A Perfect Heritage (74 page)

‘What are you thinking about?’ said Jonjo, coming over to her and giving her a hug as she stood at the window, staring out at the cold grey day. The Greater Power seemed to have lost interest in the Queen of England’s Jubilee and left the weather to its own devices . . .

‘How much I love you,’ she said truthfully.

‘And I was thinking how much I loved you. So there’s a thing. Now buck up, we can’t be long; they’re closing the roads at midday.’

‘And what time do they get to us?’

‘About three thirty, I think. I thought we’d go to the Savoy and have a drink on the river terrace before we go to the party. And then walk across the bridge, get a bit of atmosphere. How’s that?’

‘Lovely idea. Oh my God, I’m so excited. Do you know there’s a thousand boats in the procession. I know I’m going to cry.’

‘Cry! Whatever for?’

‘I always cry at occasions like this. They’re such emotional occasions – everyone joining in together, everyone wishing the Queen well, and loving her – oh dear, I’ve started already!’

She blinked her tears away, gave him a watery smile.

‘Heavens,’ said Jonjo. ‘I seem to be in love with a lunatic.’

It was amazing on Waterloo Bridge; a sea of flags and people smiling and a huge wave of affection and pride that was tangible. Nobody seemed to mind being jostled or held up, nobody seemed to mind anything. They had been standing there for hours and many of them had camped out in the freezing cold; the fact that there were hours still to go seemed not to bother anybody. Susie half wished they could stay there and watch it. Leaning over the parapet, just a few feet above the water, she felt part of it, part of this huge, loyal crowd, so many nationalities, all proud of the Queen and her day, wishing her well. It was a bit like the small, friendly wedding as opposed to the flashy one . . .

‘Come on,’ said Jonjo, ‘it’s bloody freezing – you’ll get pneumonia and then what will I do?’

‘Marry someone else, maybe?’ said Susie, reaching up to kiss him.

‘No,’ he said, ‘never, ever, not in a million years. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Susie, don’t start crying. It’s much too early.’

The party was fun: and warm. And dry – it was beginning to rain. They watched the start of the pageant from Chelsea Pier, saw the royal guests go on board, ferried out in the launch from the royal yacht
Britannia
, the Queen at her best in white, the Duke still handsome in his full naval uniform, the princes in theirs (although Harry’s blue beret was generally felt to be less than flattering). The girls all admired Kate’s red dress, the men all admired Kate. Hester’s mother who was there admired Prince Charles, and they all gasped at the incredible royal barge, all red and gold, as she set sail and led the procession of a thousand boats, large and small, down what had become, for a few amazing hours, a royal highway. And as it passed beneath each bridge the church bells in the surrounding area all rang out and mingled with the cheers. Susie, watching the television, surreptitiously mopped her eyes and saw the uber-cool Hester doing the same thing.

‘I’m so glad you cry too,’ she said.

‘I can’t stop today,’ said Susie.

‘Me neither. And – tell me, you work for Farrell’s cosmetics, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes I do.’

‘Were you anything to do with that amazing event the other day? I logged on because I follow them on Facebook a bit and I’ve bought a few things from them occasionally. Anyway, I watched that global launch thing. So clever . . .’

Susie said modestly she had been a bit to do with it. ‘But only the PR, that’s what I do.’

‘Oh, really? What fun. Anyway, I’m going to go to the shop in the Berkeley Arcade next week, and then we’re off to Paris at the weekend, so I thought I’d go and see the one there. Such a good idea.’

There was no doubt it had made its mark. Susie felt a pang of intense pride and then Jonjo sat down beside her.

‘All right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine thank you.’

‘Good. Budge up, I want to talk to you.’

‘I’ll leave you,’ said Hester. ‘Susie and I have been crying together.’

‘No, no need.’

But she went anyway.

‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ He picked up her hand and studied her ring. ‘You still pleased with that?’

‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘I’m thinking of giving it back. Of course I am, you idiot! I adore it.’

‘Good. Well, all this pageantry has got me thinking. About weddings and so forth.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I’d like it to be quite soon, Susie, I don’t want to hang about – I thought maybe early autumn.’

‘But, Jonjo, that’s only three months off!’

