Sex and Other Changes (42 page)

The police called first at number thirty-three, whence Nicola directed them to the flat.

Bernie answered the door, and came to Alan with a pale, stricken face.

‘It's the police,' he said. ‘They want you, Alan. I told them it were your wedding day. “It's his bloody nuptials like,” I said.'

‘Bernie! Talking to the police like that!' said Peggy.

‘Aye, but it's his wedding day. It's not right. I were resentful. I were being protective.'

Alan hadn't stayed to hear Bernie's justifications. He hurtled to the door, heart pounding.

‘It's a Mr Clive Beresford,' said the police officer, and a wave of the most enormous relief churned through Alan and made him go all weak at the knees. Oh, thank goodness. Oh, thank God. It was nothing to do with Nicola.

‘What's happened?'

‘He's been found dead in his garden shed. First indications are that he's hanged himself.'

It was a shock – a terrible shock. Of course it was. On that
emotional morning Alan felt a great swirl of conflicting sensations: compassion for the misery Mr Beresford must have endured to bring him to that; compassion as he saw, more vividly in his mind than he had ever seen it in the flesh, the sadness in Mr Beresford's face; but also, he had to admit, he felt relief, overwhelming relief that this was not something that affected his family, that it was not something which anybody could reasonably suggest was a cause for postponing the wedding. Also, he had to admit this too, he felt spasms of irritation (Oh God, we'll have to rearrange the table plan) and even of hatred (I bet the bastard chose this day deliberately – he never liked me).

‘I appreciate that this is serious,' said Alan, ‘but it's my wedding day. Can't it wait?'

‘I'm sorry, sir. We need you to take us to his office, show us a few things. We don't want to break in. We'll drive you there, drive you back. We'll get you to the church on time, don't you worry.'

So Alan whipped on a few clothes, didn't shave – he still didn't quite need to every day though obviously he would today – and was driven across Throdnall, up Sir Nigel Gresley Boulevard (longing to make an illegal U-turn) and into the office block, deserted on a Saturday morning. Suddenly his office, and Mr Beresford's, seemed utterly dead, defunct. The great sheds stood silent too, now that there was no weekend working due to slackness of business. He began to wonder about his job, and then an even more pressing worry struck him.

‘I'm off on my honeymoon tomorrow. I hope you won't need me for questioning.'

‘No need for that, sir. We will question you, but on your return. The inquest will be adjourned. In any case, you are not a material witness.'

‘That surprises me,' said Alan. ‘I should have thought I knew about the difficulties at the works as well as anybody.'

‘We can't say too much, sir, but I think I can inform you that
Mr Beresford's presumed suicide is not considered to be a direct result of trading difficulties.'

They took away one whole filing cabinet, for which only Mr Beresford had a key, and all the books relating to financial matters.

One of the officers rushed Alan back while the other officer continued to search the office and move stuff downstairs. As they drove (and even at that awful time he felt a certain thrill at being sped across the town with the aid of a police siren, traffic at a standstill on and around the Colton roundabout and all because of him!) he thought that it might be worth asking a few more questions. Maybe this officer would be less discreet when not accompanied by his colleague.

‘Can't you tell me anything about what kind of thing you're investigating? If you leave me in the dark, I may imagine things that are worse than the truth. That's how damaging rumours start.'

‘Let's just say that the company accountant has discovered a huge black hole in the company accounts. We're talking millions.'

‘My God! Do we have any idea where it's gone?'

‘None whatsoever, sir. A prostitute in Peckham has purchased a Porsche.' The officer frowned, perhaps at the severity of his attack of alliteration, perhaps in recognition that he was being excessively indiscreet. ‘That may be nothing to do with it, of course. However, the same lady of the street has been seen recently in Throdnall and Mauritius with Mr Beresford. It would be indiscreet of me to say more than that, sir.'

‘But what about Mrs Beresford?'

‘What indeed, sir? That is the question.'

‘And what's the answer?'

‘I think it would be very foolish of me to speculate on that before we've dug up his new patio on Monday morning.'

‘Good God.'

‘Indeed, sir.'

They drove the rest of the way in silence. The officer was worried that he had said too much, and Alan was absolutely shaken. He knew that such things happened, of course, but one didn't expect them to happen to people one knew.

