Made in Heaven (16 page)

Isis admired Finn. Would it be wise for Zannah to contradict her daughter's friend? Should she lie? She'd been determined to do that, but in the end, it wasn't possible. On Monday morning, all kinds of details would be spoken about in the playground, so perhaps it was better that they came from Zannah than from someone else.

‘Some people died, yes.'

‘Is it anybody we know?'

‘No,' said Zannah.

‘It's still sad, though,' said Isis. ‘I still feel sad, even though I don't know them.'

‘Yes,' said Zannah. ‘Of course you do. It's sad, and there's nothing to be done about that, but there won't be any fires now and no more bombs.'

‘Promise?'

‘Promise.'

There's a lie, thought Zannah, if ever there was one. But if it lets Isis sleep tonight, I don't care.

This is the sort of scene, Charlotte thought, that I used to conjure up when I was in prison, although I didn't know who'd be in it then. This is the sort of day that makes it hard to believe less than a week has gone by since the Underground trains and the bus were bombed. That bus, a red London bus, opened up like a tin can; a bus full of people. Since that Thursday, her head had been filled with the most unbearable pictures. It was hard not to conjure up what it must have been like down there in the tunnels when the media flooded your head with images that were impossible to erase: phone videos flickering and flickering. Everyone pixel-lated, glowing, walking silently, seemingly calmly, like shadows one after another down the tunnels. Bravery. Gallantry. Sorrow. Defiance. And London going back to work, down into the Tube, up into the big red buses, straight away. Val, who never went to central London if she could possibly help it, had made a special trip last Saturday.
Just to show the bastards that I can and I bloody well will
, she'd said. Charlotte read the newspapers obsessively for a couple of days, then stopped. It was too much. There was too much to take in. And she was certainly not going to spoil today by allowing herself to think about such things.

It's a sunny day, she told herself. My great-niece and her daughter are sitting on the grass under a tree in my
garden. Edie, Val and I are at a table on the terrace, with the remains of a good chocolate cake on a flowered china plate. There's a pretty teapot standing among the cups and saucers. Silver spoons catch the sunlight. She closed her eyes. She scarcely ever, these days, thought of the time when the sky was what was visible from the small square of her cell window, when she couldn't walk out of her own front door and down the road. No one who hadn't been in prison understood properly what it was not to be able to do simple things: choose a pair of shoes, buy a ticket for the cinema, ride on the top deck of a bus. On the day she was released, Charlotte had vowed to enjoy the small things, the things that everyone took for granted, and she'd stuck to her resolve. This meant that she ignored nothing that gave her pleasure. An apple. A freshly ironed blouse. Clean surfaces in her kitchen. She realized that this was the secret of happiness. The real sadnesses: the cruelty of Nigel, her first husband, the death of Gus, her second husband, her childlessness, the injustice of her imprisonment – even those, though they never stopped being painful, were not as desperate as they might have been. Each had what some would have called a silver lining, though Charlotte never did. Augustus Parrish, for instance … darling Gus … had left her this house, and it was still haunted by him in the nicest possible way.

The greatest sorrow of Charlotte's life was the death of her younger sister in a car crash when Joss was ten years old. She herself had been only thirty. The horror of that – the car, ripped open, metal no more use than paper when it came to protecting the passengers – was made both better and worse by the fact that she had had to do everything. There were no parents to help her and no other siblings. Overnight, she'd become a mother to Joss. It fell to her to comfort the child and help her through the loss of both parents while she herself was
still raw with pain. And, of course, to make things more difficult, Joss had come to live with her while she was still fighting for compensation for wrongful imprisonment.

When Charlotte was released, she had almost no money. In those days, Gus was no more than a person she'd glimpsed on visits to her own lawyer's office. He'd made a point of acquainting himself with the details of her case and one day, after a particularly gruelling session with a dry and rather unsympathetic elderly partner, he'd followed her out of the office and invited her to have tea with him. That had been the beginning of a relationship which had brought her nothing but good things.

