The Caxley Chronicles (41 page)

'Not a church wedding?' faltered the old lady. 'Oh, what a disappointment! Really, it does seem hard!'

She rallied a little, and her mouth took on the obstinate curve which Edward knew so well.

'I'll have a word with the vicar myself, dear boy. Bender and I worked for the church all our lives, and the least he can do is to put on a nice little wedding service for our grandson.' She spoke as if the vicar would be arranging a lantern lecture in the church hall—something innocuous and sociable—with coffee and Marie biscuits to follow.

Edward broke into laughter. His grandmother began to pout, and he crossed the room in three strides and kissed her heartily. Unwillingly, she began to smile, and Winnie, watching them both, thought how easily Edward managed the wilful old lady whose autocratic ways grew more pronounced and embarrassing as the years passed.

'No, no church this time, but a wonderful wedding party at Sep's. He's already planning the cake decorations, and we shall expect your prettiest bonnet on the day.'

Mrs North appeared mollified, and turned her attention to more practical matters concerning linen, silver and china. It was clear that she was going to be busily engaged in the wedding preparations from now on.

And this time, thought Winnie, her eyes upon Edward and Maisie, there is happiness ahead. For a fleeting moment she remembered her first encounter with Angela, and the dreadful premonition of disaster to come. Now, just as deeply, she felt that this time all would be well for them both.

Sep too, had shared the same feeling when he had held their hands that afternoon and congratulated them.

'Dear boy, dear boy!' he repeated, much moved. His welcome to Maisie was equally warm. He had known and liked her for many years now. She would make Edward a good wife.

He accompanied them down the stairs from his parlour above the shop and said good-bye to them in front of the bow windows which displayed the delicious products of his bakehouse at the back. When they were out of sight, he glanced across at the fine windows above his restaurant across the square. Would Edward ever return there, he wondered? Would his children gaze down one day upon the varied delights of market day, as Edward had done, and his friend Bender's children had done, so long ago, when horses had clip-clopped across the cobbles and Edward the Seventh was on the throne?

He turned to look with affection at that monarch's mother, small and dignified, surveying the passing traffic from her plinth.

'No one like her,' exclaimed Sep involuntarily. 'No one to touch her, before or since.'

Two schoolgirls, chewing toffee, giggled together and nudged each other. What a silly old man, talking to himself! They passed on, unseen by Sep.

He entered the shop, glad to be greeted by its fragrant warmth after the raw cold outside. For four reigns now he had served in this his own small kingdom. Sometimes, lately, he had wondered if he could rule for much longer, but now, with Edward's good news ringing in his ears, he felt new strength to face the future.

'I'll take some crumpets for tea,' he said to the assistant behind the scrubbed counter.

He mounted the stairs slowly, bearing his paper bag to Miss
Taggerty. This, after all, he told himself, was the right way for a baker to celebrate.

The wedding was to be in January, and meanwhile Edward searched for a house or a larger flat than the one in which he now lived. Maisie accompanied him as often as her school work would allow.

It was a dispiriting task. New houses had gone up in abundance near Edward's factory, but neither he nor Maisie could face their stark ugliness, the slabs of raw earth waiting to be transformed into tiny gardens and the complete lack of privacy. Older houses, in matured gardens, never seemed to be for sale.

Back in Edward's little flat after an exhausting foray, Maisie kicked off her shoes and gazed round the room.

'What's wrong with this?' she asked.

'Why, nothing,' said Edward, 'except that it's hardly big enough for one, let alone two.'

'We haven't seen anything as comfortable as this,' replied Maisie. 'I'll be happy here, if you will. Let's start here anyway. If it becomes impossible we'll think again—but I simply can't look at any more places just now. I can't think why we didn't settle for this in the first place.'

Edward agreed, with relief. It might not be ideal, but the flat was quiet with an outlook upon grass and trees, and it would be simple for Maisie to run. He would like to have found something more splendid for his new wife, but their recent expeditions had proved daunting, to say the least. Maybe, in time, they could move much further away, to the
pleasant greenness of Buckinghamshire, perhaps, where property was attractive and the daily journey to work would not be too arduous. Meanwhile, Edward's tiny flat, refurbished a little by Maisie, would be their first home.