As Alan bedecked himself in his hired morning suit, and as he saw Peggy and Bernie give each other's hands a quick little stroke, he strove to put the morning's dramatic events behind him. He began to emerge from the dark tunnel into which Mr Beresford had (deliberately?) plunged him.

The sky was blue, the sun was shining, he would not let any more shadows spoil his great day.

The reason for their marrying in church, incidentally, was that the vicar of Throdnall, the Reverend Simon Phillips, got in touch with them to tell them that they would be most welcome.

‘We aren't believers,' Alan had told him.

‘God understands,' he had said. ‘He gave you free will. He hopes that by marrying in church you may be helped to
become
believers. I must come clean. I am a passionately liberal Christian. I would welcome not only women priests, but gay priests and lesbian priests, so long as they are good people. I believe that the battle between human good and human evil will be decided for ever – I was going to say “for good” but I can't be that confident! – during the twenty-first century. Weapons are now so terrible that man must be destroyed if he doesn't destroy the evil in him. You will be pawns in my political game, sending a message of tolerance to the world.'

Alan and Nicola had thought that it might be better to be loved than tolerated, but they hadn't quibbled. It amused them, after the simplicity of their first wedding, to hold their second in the Perpendicular splendour of St James's.

Entry to the church was by invitation only, due to security fears, not so much political as that some self-righteous freak
would take a pot shot at one or both of them, or object when invited to do so and cause a scene.

As he walked solemnly towards the door of the church Alan became aware that it would not be easy for him to avoid letting more shadows spoil his great day – a huge shadow loomed across the path, and he realised that it was being cast by twenty-four stone of blubber.

‘They won't let me in,' said Prentice. ‘I keep telling them that I'm the bride's best friend. They don't believe me. They say, “If you're the bride's best friend, why aren't you invited?” I must say it's a good question.'

‘I'm sorry, Prentice. It's me really,' admitted Alan. ‘How can I put this tactfully? I can't stand you.'

‘I'm not surprised,' said Prentice, not in the least upset. ‘I can't either, but I do think I could at least be allowed in the church now I'm here.'

Alan instructed the ushers to allow Prentice in.

Nicola arrived at the church late. The wedding car had been delayed by road works. They were removing the speed bumps from all the roads around Orchard View Close. The humps had caused problems for ambulances.

Alan thought that Nicola looked quite wonderful that day. She was wearing a lovely full-length ivory silk dress and a long-sleeved jacket with a stand-up collar. The jacket was most beautifully beaded. On her head she had a little beaded tiara with a short veil. She had lovely, specially made ivory shoes, which managed to look delicate even on her large feet, and she carried a simple spray of three cream lilies. She embodied elegance with simplicity.

It was a huge church and far from full, but the Reverend Simon Phillips ensured that it all went with a swing. Nicola and Alan both admitted afterwards that when it came to the moment for anyone who objected to speak up, they dreaded some ghastly joke from Prentice. None came.

After the service, as the happy couple and their family posed for photographs, Prentice hovered.

‘We've got to invite him now. He
is
my oldest friend,' said Nicola.

‘But he's awful.'

‘He is now.'

‘He always was from what you've told me.'

‘I suppose that's true, but he's still my oldest friend, and he's not a happy bunny.'

‘Oh God,' sighed Alan. He gave a swift cheesy smile as the cameraman clicked into action. ‘Oh Lord. I concede with deepest foreboding.'

The reception was held in the Cornucopia – where else? The refurbishment had happened at last. They started with champagne and canapes in the splendidly refurbished Aston Suite, still watched over by Charlie Athersmith, Pongo Waring, Ron Saunders, Charlie Aitken and Peter McParland. Alan said, ‘I don't at all mind these photos of Aston Villa heroes. Historically, Spurs have always done quite well against Villa.' One of the great minor pleasures of becoming a man, for Alan, was that he didn't have to face constant surprise when he revealed that he loved football.

The champagne was good, and the canapes were GFT (Good For Throdnall). Over the champagne Alan and Nicola talked to as many guests as possible, including Sir Terence and Lady Manningham (good employment move to invite the chairman), who were graciousness personified, and Lance Windlass, who said to Nicola, ‘Missed the boat as per bloody usual, didn't I? Trust old Lance.'