‘I know. Does it matter?’

‘Well – there’s a lot to organise.’

‘Really?’

‘Well yes. I mean, think of that one we went to the other day.’

‘Yes, I imagined that was the sort of thing you’d want. It was rather splendid. Would that take so much organisation?’

‘Fraid so. Look, I know about functions, they’re a big part of my job. Venues, dates, catering, flowers . . .’

‘OK. Well, it can be a bit later on. Just as long as it takes.’

She took a deep breath. Even if he was disappointed, it seemed very important suddenly.

‘Honestly,’ she said, ‘I’d rather it wasn’t like that.’

He stared at her.

‘Really? But it’s your big day, you want something to remember, so—’

‘It’ll be my big day,’ she said, ‘because I’m marrying you. Even if there was no one there, I wouldn’t care.’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘oh, I see. Are you – are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ she said smiling, ‘I’m absolutely sure.’

‘Good God! I thought – I mean – well, in that case maybe I should tell you something.’

‘What?’

‘Patrick and Bianca have offered their house for our wedding, the one in the country. But I turned it down.’

‘Why?’ said Susie. ‘I’ve seen pictures of it, it’s lovely.’

‘Well, it’s not really very big. Or grand or anything.’

‘So?’

‘Well – well . . .’ He seemed to be waking up after a big sleep. ‘I see. Well, it
is
terribly pretty. And we could have a marquee in their paddock, Patrick said.’

‘It sounds wonderful to me,’ said Susie.

‘Really? Well, it did to me too.’

‘So why didn’t you at least consult me about it?’

‘Well, because of all the things I just said. I thought you’d want a big number.’

‘Do
you
?’

‘No. No. I don’t. Not really. I hated that thing the other day to be honest. I’d like family – well, I’d like some of them, my sister and her husband and her children and my mum—’

‘You have to have your dad too.’

‘I do?’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘And my stepmother?’

‘Fraid so.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

‘Well, all right, family. And then just a few special friends. Say about – I don’t know – fifty each. Altogether I mean. That’s my idea of a wedding. I just didn’t want you disappointed.’

‘Jonjo,’ said Susie, putting her arms round him and kissing him, ‘I will not be disappointed. And,’ she added severely, ‘this is not a good omen for our marriage.’

‘Why?’ He looked alarmed.

‘You mustn’t go assuming things about what I want.’

‘You were assuming them too.’

‘That’s true. OK. Sorry. Is it too late to have it at their house?’

‘Of course not. They’ll be well chuffed.’

‘Wonderful. Then let’s.’

He kissed her, then sat back, studying her face. ‘Oh God,’ he said.

‘What? Do I look awful? Has my mascara run?’

‘A bit. But that’s not what I was thinking. I love you so much, Susie Harding. So very much.’

‘And I love you, Jonjo Bartlett. So very, very much.’

At which point the procession reached them. They went over to the window holding hands. Teeming rain had set in.

‘So mean of it,’ said Susie – and insisted on going out into it, out on to the balcony, and waving and shouting and getting completely soaked; the others all teased her and then most of them joined her. Including Jonjo. And it was truly incredible: big boats, small boats, tugs, barges, small row-boats (they made her cry the most), the armada of sea cadets, with their guttering flags, the Maori canoes and a group of what looked like old fishing trawlers.

‘They were the ones who went across to Dunkirk and rescued our troops,’ Hester’s mother said, wiping her own eyes, ‘some even smaller than those.’

And then: ‘Oh my God, look at them,’ said Susie as a final barge went past carrying the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra or some of it, and singers from the Royal College of Music, voices uplifted, undaunted by the rain. And she looked up at Jonjo and saw that his face was wet.

‘You’re crying!’ she said.

‘No I’m not,’ he said, ‘it’s the rain.’

But Susie knew differently. And whether it was the singers, the occasion or simply on account of their recent conversation, she absolutely didn’t care.

