the instructor muttered, “Hope he learns to control that.”

“My turn,” clamoured Fraser.
 

“He’s not as careful as I thought he’d be,” said Carl, as Fraser finished, flushed, close to Donald’s time.

“Robert, you’re up,” cried Fraser.

“Now, Robert, be careful.
 
I promised Jackie you won’t come back in bits,” Carl joked.

“Don’t worry.
 
I’ll be going up that aisle next week if it kills me.”

“That comes once you’re married,” one of the lads put in.
 
They all laughed.

Robert shot round the track.
 
“Thank God
you’re
not racing him, Grant.
 
Did he hear what we said about remaining in one piece?” Carl asked, as Robert almost took out a barrier.

“When’s his Ferrari 360?”

“He’s already done his instruction.
 
We just need to wait for his lap.”

Robert was blinding in the Ferrari. He shot past them at, they calculated, one hundred and sixty miles per hour.

“Woohoo!”
 
Robert said. “That was incredible!
 
Can I do it again?”

“If you’ve got another few hundred notes to spare,” Adam agreed.

They piled into the minibuses and swigged beer from their carry-outs.
 
In just over an hour the bus deposited them at the Sheraton.
 
Carl had the booking information.

“Summers party please,” he said to the receptionist.

“Fifteen twins and two family rooms?” she confirmed.

“That’s us.”

“So, meet here in half an hour?” Carl asked.

“That enough time for you to blow dry your hair?” Robert ribbed Calum.

“Cheeky git,” his friend dug him in the ribs.
  
“Don’t you have nose-hairs to trim?”

The receptionist moved away, grateful she was finishing soon.

Chapter Thirty Nine

“Are we right?” Robert asked.

“Are we all here?” said Fraser.

Robert counted, “Yep, let’s hit the road.”

They headed past the Usher Hall and down Spittal Street into the Grassmarket.
 
It was heaving.
 
The rule was one drink per pub, so they ploughed their way through The Last Drop, The Black Bull, The Beehive and the Grassmarket Bar, by which point they were no longer thinking about the names.
 
They made their way up towards Princes St and amazingly crossed the road without mishap.
 
They wandered up Hanover St and nipped in to a bar near the Assembly Rooms.
 
They hadn’t hired a stripper, instead choosing to pay a visit to one of Edinburgh’s male orientated establishments, Allsorts.
 
Charlie told Carl that they could call for a ride, pardon the pun and the lap-dancing club would send someone to come and pick them up.

“There are thirty six of us,” Carl reminded him.

“Well they better find a big bus.”

“Fair enough,” Robert shrugged drunkenly.
 

Ten minutes later they were in taxis heading for the club.
 
Carl felt weary already.
 
This wasn’t his scene, but how could he argue with thirty-five blokes?
 

“Phwoar, look at her,” Charlie said, “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.”
 
He indicated a blonde dancer wearing the tiniest black thong Carl had ever seen and a tassled top which barely covered her nipples.
 
A few of the guys paid for dances.
 
Carl felt uncomfortable.
 
He knew he should be blokey, but it just wasn’t his bag.
 
He left the room and found himself a quiet spot to call Lucy.
 
Machine.
 
“Hi. It’s me.
 
Sorry, it’s a bit late. You’re probably in bed.
 
I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Carl was right. Lucy was in bed, but she wasn’t alone. As Carl was in Edinburgh overnight, she’d invited Robbie over.
 
When Carl called, Lucy was otherwise occupied.

Re-entering the club, Carl found a dark haired girl, gyrating over his brother’s lap.
 
Robert was taking it in good fun, although he wasn’t remotely interested.
 
The same couldn’t be said of some of Robert’s friends, whose eyes were out on stalks and whose hands lingered dangerously close to the dancer’s buttocks.

Six oversized taxis transported them back to the hotel.
 
They had knocked back quite a bit of alcohol and the kitty was bare.
 
They shushed each other as they traipsed into the Sheraton, like troops returning from war.
 
They weren’t in a much better state than broken soldiers.
 
Peter had been sick over Ivor, who wasn’t best pleased. They’d had to give the taxi driver an extra fifty pounds to pay for cleaning up his cab.
 
All in all it had been a successful stag party.
 
The sorry little band made for the lifts and staggered up to bed.

Miraculously, they all made breakfast.
 
They had all had the munchies last night, but were too drunk to go foraging for food at such an early hour. Yet, at ten thirty, they crawled out from under their stones and sat down to a full Scottish.
 
Carl listened to the chatter around him.
 
He felt delicate, but not as bad as the majority, from the groans he could hear and the bloodshot eyes he saw.
 

“What time are the massages?” Robert asked.

“One o’clock onwards.
 
You’re having a couple of extra appointments.”

“Fair enough.
 
What am I getting done?
 
A pedicure?” Robert put on a silly French accent, “or an Indian head massage?” adopting an Indian one.

“Wait and see,” Carl said enigmatically.

“I am
not
getting waxed,” Robert yelled.

“Yes you are.
 
We didn’t tie you up naked, cover you in tar, pour chicken feathers over you and leave you attached to a lamp post, although that was my preference,” Carl said, “but this is what the guys have agreed is your stag forfeit.”

“Where are the chicken feathers?” Robert muttered.

“Stop being such a wimp,” Grant chided him.

Reluctantly, Robert followed the beautician inside.
 

“What I’d give for a glass?” Charlie said, pressing his ear to the door.

“I am not having
that
done,” shrieked Robert.

“Oh yes you are, Robert,” Charlie shouted through the door, “and we’re going to inspect it later, so you’d better get it done, or we’ll think of something worse.”

