First wifes shadow, p.13
First Wife's Shadow, page 13
After my parents’ funeral, my grandparents scooped me and my brother into a waiting black Rolls-Royce and we were taken directly to our respective boarding schools. From then on, my time was split between school and my grandparents’ home in Scotland. Even though I bought land and built a house in the county I was born in, I only visit Hodstone once a year, to lay flowers on my parents’ graves on the anniversary of their deaths. I’m really hoping to oust the hard memories and make happier new ones by marrying here.
The village itself hasn’t changed much since I was a kid. As well as the church, there’s a pub and a post office squashed between higgledy-piggledy thatched cottages and workers’ terraced homes, the type that have front doors that open directly onto the street. It’s the sort of village that tourists drive through and gasp at, commenting that time has stood still here. They say it must be charming to live somewhere so unspoilt, but they don’t stop, they keep on driving to the next town, where there are shops and restaurants.
We didn’t live in the pretty part of the village. As my father had been cut off from his parents’ wealth and was too much of a drunk to hold down a job, we managed on my mum’s salary, but we didn’t have the sort of money that could buy charm. We lived in a less aesthetically pleasing 1980s new-build on the outskirts. The sprawling suburbs have trebled in size since I was a girl. Matthew and I drive through a mass of red-brick semi-detached houses. It is neither impressive nor off-putting; it’s unprepossessing. It’s where I came from and I’m fine with that. Everyone comes from somewhere and that’s not what a person should be judged on. What can be a cause of shame is where a person ends up. Matthew constantly looks from left to right, his head swivelling as he takes in saggy, tired old ladies sitting on benches at bus stops, and hunched, hooded youths milling aimlessly along the street.
I wonder when we will get to New Zealand. I am looking forward to mooching around his childhood town, meeting his mum and dad. There’s room in my life for parents, even if they are only parents-in-law. I’m ready to embrace a brand-new family. I hope they feel the same about me. I wonder if my in-laws were close with Becky. Was she the daughter they’d never had, or did they resent the fact that she took their son across the world? What will they think of me?
The church dominates the village green, but the first thing I direct Matthew’s attention towards is the pub. In the late-afternoon light, the white pebble-dash looks closer to grey, the hanging baskets are empty and no one is sitting at the tables outside. I ask him to imagine the garden decked with sparkling fairy lights on a warm summer evening, the sky glowing amber as the sun sets. ‘There’s room for a marquee. We could have a live band, and there’s a catering company just up the road that has an incredible reputation.’
He interrupts. ‘You’re thinking of having our wedding reception here at this pub?’ He looks horrified by the idea.
‘It’s one thought. I did wonder about putting a bus on and taking everyone back to mine – ours.’ I quickly correct myself. ‘But then we’d have to clean up afterwards.’ I’d thought he’d like the simplicity of a pub reception; it’s consciously understated. Seeing that he doesn’t look at all happy with the suggestion, I say, ‘There’s also a stately home a couple of miles away that does weddings. We could possibly hire that.’ Truthfully, Grange Hall has seen better days. The splendid glamour it once possessed was spent a century ago, and now it’s scratching about for a living. Acquired by a chain of hotels that clearly bulk-bought moulded mock Louis XIV chairs and pink tablecloths but didn’t have the funds to invest in updating the heating systems or fixing leaks, it’s far from a dream venue. I decide to tackle the issue of the venue after we’ve met the vicar and there’s a green light on the church wedding.
The church, a Grade I listed building, is undoubtedly, unequivocally beautiful. Dating from the twelfth century and made of coursed limestone rubble, it has everything a person imagines when they think of an English village church: belfry windows, parapets, pinnacles and gargoyles that give the later addition – the fifteenth-century tower – a classic Gothic appearance. Matthew and I stop at the lychgate. ‘Do you like the look of it?’ I ask.
‘It’s very traditional,’ he replies. I raise my eyebrows. I expected more enthusiasm.
