Country Days (4 page)

M
ary my sister’s voice on the phone was hesitant, which immediately made me suspicious.

“What are you doing on Saturday?” she asked tentatively.

I wondered what she was up to. Might I finish up the following Saturday painting a neighbour’s ceiling or travelling miles to an auction? Either was a possibility where my sister was concerned, but neither case would have caused the present uncertainty in her voice. A red alert went on in the back of my mind as I wondered what on earth I was letting myself in for.

Cautiously I said, “Nothing in particular. What had you in mind?”

“It’s the wedding,” she said.

For weeks we had talked about nothing else but the forthcoming wedding of her daughter. It was the first family nuptials of our collective children, and I had already discovered that there is nothing like a wedding to muster the family troops, or at least the female regiments. “Us aunts”, who had
during turbulent teenage years been relegated to the back benches of unconsulted opinion, had all of a sudden been dragged out of the cupboard of family skeletons for our views on wedding etiquette to be gravely consulted by young adults.

We were at this stage all suitably attired to maintain family self-respect and to impress the prospective in-laws. The fact that the groom’s family was from the other end of the country and knew very little about us instilled the feeling that we were on parade and a guard of honour was called for around the bride.

Soon we thought we had covered every contingency as far as family appearances were concerned. A few great-aunts had been coaxed out from under layers of winter woollies to don
slim-fitting
suits. Aunt Maud had declared that double pneumonia was the price to be paid for this act of lunacy. She told her cap-wearing husband Uncle Tom that if she was prepared to risk death for the family honour then he would have to do his bit as well. He was instructed that he was to keep his cap off and his mouth shut and stand up and sit down when he was told for the entire day of the wedding. He complained that without his cap he could finish up with frost-bite in the head. Aunt Maud assured him that it was unheard of in the field of medical science, and that she was far more likely to suffer a freezing end. Uncle Tom told her that all she had to do in her case was to don a warm knickers but
that that choice was not open to him. It was his other extremity that was under threat. Because I had never seen Uncle Tom without his cap, which he wore even in bed, I decided that I might not know him without it. The new in-laws were not going to recognise the real us. In fact we might not even recognise ourselves on the day!

With all these outlying difficulties duly considered and solved, what could be worrying my sister just a week before the wedding?

“What’s the problem?” I asked, hoping that after all the family upheaval the whole damned thing was not to be called off.

“It’s Susan,” she groaned. A deep sigh swished into my ear at even the mention of her youngest daughter, who at fourteen was proving that the generation gap was alive and kicking.

“What about Susan?” I enquired tactfully.

“She went shopping for her outfit yesterday,” my sister announced.

“Well, that’s a step in the right direction anyway,” I said, because Susan had refused to go shopping when the other sisters had done theirs weeks previously.

“You should see what she arrived home with,” my sister moaned.

“Oh, not suitable?” I asked sympathetically.

“Suitable!” she said dramatically. “It looks like something that came in a parcel from America about thirty years ago. After all the effort the grandaunts have made! If they see her in this gear, they’ll have a
collective stroke.”

I had never heard of a collective stroke, but that did not put it outside the realms of possibility. This wedding was pioneering new complaints for medical science.

“What’s to be done?” I asked, feeling that it was my job to be supportive. After all, as the Jacob’s lady used to say, it could be my problem some day.

“Will you take her shopping next Saturday?” she implored, sounding as if she was asking me to leave home and sail single-handed around the world.

“No problem,” I assured her, feeling as confident as the man who had coined the phrase.

“Oh, thank God,” she gasped. “That’s a weight off my mind. If she and I go together at this stage, we might end up not talking for the wedding. I couldn’t take that chance!”

Then, maybe because she felt that I should be prepared in some way, she asked, “Have you any idea what you are letting yourself in for?”

“Well,” I said, “I have gone shopping with the boys and that was not too bad.”

“Ah,” she said wisely, “there is no comparison. Boys are a walk-over. Girls are a whole different kettle of fish. But,” she continued as if to ease her guilt, “it will be an education to prepare you for the future.”

Early the following Saturday morning, Susan and I met outside Roches Stores. Her straight blonde hair formed two long curtains on either side of her
small oval face and her fringe almost hid her eyes from view. Her slight figure was buried in a baggy jacket reaching her knees, beneath which bleached denims sported a well-worn look and Doc Marten boots finished the dishevelled appearance.

“Will we start here?” I asked diplomatically, having decided before leaving home that under no circumstances was I going to get embroiled in an argument.

“No way!” Susan said firmly.

“Where to, so?” I asked demurely; she cocked a suspicious eye in my direction.

“Follow me,” she instructed and strode ahead with her hair and her jacket flying behind her. I ran to get abreast of her, taking care at the same time not to get my toes pulverised by the Doc Martens.

She led me down narrow side-streets and around sharp corners and then suddenly disappeared into a black doorway. When I dived in after her, I nearly took a nosedive down steps inside the door. Luckily I recovered my balance before hitting the floor. The assistant inside rolled her eyes to heaven and her expression told me that they did not normally number staggering geriatrics among their clientele. As I recovered my bearings, my ear-drums were assaulted by pounding music which started a headache at the base of my skull. The lighting was for some strange reason black and green, and I wondered how anyone could succeed in buying anything in this hell-hole.

Susan had no such problem and was busy whipping dresses off the rack and holding them up for viewing. The entire colour range seemed to consist of black, brown, navy and sludge green, and I thought that they would be well suited to the business of dressing chief mourners.