“What exactly did you ask them to do?” Fraser was curious.

“Back, sack and crack,” Charlie replied nonchalantly.

“Whaaat!” Fraser spat out his mineral water.

“Yep.
 
That should give Jackie something to smile about,” Charlie grinned.
   

“I hate you. I hate you all. I wish I’d gone on my stag with my worst enemies,” Robert was unimpressed.

“We thought it would take your mind off your hangover,” Charlie said.

“Hangover?”

“See, it worked.”

“C’mon,” Carl said, “now the fun part.”

“I thought that was last night,” Alan said.

“Well, yes, of course, but a Swedish massage is not to be sneezed at.”

“After what you bastards put me through, I want two Thai girls suspended from the ceiling by ropes jumping up and down on my back,” Robert huffed.
  

“That was fantastic,” Robert said. “I feel as if I have been pummelled into submission. I got an Indian head massage too and you lot can pay for it.”

“No problem,” Charlie smirked. “Must be about a pound a head.
 
Could we wax you again if we all put in a pound, say when you get back from honeymoon?”

“No, you bloody well cannot,” Robert roared.

Carl was dropped off last.
 
Lucy’s car wasn’t in the car park and the lights were out. Atypically he was glad of the solitude.
 
When Lucy was away, he had plenty of peace, but tonight he needed it. He wasn’t used to drinking heavily.
 
Bloody hell, he was turning into a pipe and slippers man.

Lucy saw Carl asleep on the couch, relaxed, mouth open slightly, snoring gently.
 
She laid a blanket over him, so he wouldn’t wake up stiff and cold.
 
Selfishly she didn’t want to wake him and bring to light when she’d actually rolled in
.

*

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Luce.
 
You’ll be OK with Jayne and Richard?”

“Yes. Don’t fuss.”
 
Jayne was one of the few people in Carl’s extended family whom Luce got on well with.
 
They were staying in the Dalmahoy Golf and Country Club, the wedding venue.
 
To Carl’s mother’s dismay, there would be no church wedding.

“OK, bye,” Carl was off.

“Now Robert, your mother and I want you to know that this will always be your home.
 
That said, I hope you never need to use it.”
 
The rest of the family laughed as their father finished his short speech.

“You’re only the third to get married,” their mother said.
 
“I’m not sure what I’m meant to do about the rest of you.” Again they all laughed.

“No, seriously,” their mother said unabashed.

The cerulean sky was devoid of clouds.
 
It was why Robert had picked a late summer wedding.
 
A marquee was set up outside for the pre-wedding drinks, in the event that the weather was fair.
 
Otherwise, they’d retire inside to one of the suites.
 
Handmade song sheets lay on the chairs for the guests.
 
Jackie’s niece and Flora’s daughter were flower girls and Flora’s son was page boy.
 
They thought they were so grown up.
 
Collectively, they appeared innocence itself, but everyone knew better.

Carl wondered if
he’d
ever be doing this.
 
People got married all the time.
 
It was the same with kids.
 
Everyone always thought it was no big deal.
 
But it
was
a big deal, if you believed in all it signified.
 
Carl smoothed down his shirt after helping Robert on with his kilt and secured his Skean Dhu in the right place.
 
He laced up his shoes and ensured his socks were at the right height.
 
After checking the rings were in his sporran, he scrutinised his big brother.
 
They looked nothing alike.
 
Robert was six foot and lanky with brown hair, going a little grey now, whilst Carl, as a restaurateur and chef was never going to be skinny.
 
“You ready?” Carl smiled at his brother.

“Never more so.”

Ducking into the car, Robert reached into his sporran and threw silver coins out of the window, for the kids in the street to scramble after.
 
It was over an hour to the hotel from Jedburgh, but Robert had wanted to spend his last night as a single man in the family home.
 
Robert was strangely quiet.
 
Carl wondered what was going through his mind.

“You nervous?” Carl asked.

“Just thinking.”

“You’re not having doubts?” Carl was alarmed.

“No.”

Jackie was beautiful.
 
Five feet three inches with an elfin face and long naturally curly blonde hair, which fell around her in waves.
 
Her blue eyes sparkled and Carl smiled. That’s the way a bride should look on her wedding day.
 
This woman was right for his brother.
 
Her ivory strapless dress was dusted in tiny beads and her train was held up by her photogenic flower girls.

The ceremony commenced.
 
The air buzzed with excitement and hope.
 
When the couple exchanged their vows, Carl passed the rings over trance-like.

The bride and groom were soon among their guests and now all Carl had to worry about was his speech.
 
He’d cast a cursory glance over it a few times recently, but hadn’t quite perfected it, always expecting to ad lib on the day.
 
No great public speaker, he needed a drink to calm his nerves.
 
As he headed for the bar, shaking hands with all who intercepted him, he was a man on a mission.
 
It would be a few hours before he was called upon again in an official capacity.

In the end the speech went well.
 
Carl forgot a few comments and had to refer to his notes, but the champagne flowed and everyone enjoyed themselves.
 
After dinner, they were free to roam around and he managed to spend a bit of time with Lucy before he was called upon to dance with the Matron of Honour and then the bride.

The photographer snapped shots of the various couples.
 
Lucy was resplendent in an above the knee red chiffon dress with a scooped décolletage.
 
It was sleeveless and floaty.
 
Her hair was piled atop her head and fastened with a trio of small jewelled clips, showing her slender neck.
 
There was an otherworldly air about her.

“Carl, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” Carl said, drinking her in.
 
One day he hoped it would be them.
 
“Let’s dance,” he held out his hand.
 
Coquettishly, Lucy lowered her lashes and accepted his hand.