There was snow on the ground on their wedding day, but the sun shone from a pale-blue cloudless sky. Steps and window sills were edged with white, and the pigeon's coral feet made hieroglyphics on the snowy pavements. Edward and Maisie emerged from the registrar's office into the market place, dazzled with the sunshine, the snow and their own happiness.

'I suppose,' said Mrs North to Bertie, as they followed the pair, 'that it's
legal.
I mean they
really are
married?'

'Perfectly legal, mamma,' Bertie assured her.

'It seems so
quick,'
protested the old lady. 'I do so hope you're right, Bertie. It would be terrible for them to find they were living in sin.'

The registrar, coming upon the scene and overhearing this remark, gave a frosty bow and marched stiffly away.

'Now you've offended him,' said Bertie, smiling.

'Hm!' snorted the old lady, unrepentant. 'Marrying people without even a surplice! Small wonder he hurries away!'

It was a gay party that gathered in Sep's restaurant. The wedding cake stood on a table by the windows which overlooked the snowy garden. The dark waters of the Cax gleamed against the white banks, and a robin perching upon a twig peered curiously at the array of food inside the window.

Edward gazed contentedly about him. Sep and his grandmother were nodding sagely across the table. Her wedding hat was composed of velvet pansies in shades of blue and violet. She
had certainly succeeded in finding a beauty, thought Edward affectionately.

His mother and Bertie were in animated conversation. Aunt Kathy, gorgeous in rose-pink, glowed at the corner of the table, her children nearby. If only Joan could have been here it would have been perfect, but he and Maisie were to see her before long as they returned from their honeymoon.

He turned to look at his new wife. She wore a soft yellow suit and looked unusually demure. He laughed and took her hand. Another Howard had joined the family in the market square.

Far away, the quiet waters of Lough Corrib reflected the bare winter trees growing at the lake side.

There was no snow here. A gentle wind rustled the dry reeds, and the three white skiffs lay upside down on the bank, covered by a tarpaulin for the winter. The grey and white geese converged upon the back door of the inn, necks outstretched, demanding food.

A plume of blue smoke curled lazily towards the winter sky. Timeless and tranquil, 'The Star' gazed at its reflection in the water, and awaited its guests.

O
NE BRIGHT
Sunday morning in April, Sep awoke with a curious constriction in his chest. He lay still, massaging it gently with a small bony hand. He was not greatly perturbed. A man in his eighties expects a few aches and pains, and Sep had always made light of his ailments.

It was fortunate, he thought, that it was Sunday. On weekdays he continued to rise betimes, despite his family's protests, but on Sunday he allowed himself some latitude and Miss Taggerty prepared breakfast for eight o'clock.

Always, when he awoke, his first thoughts were of Edna. He lay now, remembering just such a shining morning, when he and Edna had taken the two boys for a picnic in the woods at Beech Green. Robert and Kathy were not born then, and Jim and Leslie had frisked before them like young lambs, along the lane dappled with sunshine and shadow. They had picked bunches of primroses, and eaten their sandwiches in a little clearing. Sep could see the young birch trees now, fuzzy with green-gold leaf. A pair of blackbirds had flown back and forth to their nestlings, and a young rabbit had lolloped across the clearing, its fur silvered and its translucent ears pink, in the bright sunshine.

Perhaps he remembered it so clearly, thought Sep, because they so rarely had a day out together. The shop had always come first. Edna must have found it a great tie sometimes, but he could
not recall her complaining. She had been a wonderful wife. He missed her more and more. It was hard to grow old alone.

He sat up, suddenly impatient with his own self-pity, and a spasm of pain shot through him. It was so sharp and unexpected that he gasped in dismay. When it had abated a little, he lay back gingerly against the pillow. The bells of St Peter's were ringing for early service. It would soon be seven-thirty.

'Indigestion,' Sep told himself aloud. He tried to remember if he had eaten anything unusual on the previous day, but failed. His appetite was small, and he had never been in the habit of eating a heavy meal in the evening. Perhaps he had put too much sugar in his Horlicks. As he grew older he found himself becoming increasingly fond of sweet things. He must not be so self-indulgent.