He tries again. ‘It’s as expected.’ I realise he has just articulated my thoughts but it doesn’t sound like a compliment when he says it this way. I push open the little wooden gate and step inside. For a moment I don’t think he’s going to follow me. He is pale, wide-eyed. His skin is almost waxy. Beads of sweat sit above his lips; there are two spots of colour high on his cheeks. Rose-red blotches, like a curse in a fairy tale. I lead him towards the church, breathing deeply, letting the warm air fill my lungs. I feel hopeful, positive as we reach the low porch that houses a statue of some sleeping long-dead noble. The large wooden doors, ornate and beautifully carved, are wide open, an invitation. I glance excitedly at Matthew, but he looks far from happy. ‘Are you OK?’
‘OK?’ He repeats the word back to me. Not an answer, more of a question.
‘Are you unwell? You look flushed.’ I put the back of my hand on his forehead to see if he feels feverish. He pulls away from me. His eyes are flashing fear, panic even.
‘I can’t go in there,’ he states flatly.
‘What?’
‘I can’t go into the church.’
I gently tug at his arm. I assume he’s joking, but there’s nothing about his face that suggests he is. ‘What is it, Matthew? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Becky.’
‘Becky?’ I am instantly seized by a sense of complicated unease – anger and pain. ‘What about Becky?’
‘I should have said something earlier. I’m sorry. Look, I can’t do this.’ He turns away and heads back up the path.
I chase him, pull at the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Matthew, slow down. What’s going on? You can’t do what? Explain it to me.’
He’s at the lychgate before he stops. I watch his shoulders rise and fall, his head bowed, his back hunched. I wait until he turns to me. ‘Becky was religious. Very. We had a church wedding. In a place very much like this one, actually. It was beautiful and big. We had hymns, prayers, blessings, the lot. For all the good it did.’ He looks pained now, as though he is physically hurting. I can almost imagine I hear a heart crack, although I’m not sure if it’s his or mine. ‘And I haven’t been inside a church since I buried her. I don’t think I can again, and I certainly don’t want to be married in one.’ He’s quivering from head to foot now, and I wonder if he’s having a panic attack.
‘OK, OK,’ I say calmly, soothingly. ‘I had no idea. Don’t worry. Take a deep breath.’ Again I feel swamped by a sense of how little I know about his history. Now that I do know how he feels about churches, I ought to feel closer to him; new information should make the bond between us stronger. Yet all I feel is resentment that once again Becky is influencing my life. Should marrying in this church be such a problem for him? After all, it’s not the same church, even if it looks a bit similar. I buried my parents in this exact church; that’s why I want the service here, to feel closer to them. Shouldn’t that take precedence?
While I encourage Matthew to take long, slow, calming breaths, I try to be logical and reasonable. I can’t get frustrated with him. Everyone is different in the way they cope with grief. My parents died thirty-five years ago. Matthew’s loss is still fresh. Are my friends right? Are we rushing this? Should we be taking longer to get to know one another? I feel panicked, gripped with fear that he is going to say as much. That would be unbearable. The sun is settling low in the sky; light flickers and sparks through the treeline, like strobes at a rave. I think carefully about what I should say next.
‘It doesn’t have to be a church wedding.’ I take hold of his hand, weave my fingers between his and then kiss his knuckles. ‘I don’t care where we get married. We have plenty of time to think about it. We’re only just engaged.’ He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are darting around the churchyard. He looks like a trapped animal. One that is prepared to chew off its own foot to escape. I can’t allow that. ‘Hold on a minute. Wait here.’ It’s stupid, but I imagine him driving away without me, disappearing altogether. Vanishing from my life as swiftly as he landed in it. I couldn’t stand that. I feel reassured to know the car keys are in my bag. I run into the church and find the vicar. I hurriedly explain that Matthew doesn’t want a church wedding and apologise for wasting his time. He is polite; he seems used to rejection. ‘Are you popping in on your mum and dad while you’re here?’
It takes me a minute to compute. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ I assure him, more as an honourable exit from the conversation than out of any real desire to stand at my parents’ graves.
Matthew is waiting for me at the end of the path, and a surge of relief almost knocks me off my feet. His hood is up and he’s hunched, but I’m glad to note his breathing has slowed and he seems far less agitated now. I sense the vicar’s eyes on my back and feel duty-bound to follow his suggestion. ‘Will you come and see my parents’ graves?’
‘Right, yes,’ Matthew says. ‘Of course.’
