The Truth Commissioner (14 page)

‘Maybe not such a bad idea,' he says, ‘but then again who would want to read what I would have to tell?'

‘I know some agents in London who have lots of contacts in publishing,' Edmund says. ‘I could get in touch with them on your
behalf if you like.'

‘Thanks, son, but I'm not ready yet to put pen to paper. Maybe when I retire.'

‘A lot of these books are ghosted, all you have to do is talk,' Edmund says.

‘You think I can't write?' he asks a little too sharply then tries to soften it with a smile.

‘No, of course he doesn't,' Marie says.

‘I was just thinking of you not having the time,' Edmund says.

‘Dad, we need to go now, we have a table booked,' Christine says, staring at him for a second then giving him a perfunctory
peck on the cheek.

He watches her as she follows the others out into the street. He hopes she will turn round and let him smile at her but instead
Justin holds the top of the door open and she ducks under it like a child playing a game and vanishes into the night.

The day of the wedding is leaden and blustery with gusts of wind suddenly flaring up as if irritated by their own motion.
Gilroy sits at the kitchen table in his hired suit and looks at the notes he's made for his speech while Marie pins the spray
to his lapel. Her hair is close to his face and looks shiny and stiff with lacquer. There are squeals of laughter from upstairs
and mobile phones seem to be ringing in every corner of the house. In his head they chime out like church bells. He feels
nervous, more nervous than he's felt in a long time.

‘Are we all right for time?' he asks as Marie stands back to admire her work.

‘We're fine,' she says, straightening it slowly and angling her head to assure herself that she has got it right. ‘I hope
this wind dies down or her dress is liable to end up over her head. Close your eyes.'

‘What?'

‘Close your eyes when you're told. I'm going to spray your hair, stop you looking like you've been dragged through a hedge
backwards.'

Before he can say anything she masks his eyes with her palm and there is the hiss of the spray.

‘I'd have thought you knew that speech off by heart, the amount of time you've spent looking at it,' she says. ‘You're not
nervous, are you, with all the speeches you've made in your life?'

‘I've never made a speech at my daughter's wedding before,' he says. ‘Don't want to mess up.'

Suddenly she bends forward and kisses him lightly on the forehead. ‘I've never seen you mess up so I don't think you're going
to start now. But you will mess up really badly if you don't tell me that I'm looking nice.'

‘You look great,' he says, ‘but you don't look old enough to be the bride's mother.'

‘Old enough to be a grandmother?' she asks.

‘A grandmother? Plenty of time for kids when she's got her career up and running.'

‘She'll be putting her career on hold for a while,' she says, not looking at him.

‘What do you mean?' he asks.

‘She's pregnant, Francis. Six weeks.'

‘Pregnant? She can't be,' he says, thrusting his hand through his hair and finding it clotted and brittle. ‘Why didn't she
tell us before? Is she sure?'

‘She told me a while back, I just couldn't find the right moment to tell you.'

‘Why didn't she tell me herself?' he asks, looking at his wife as if somehow he has been betrayed. He feels betrayed but by
whom and in what way he struggles to understand.

‘She wanted me to tell you. I just wanted the right moment.'

Upstairs there is the scamper of feet, the whirr of a hair­drier and a babble of voices. He stands up and then sits down again.
‘And you think this is a good time, the morning of her wedding, five minutes before I'm walking her down the aisle?'

‘These things don't matter so much any more. They're doing the right thing now, getting married.'

‘You don't think she's just getting married because of the baby?' There is panic in his head, an unravelling. ‘She doesn't
have to get married – we could help her look after the child. She doesn't have to get married, Marie.'

‘Shush, Francis,' she says, placing her hand on his shoulder. ‘Everything's all right; she wants to get married. Everything's
all right.'

‘Are you sure? Are you really sure?'

She takes his hand and tells him she is really, really sure. He tries to steady himself, holds her hand against his cheek.

‘It doesn't show,' he says.