“I’ll try this on,” Susan announced, swinging a plum-coloured model in my general direction, and disappeared behind a purple curtain. She appeared shortly afterwards looking like a washed-out version of a Raggedy Anne doll. I understood then what my sister had meant when she had talked of the dress that had come in a parcel from America thirty years ago. The trouble with this particular little number was that it would probably never have been posted in the first place. I shook my head because verbal communication was out of the question. Susan promptly disappeared with a black beaded dress and returned, a miniature scarecrow. If she had sat on the ditch of her grandfather’s potato field in her black satanic outfit, no crow would have ventured within flying distance of her. If we brought it home, her mother would have me locked up.

“Let’s try around,” I shouted.

“I can’t hear you,” she shouted back, so I went to the door and waved goodbye to demonstrate my intentions. The assistant’s expression told me forcefully that interfering mothers and aunts should be put down.

Having made my escape, I leaned against the wall
outside to accustom my eyes to normal lighting and to recover my equilibrium. A woman passing by seemed to have difficulty in making up her mind if I was drunk or in need of medical attention. With a concerned frown she continued on her way.

When Susan joined me she grinned triumphantly and said: “Not your scene.”

“No, Susan,” I admitted, “definitely not my scene, but let’s give my scene a try.”

We went into one of the large chain stores and took the elevator to the quiet realms of the fashion floor where lighting was normal and at least we could see what we were buying. This, I thought, was more like it, but my opinion was not shared by my shopping companion. As I searched through rows of brightly coloured teenage rails, she stood watching me with a bored look on her face and chewed her nails. She had suddenly switched off and decided that dressing her was my problem and had nothing to do with her. Finally, after my offering about ten garments for her consideration, which were all received with a shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head, I suggested that she should try one on, just to see how it looked. She shrugged her shoulders again and the pronounced look on her face became even more sullen as she said with a sigh, “If it keeps you happy.”

I went with her to the door of the fitting room and it swung open to reveal rows of semi-nude females struggling in and out of different garments.
She stopped dead, like a show jumper faced with an insurmountable wall, and turned on me with blazing eyes.

“If you think,” she said dramatically, stopping for effect after each word, “that I am going to take my clothes off in the middle of all those old biddies, you have something else coming to you.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure how to handle this development.

Suddenly and to my surprise she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially into my ear, “I want to buy a bra.”

“The lingerie department is just here,” I said, thinking this might give us breathing space. “Let’s look at them.”

“You,” she told me in a fierce whisper and again stopping for effect after every word, “are going to buy it, and while you are at it, don’t talk to me!”

“Oh,” I said for the second time within minutes. Words were failing me. Nevertheless, I proceeded to pick out a little bra which I duly presented to an assistant, who probably wondered how I had lived so long and developed so little. I then went in search of Susan and found her hiding behind the swimsuits.

“Now panties,” she hissed at me.

This time I did not need to be instructed and went to inspect the different models, but because I thought that she might like to decide on colour, I brought a brief pink one back to behind the swimsuits for inspection.

“Only floozies wear those!” she spat at me, rolling her eyes to heaven.

Then I became aware that someone was watching us and I turned around to be met by the appraising gaze of the security man.

I quickly returned the pink panties, picked up some white ones and went straight to the till without checking back with my control tower, suspecting that the security man had decided that behind the swimsuits was where we were stockpiling the loot.

When I returned I found that she had selected a black bikini that was briefer than brief. That she intended to parade around in this, which was one step from nudity, after refusing to undress in a fitting room defied logic. But at this stage I was following blind instinct not logic. Back I went to the till under the watchful gaze of the assistant and the security man.

It was my first experience of what it felt like to be at the wrong side of the law and I decided that my future did not lie in that direction. A break was needed.

“Let’s have lunch,” I suggested.

“Oh, great,” she declared.

At least we were of one mind in something, I thought.

“Let’s go to MacDonalds,” she suggested brightly, all signs of sullenness melting like dew in the morning sun.

“I’d prefer somewhere a bit quieter,” I said plaintively.

“Right,” she said, “let’s split and meet up again afterwards.”

It was a great idea as we were in dire need of a rest from each other. I retreated to a quiet restaurant where I eased off my shoes under the table, closed my eyes and reviewed the situation. Half the day was gone and all we had to show for our time was a bra which might not even fit, three pairs of white panties and a black bikini. Scarcely what was needed for a wedding outfit. The family honour was riding on my back and time was closing in on me. Nevertheless I decided to put the problem on hold to effect a recovery and enjoy my lunch, to which I added a glass of wine to mellow me into a more relaxed frame of mind. A friend who happened to be in the same restaurant stopped at my table and I told her about my mission.

“Ah,” she said glancing at the glass of wine, “you need more than that. On a day like this a bottle of whiskey would not go amiss.”

She was the mother of four teenage daughters, so I knew that it was the voice of experience speaking.

After lunch we set forth again. At first I was very positive, relaxed by the rest and the wine. I felt sure that it was only a matter of time before we hit on the right outfit, but as the afternoon wore on so did my positive thinking evaporate. Susan walked past rows of what I considered suitable clothes and refused to
look at them. When I hopefully dangled one outfit before her, she almost fainted with horror and rolled her eyes so high that they disappeared up under her fringe. She demanded to know if I was trying to turn her into a bog-woman. I restrained myself from telling her that our bogs were one of our great assets, and that a bog-woman was someone to be treasured. She fitted on a few outfits just to keep me quiet, but she stared at herself in the mirror with such a look of resigned suffering on her face that I accepted that we were going nowhere. In one shop she picked up a vile green miniskirt that her grandfather would have declared was “just below the water-line”, and it took all my diplomacy to part her from it without a stand-up fight.

We were within half an hour of closing time and no wedding garment in sight! I was looking into the face of defeat and Susan and I were barely on speaking terms when suddenly I saw it. There it was at the end of the rail, a little blue suit that I knew straight away could be dead right. I grabbed it and ordered Susan in my best sergeant-major’s voice: “Follow me!”