We walk through the ancient graves that cluster closest to the church, towards the plot further afield where there are fresh mounds of earth, fresh flowers too. I pay a gardener to tend my parents’ graves, as I can’t stand the idea of them becoming neglected, even more forlorn. Years ago, I invested in a range of bulbs and plants that ensure a bed of colour throughout most of the year. The gardener visits once a fortnight to clear litter, weed the plot and polish the marble. He sends me photos from time to time, so that I know he’s doing his job. I don’t ask him to do so, I trust him, but I find it quite reassuring – comforting, I suppose – to see the plot looking cared for, kempt. That’s why I can’t compute what is in front of me.
‘Oh my God. What the hell?’
‘Moles?’ asks Matthew.
No, not moles; their mounds are neat and natural. The earth in front of me has been hacked at, dug up in a random, aggressive way. The heads of the tulips have all been severed, the jaunty pouts snatched, crushed and scattered. I stare at the disturbed soil, where worms are burrowing through, pink and blue, translucent and alien. I don’t want to think about worms. The air no longer smells clean and fresh; instead it smells of filth and decay. It’s not just the soil and foliage that have been disturbed; there is red paint splattered over the headstones. A lot of it. It is still wet and dripping. It rolls down the white marble, lingering in the engraved letters that spell out my parents’ names, catching in the curves of the vowels, secreted and staining the consonants. The paint rolls closer to my foot. I take a step back. I look about me, but the nearby graves are all undisturbed. Totally peaceful and proper. This is targeted.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ I ask.
Matthew looks aghast. ‘We need to report this. Whoever has done it must be close by. The paint is still wet,’ he says.
‘Yes, yes, we should talk to the vicar,’ I mumble.
‘And the police,’ adds Matthew.
20
June
Matthew thinks I need to talk to Heidi and Gina about what happened to my parents’ graves, and of course the change in wedding plans. ‘You have to tackle it, babe. You know you do.’ I’m not sure which is the harder conversation to make my way into; both seem impossible. I do nothing about seeing them for a couple of weeks, and then he surprises me by inviting them and their families for a walk and lunch at ours on Saturday.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ I comment when he tells me. Although I’m not sure it is. ‘I didn’t know you even had their numbers.’
‘I swapped numbers with Leon that Sunday we went to theirs. I called him and asked for Heidi and Gina’s deets.’ He beams. ‘This is what couples do, babe. They support each other. I’ll cook. It will be awesome.’
It’s a hot day. Too hot. Sweat is sliding down the back of my legs and I’ve changed clothes twice. I feel unusually nervous, and not all that excited about meeting my friends. I know Heidi hates it when it’s too hot. ‘It will be cooler in the woods,’ says Matthew with a reassuring smile.
He makes a good point, and so when everyone arrives, I discourage settling in the garden and instead put on my walking boots, pointedly discussing the route. I feel a walk might be more successful than sitting around. People can find space and have private conversations. That might be more diplomatic.
‘All right, we’re coming,’ mutters Heidi when, for the third time, I comment that it would be good to get going to avoid being out in the glaring sunshine at midday.
Despite my intimate knowledge of the area, the men have taken it upon themselves to lead the party; Matthew, Leon and Mick set the pace. The three girls trail behind. Fifi is wearing her earbuds, listening to her own private world and locking the rest of us out as much as possible. It’s not personal, it’s her age; we’re boring to her right now. By contrast, Aaliyah and Lottie chatter constantly, competing with the birdsong by frequently calling out to us to settle a matter of fact or recollection, or just to laugh at their jokes. I’m glad of the younger two girls. They disguise the silence that has settled between Heidi, Gina and me. We three are walking between the two groups. Our conversation is more stilted. I want to think it’s the heat. I know it’s that I am stressed about what I have to say. Matthew doesn’t know my friends as well as I do. No matter how lovely his patatas bravas and calamari tapas lunch is, I can’t think that today is going to be ‘awesome’, not considering what needs to be said.
I launch in, knowing the longer I leave it, the more tense I’ll become.
‘On reflection, we’ve decided to keep it small. The wedding.’ I hope my tone sounds casual; I fear it sounds defensive.
‘How small?’ Heidi demands, instantly antagonistic.