Bertie and Lara watched the pageant for a while on television, and then went out to a party that was being held in the street. Flags were in practically every window, red, white and blue baskets of flowers hung from every lamp post, sat on every table, and tables and benches lined the entire length of the street for the children to sit at, and some enterprising person had found canopies to shelter them from the rain. Lara, who seemed to know almost everybody there, had made dozens of sausage rolls and a cake as her contribution to the party, and wandered up and down, chatting to everyone, including the children, occasionally leaning over to take a handful of crisps or one of her sausage rolls; most of the adults were doing the same, while drinking a great deal of what was on offer. The conversation was almost entirely limited to platitudes: admiring remarks about the Queen, cheerful moaning about the weather, usually ending in ‘well, it makes us what we are, doesn’t it?’ and saying how wonderful it was to see the country all united in the celebrations.

Someone had hired a small roundabout which was at one end of the street, and someone else a mini-bouncy castle which was at the other; an obliging ice-cream vendor had parked in someone’s front garden, and his signature tune mixed with the shrieks and the laughter, and frequent wails as balloons blew away.

Bertie, who had never been even remotely involved in such a thing, both his mother and Priscilla considering themselves far above local affairs, was enchanted; he could have stayed there for ever, downing lager and Lara’s sausage rolls, teasing the children that he was going to eat all their food, blowing up balloons to replace the ones that were constantly blowing away, and chatting up the mothers. It was only when one of them, a busty girl wearing a great deal of make up, invited him to ‘come into the warm’ that he took fright and fled to Lara’s side. She said she’d been watching him and she should have warned him. ‘You take Sasha Timpson on at your peril. She sees saying “hello” as an invitation to bed.’

‘Blimey. I didn’t think I was going to get away alive!’

Lara laughed, then looked at him thoughtfully and said, ‘I don’t think you should be exposed to the hazard any longer. Come on, Bertie, time to go inside. I’m bloody freezing and they’re packing up anyway. I wouldn’t mind you coming into the warm with me. If you fancy the idea . . .’

Bertie said he fancied the idea greatly, and, afterwards he made some tea and took it back to her in bed.

‘I want to talk to you.’

Lara crushed the ridiculous hope that would keep rising at such moments, and said, her face carefully blank, ‘What about?’

‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Since last week.’

‘Oh yes? What about?’

‘Farrell’s.’

The hopes withered into insignificance. ‘Oh – yes. Of course. I expect you have.’

‘I feel things have changed. A lot.’

‘They have indeed.’

‘You see, with my mother – well, gone – there’s no family left there. Except Lucy, of course. And she’s still very young. She can’t exactly be a figurehead.’

‘No.’

‘And, well, I do feel very strongly that the family should remain in place. It’s that sort of company. Even more after the relaunch if anything.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you really think so? You sound a bit – unsure.’

‘Bertie, I do. Yes.’

‘But – I don’t know how everyone would feel about me coming back. Bianca might tell me to get lost.’

‘Everyone would feel so, so happy about you coming back,’ said Lara. ‘
Especially
Bianca. She’s really missed you.’

‘She has?’

‘She has. She’s told me so. Several times.’

‘Good heavens.’ He was silent, drinking his tea. Then, ‘But what do you think I could do? HR obviously, but it’s not quite . . . quite . . .’

‘Quite grand enough? For a figurehead?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘No, but you meant it. Didn’t you?’

‘I – I suppose so. I’m so not a grand person.’

‘That’s very true. But don’t you think your heritage as the family representative in the company makes you one?’

‘Well – well I don’t know.’

‘Oh Bertie, of course it does,’ said Lara impatiently. ‘You really do yourself down.’

‘I’ve been well-trained in that,’ said Bertie rather sadly.

‘I know. But – but she can’t do it any more, can she?’

‘No,’ he said and blew his nose rather hard, ‘no she can’t. God, I’m going to miss her. In spite of everything, I did love her.’

Lara was silent. There was simply nothing she could say.

‘And – well, it’s a funny thing to say, I know, but I was proud of her. She was so brave. And so magnificent. We’ve agreed, Caro and I, that we should probably have a big memorial service later in the year. A bit like my father’s. That was marvellous. What do you think?’

‘I think that sounds excellent,’ said Lara.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d better talk to Bianca, then. If you really think she won’t mind.’

‘Bertie, I’ve told you. She’ll be
thrilled
.’

‘How about you?’

‘Well of course I will be. I’ve told you enough times.’