He sat up carefully. The pain was dwindling, and he crossed slowly to the window. A few church-goers were mounting the steps of St Peter's. A milkman's float clanged and jangled on the opposite side of the square. It was a typical Sunday morning in Caxley—a scene which he had looked upon hundreds of times and always taken for granted.

But today, suddenly, it had a poignant significance for Sep. Would he see many more Sundays? Death must come soon, and he was unafraid—but Caxley was very dear, and hard to leave behind.

He shaved and dressed carefully in his sober Sunday suit in readiness for chapel, and in his mind there beat a line of poetry which he had heard only that week.

'Look thy last on all things lovely,
Every hour—'

It was good sense, Sep decided, descending the stairs slowly, as well as good poetry.

In the weeks that followed, the pain recurred. Sep found that his head swam sometimes when he bent down, or if he lifted a heavy pan in the bakehouse. He told no one of the disability, dismissing it as a passing ailment, unworthy of serious attention. He brushed aside Miss Taggerty's anxious enquiries. There was little affecting her master which her keen old eyes missed, but natural timidity kept her from expressing her fears to the rest of the family. Sep would brook no tale-telling, she knew well.

But the secret could not be kept for long. One warm May evening Sep set off along the tow path to see Kathy and Bertie. Half a dozen naked boys splashed and shouted by the further bank. Clouds of midges drifted above the river, and swallows swooped back and forth, like dark blue arrows. From the oak tree near Bertie's garden gate, minute green caterpillars jerked on their gossamer threads. It was sultry, with a mass of dark clouds building up menacingly on the horizon. Soon there would be thunder, and the boys would scramble for home, leaving the placid surface of the river to be pitted with thousands of drops.

Bertie was in his vegetable garden, spraying the black fly from his broad beans. Sep heard the rhythmic squish-squish of the syringe. Bertie was hidden from sight by a hawthorn hedge which divided the lawn from the kitchen garden. A blackbird flew out, squawking frenziedly, as Sep brushed the hedge. There were probably a dozen or more nests secreted in its length, Sep surmised, looking at it with interest. He turned to
watch his son-in-law, still unaware of his presence, intent on washing away the sticky black pest.

Bertie wore well, he thought affectionately. His figure had thickened slightly, and his hair, still plentiful, had turned to silver. But his complexion was fresh and his blue eyes as bright as ever. He was becoming more like Bender as he grew older, but would never have the girth, or the bluster, of his father. Bender's ebullience had made Sep nervous at times. There was nothing to fear in his son.

At last he straightened up, and started when he saw Sep's slight figure at the end of the row.

'Good heavens! I didn't hear you arrive! How are you? Let me put this thing away and we'll go indoors.'

'No, no, my boy. Finish the job. There's rain on the way and there's no hurry on my account.'

Obediently, Bertie refilled his syringe and set off along the last row, Sep following. A flourishing plant of groundsel caught the old man's eye and he bent to pull it up. Immediately, the pain in his chest had him in its grip with such intensity that his head thumped. The rosette of groundsel, the damp earth and the pale green stalks of the bean plants whirled round and round together, growing darker and darker, as the blood pounded in his head.

Bertie ran to pick up the old man who was in a dead faint and gasping alarmingly. His cheek and the grey hair at one temple were muddied by the wet soil. With difficulty Bertie managed to lift him in his arms and limped towards the house, calling for Kathy. Sep was as light as a bird, Bertie noticed, despite his agitation—lighter by far than his own young son, Andrew.

They put him on the couch and Kathy ran for smelling salts, while Bertie chafed the frail hands and watched him anxiously.

'We must call the doctor,' he said. As he spoke, Sep opened his eyes and shook his head slowly and wearily.

'No. No doctor,' he whispered.

'Some brandy?' urged Bertie.

'No, thank you,' said Sep, with a touch of his old austerity. Bertie realised that he had blundered.

'Some tea then?'

Sep nodded and closed his eyes again. Kathy ran to the kitchen and Bertie followed her.

'Whatever he says, I'm ringing for the doctor. This is something serious, I feel sure.'