‘Tiny. In fact we’re going to do it abroad, on a beach somewhere. No formality. No speeches, no suits or long dresses.’ The words tumble out, rough, almost belligerent, because I’m trying to avoid sounding apologetic.
‘What? No, no way,’ Heidi counters firmly. She stops dead, and as we are on a narrow single-file track, I nearly bump into her.
‘It’s her wedding,’ points out Gina. ‘She can do whatever she likes.’
‘Thank you,’ I say with a hint of exasperation.
‘Although Lottie was looking forward to being bridesmaid,’ she adds in a whisper. ‘I’m not sure we should tell her today, at least until not after lunch. You know, so as not to spoil things.’ I glance behind me. Lottie waves enthusiastically, her thin limbs tapering like ribbons on a maypole. I feel a dollop of guilt at the thought of disappointing her by not having a big wedding and allowing her to wear the floaty bridesmaid dress of her dreams.
I try to explain. ‘You know I told you we were going to visit St Adelaide’s in Hodstone?’ My friends nod in unison. ‘Matthew reacted really badly.’ Now I find I’m the one lowering my voice. The men are about ten metres ahead of us; it’s unlikely they can catch our conversation, but I don’t want to embarrass Matthew as I explain why we’ve made the decision we have.
‘In what way?’ Gina asks.
‘Like a post-traumatic stress thing. He sort of froze.’
‘Matthew did?’ Heidi makes sure her intonation communicates her surprise at this; more, her two-word question implies that he had no right to get upset there in particular.
‘He just wouldn’t cross the threshold and go to talk to the vicar as planned. Well, when I say planned, it was my plan really. I sprang it on him. My bad.’ I don’t know why I feel the need to justify, but I do. ‘He’s explained that it’s all mixed up with his feelings about Becky – their wedding, her funeral. He says that he no longer associates churches with anything good.’
‘Wow.’ Gina lets out a low whistle.
‘But you were OK with it being there?’ Heidi clarifies.
I know what she’s thinking. ‘I buried my parents years ago,’ I mutter. Despite the shade of the trees, I still feel uncomfortably hot. Sweat is pooling at the back of my knees and under my arms. Come to think of it, everyone looks a little flustered. I focus on taking a drink from my water flask.
When we pick up the pace again, Heidi says, ‘Well, it doesn’t have to be a church wedding. Hardly anyone does that any more. It doesn’t mean you have to elope. You can have a civil ceremony in a hotel or stately home or something.’
‘Yes, we could. We talked about all the options, but on reflection, I’m forty-seven, I’m not sure I want a huge fuss.’
‘You do,’ she insists.
She’s right, I do. I stopped expecting a wedding when I turned thirty-five, I stopped hoping for one aged forty-five. It’s been fun thinking about a big party, a Jenny Packham dress, flowers, champagne, a choir, menus. But it’s not the be all and end all, is it? Matthew is right.
‘I didn’t enjoy it the first time around, if I’m honest,’ he explained. ‘A big bash was something Becky wanted, so I went along with it, but I’ve always thought it’s about the marriage, not the wedding day.’
We’d come home from Hodstone exhausted and confused after tidying my parents’ graves. I’d talked to the vicar; he and the church warden both expressed great shock and sadness. They’d offered to help me clean up the plot, but Matthew and I managed on our own. We drove to the B&Q on the outskirts of town, bought a bucket, some turps, more topsoil.
‘People get carried away; they spend a fortune they don’t have on just one day. Becky and I couldn’t even afford a honeymoon after we’d overextended ourselves to pay for the wedding. We were back at work the following Monday.’ He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. ‘I’m guessing you’ll feel the same,’ he murmured. I didn’t want to contradict him; it’s lovely that he assumes we think alike.
I melted into his chest, feeling safe and thrilled at being favourably compared to extravagant and profligate Becky. The fact that he had a big wedding when he married her and didn’t think it was the ideal route gives me an opportunity. So I didn’t point out that money is not really an object for us. Instead, I said, ‘I think the perfect solution would be combining the marriage with a holiday. Going somewhere hot and exotic. Coming back with tans and rings.’ I made myself sound enthusiastic, almost giddy.