There was a strong medical representation. It was a pleasure to see Mr and Mrs McWhinnie, Doctor and Mrs Langridge, and Doctor and Miss Rodgerson (his wife had died, so he took his daughter). They put them all on a table together for the
wedding breakfast, and they told tales of medical disasters to each other till they dropped.

There were Gray's best friends from uni, and a couple of Peruvians who had become good friends of Juanita, and there was Connie from the carriage works with her husband Tony. Work wouldn't have been bearable for Alan if he hadn't invited Connie. (Work! Would there be any work now?) Connie commented, ‘You didn't invite Mr Beresford then?' and they had to tell her what had happened, so that for a few moments at least, not exactly perhaps a shadow, more a shadow of a shadow, if a shadow can have a shadow, passed across their sunny day. ‘It's awful,' said Connie, ‘but I can't find any tears for Mr Beresford. He wasn't a man who inspired affection.' What an epitaph. Then she said, ‘And he was always so religious. Sometimes I feel quite sorry for God. He has such awful friends.' Alan thought that was surprisingly well put, for Connie.

Nicola was pleased and relieved that Eric came. She hadn't been able to get her last sight of him out of her mind. He had been standing at the door of his cottage, waving goodbye. A herring gull had been shrieking angrily from his chimney, and on his face there had been one of the saddest smiles that she had ever seen. It was a relief to see him now, looking so dapper and neat. They had a nice little chat over the champagne … ‘No more, thank you, I'm not a big champagne man.' Alan was very friendly to him in victory, and was a little ashamed of his earlier jealousy. Eric smiled a lot, and hoped that they'd be very happy, and that they could remain friends. He invited them to north Norfolk if they ever wanted to go, though it was one of those vague invitations, with no date attached, the sort you don't take up – but still, he did it. Alan asked Nicola later in the day how sad she thought Eric really was – he'd made a great play of being a confirmed bachelor, liking his own company etcetera – did she think he protested too much? She felt that she didn't know him quite well enough to know. Eric was the sort of person you could
never quite know, which was why you could never quite fall in love with him.

Ferenc was supervising the whole food and drink side of things, while Sally was there as a guest, at his request. Their joint presence verged on being a shadow for Alan, and Ferenc wished that he hadn't had to invite Sally when Gray went up to him for his very first meeting with his real father, right in the middle of the Aston Suite, just beneath Pongo Waring.

‘Hello, Dad,' he said. ‘How are you diddling?'

Ferenc looked round anxiously towards Sally.

‘Oh, don't worry,' said Gray. ‘I won't spill the beans. I don't regard myself as your son. You mean nothing to me. Fve got a wonderful dad. She looks great, don't you think?'

‘Lovely. Fantastic. And Fm sorry, Gray.'

‘I don't accept your apology, sorry,' said Gray. ‘I think it's awful that you haven't even spoken to me, and Fm only speaking to you to scare you in front of your wife.' He moved off, back towards Juanita, who was looking lovely in traditional Peruvian costume.

After the Champagne reception they moved for the wedding breakfast to the equally splendidly refurbished St Andrew's Suite, where they were overlooked by such Birmingham City luminaries as Joe Bradford, Harry Hibs, Bob Latchford, Jeff Hill and Frank Womack. Alan said, ‘I don't object to all these either. There's no way Birmingham could be described as one of our bogey teams.'

The meal of Welsh cawl (is there any other kind?), duck goulash (what else?) and crepe Goole (like crepe suzette but with Bailey's – the invention of Leonard Balby, who refused to participate in a meal of Welsh and Hungarian specialities unless he laid his own stamp on the proceedings. ‘It's my new signature dish, is crepe Goole,' he averred) was ‘better than it sounds', which was the restaurant equivalent of ‘as comfortable as can be expected'. It was all ‘washed down', as they say so inelegantly in the restaurant reviews, with 2002 New Zealand Marlborough
cabernet sauvignon, 1998 Mercurey and Niepoort Fine Tawny Port – non-vintage, in other words decanted, so the guests didn't see the bottles.