‘It's still early.' She cradles his head against her side.

‘Who knows?'

‘Only the four of us and his parents, no one else.'

‘I don't want anyone to know. Not until they need to.'

She eases herself out of the embrace and tells him that it's not the end of the world, that it happens every day, that no
one gives it a second thought, but gradually her words drift by him and he can hear only the voices in his head telling him
that it's his fault for not having looked after her properly, for not being there for her. And then he feels anger towards
her. Why just for once can she not bide her time, do things in the right way, in the right order like everyone else? Why does
she not think of others instead of following every impulse that runs through her selfish head?

He looks at the few pages of paper in his hand and suddenly the words he's composed seem meaningless. What does it matter
to her now if he gives her a father's blessing or not because he can't think of a single time when she ever came to him and
truly sought his approval or permission? How can she be having a child when she's still a child herself? Folding the paper
he places it in the side pocket of his jacket and wonders how he's even going to look at her. He watches Marie pinning her
hat, that to him seems nothing more than a few wispy feathers, and wonders how she is able to take so many big things in
her stride when somehow he has, without realising how it happened, become someone who can be knocked off course by the slightest
thing. He wonders if he might really be ill, in the first stages of some serious illness where he is afflicted by unseen
chemical changes, by antibodies and viruses invading his nervous system and wreaking havoc in his internal circuitry. He shakes
his head as if to clear the confusion and uncertainty that fogs itself round his senses, shakes it again as if to stir everything
into sharpness of vision. Marie works at her hat with both hands, the pins held between the tightness of her lips, taking
one out at a time until they have all been used. He feels a sudden pain, as if he has swallowed something sharp and it has
journeyed through his veins to lodge in his heart.

‘Why does she never think of us?' he asks.

‘Because she's too busy thinking of herself and that's the way life is, Francis. Please God the rain will keep off. What's
it doing now?'

He stands up and goes to the kitchen window. ‘It's not raining but it's hard to know what it's going to do.' He pours himself
a glass of water and sips it slowly like an expensive wine. Perhaps if he had read more books, understood more of the things
that were inside them, then he would know now what to say or do, know now what it was he felt. Suddenly the room floods with
people and the first cars are arriving to take bridesmaids and Marie. Then it's time for Christine to make her appearance
and she comes down the stairs slowly, flowers in hand and holding her dress as if she is about to go paddling in the sea.
This is the moment when he's supposed to be overcome with her beauty and a father's pride but something is failing to register
and he looks only at her face before he mumbles the expected phrases. There's chaos all around him with people fussing over
her and each other and his head feels garlanded with their squealing voices. He slowly backs into the kitchen and sits again
at the table. Marie is talking to him but the words aren't really registering. As he glances up at her animated face he thinks
she has too much make-up on. Everything about the day now begins to feel unnatural, made-up, too much of putting on a show,
and he's never been a showman no matter what others might say. He tells himself that it's what is expected, that there's no
harm in it, but his thoughts are interrupted by Marie's insistent voice reminding him not to ‘race her down the aisle', to
take his time and let everyone see her. He nods and forces a smile that he knows has not convinced her but she has no time
to say anything more as someone's calling her to go and suddenly the house empties and quietens, all the stir drains away
and there is only Christine and a girl he doesn't know, who is still pecking at her hair with a steel comb. A sudden squall
rattles against the kitchen window and pieces of litter shimmy into the air.

‘At least they won't have to brush up all the confetti afterwards,' he says.

‘We'll need to get into the car as quickly as we can,' Christine says, ‘before I blow away. Hold on to me tight down the path,
Dad.'

This is what a father does, he thinks, offers his child the strength of himself, protects her from the winds that blow. The
thought galvanises him and for an intense moment he shakes off some of the lingering uncertainties, pushes himself into action.
He takes a pen out of his pocket – Crockett's pen – and scribbles some additional thoughts at the end of his speech.

‘Have you not got that written yet?' she asks with mock exasperation.

‘I'm not used to having to write them myself,' he jokes. ‘Usually some bright thing does it. I just mouth the words or read
the autocue.'

‘Just don't make it too long – it's not a political speech.'

‘Easier if it was.'

The girl tending her hair is finally finished and wishes her good luck before looking out the window and telling them that
their car has arrived. Then she disappears upstairs to watch from the bedroom window.

‘Ready, Dad?' she asks as she checks she is holding her bouquet correctly.

‘I'm ready. Just hold on to that dress.'

He follows her down the hall, his eyes fixed on the white frost of her dress that feels cold to look at. Her hand is on the
door.

‘Christine, you won't let the child grow up with an English accent?' he says lightly.

She stops and turns to him, says nothing but throws her arm around him.

‘Careful, sweetheart, you'll crush your flowers.' But she holds on and he tells her everything is all right, that everything
is all right, and still she doesn't let go until he gently unwraps her arm. ‘For goodness sake don't cry whatever you do or
I'll get the blame for ruining your make-up. Everything's all right. I'll try hard to be a great grandfather.'

She nods and rubs the corners of her eyes with her free hand. He knows he has to say the right things now if she is to compose
herself.

‘They'll probably put me out to grass in a few years and right now I don't give a damn if they do because it'll mean I'll
have time to spend with you and my grandson.'

‘Who says it's going to be a boy?'

‘Best to be a boy.'

‘Why?'

‘Because boys give you less grief and Justin will be able to teach him all about cricket.'

She's going to say more but he opens the door, tells her that everyone is waiting for her and that she looks beautiful. Then
she turns and lifts her head in that gesture of defiance and self-confidence that he's so familiar with and this morning for
the first time understands that he should take pride in it. Even as the wind blows she does not bow her head and there is
a spontaneous, ragged burst of applause from the straggle of neighbours clustered on the pavement. He walks close behind her
grateful that the dress has no long train to worry about and smiles to the onlookers.

‘You never told me it was a white car,' he says as he stares at the large white limousine, its bonnet festooned with pink
ribbon. But she does not answer as she concentrates on fending off the wind that worries the hem of her dress and shivers
through her hair. She holds herself tightly and slithers into the car.

They hardly speak in the car as if slightly awkward or even embarrassed by the strangeness of where they are and what has
passed between them. She concentrates on smoothing wrinkles from her dress while he peers at a familiar landscape that suddenly
seems strange when viewed from this new place. Sometimes passing cars sound their horns in greeting and when they stop at
traffic lights people on the pavement peer in and wave. The first time he waves back but it makes him feel like some visiting
dignitary to a poor country and from then on he merely nods or pretends he doesn't see them. Thankfully the journey is over
quickly but when they pull up in front of the church to his surprise more people are waiting at the entrance. This time he
acknowledges them with a jaunty wave and a smile as he shepherds Christine up the steps and towards the church doors where
Michael greets them and teases his sister about being on time when tradition says that she should be late.

‘Never do what is expected of you,' she says. ‘You should know that about me by now.'

Inside the doors they take a few seconds to compose themselves and wait for their cue. The church is packed and already heads
are turning to catch a glimpse of the bride. He feels nervous in a way that is unfamiliar to him and surprises him when he
thinks of the rooms he has entered, the hands he has shaken. The light is flecked with dust and in the aisle ahead coloured
by the stained glass. This is the walk he has not wanted to make, the one his imagination has enacted too many times, but
now everything seeps away except a focus on what he must do and it suddenly feels like a high wire that he must walk without
stumbling or looking down. If he is to look down or turn his head to one side or the other then surely he will fall, hurtle
into the darkness below. Her arm snuggles in his, they take the first step and he has to shuffle to synchronise with her,
then they are in step and the music is playing. Not too quickly, keep it slow – don't race her is what Marie told him – so
he tries to measure their pace to the music.