Her flat in those days was not much more than a glorified bedsitter in a seedy part of Kensington. Charlotte had to work to provide for herself and Joss, whose parents had left a little money but not nearly enough. No one would consider giving an ex-con a job as an accountant, even though she'd been innocent. Every firm she approached had been sympathetic but adamant. She would be ‘bad for business' in some indefinable way. Even after she married Gus, Charlotte had worked for years as a secretary in an advertising agency. Then Gus came into his grandfather's money, over thirty years ago, and they had moved into this house, where she'd lived ever since. When they first came here, Gus had asked her: ‘Are you so devoted to your work that you can't bear to think of not doing it?' And she had told him, quite truthfully, that nothing would give her greater pleasure than to stay at home and work at making the house beautiful; their life together the very best it could be.

‘Charlotte, wake up!' said Edie. ‘You've dozed off again.'

‘Nonsense,' said Charlotte. ‘I just had my eyes closed.'

'Hmm,' said Edie. ‘Have another slice of cake. Or a scone.'

‘No, thank you. I'll have some more tea, though. Would you like some?'

Zannah had wandered up from the end of the garden and sat down beside Charlotte. ‘I'll have some too, Edie. Thanks. It's such a gorgeous day, isn't it?'

Zannah, with her fair skin, had to be careful of the sun. She was wearing a very flattering wide-brimmed hat and a cotton dress in a shade of blue Charlotte always thought of as heliotrope … a blue on its way to being mauve.

Zannah said, ‘The garden's looking spectacular, Val. You must have been working overtime on it.'

‘I do the brainwork, dear,' said Val, ‘and the fiddly bits. I have some nice young men to do the heavy stuff.'

‘How are the wedding preparations going, Zannah?' said Edie. She was knitting something shapeless in pale yellow wool on very fine needles. No one had ever seen a finished garment Edie had made. Charlotte had come to the conclusion long ago that knitting was just a kind of camouflage. There were stories of how Edie had managed to outwit not only violent spouses who threatened the women in the refuge she was involved with, but also their lawyers. ‘Don't let the sweet manner fool you,' Charlotte told Joss once. ‘She's about as sweet as a lioness and more obstinate than a beach full of donkeys.' Edie herself claimed that the knitting relaxed her and soothed her mind. It was, she said, as good as a tranquillizer.

Zannah sighed. ‘Maureen, Adrian's mother, is nagging me about the venue. She wants something really grand and I just … I don't know. I don't seem to be able to convey to her the sort of wedding I'm after. I want something beautiful but not enormous. Intimate and pretty and not grand. I don't want more than seventy-five
people. She wants droves of them … Oh, I don't want to bore you with this.'

‘I find it fascinating,' said Edie. ‘Other people's weddings always are. My own wasn't much fun – in the middle of winter and my dress was far too thin. I was blue by the time we went home for the reception. My mother and grandmother had made everything themselves, from the cake to the sandwiches. That'd never do these days.'

‘Mum, look,' said Isis, running up the steps to the terrace. ‘Look what I've done.'

She held up the sketchbook in which she'd been drawing.

Zannah laughed. ‘Lovely, darling. It's beautiful.' Isis had produced a dozen new designs for her own bridesmaid's dress. Zannah turned to the others and said, ‘My daughter is almost as obsessed as I am. Have a bit of cake, Isis.'

Isis put the sketchbook down and sat on the top step of the terrace with her plate on her lap.

‘I think,' said Val, ‘that I'd like to have my reception in a garden. Like this one. You could put up a marquee just there below the terrace and decorate the trees down by the fence and people could wander about on the grass. Lovely.'

For a few moments, no one said anything. Then Zannah said thoughtfully, gazing around her, ‘I've considered gardens, of course. It'd be almost my best option, but … '

Charlotte smiled. ‘I think,' she said, ‘that I've been more than usually slow. Val's right. This garden is the perfect venue for the reception. Would you consider it, Zannah?'

‘Are you sure? Really?' Zannah stood up. She walked down to the lawn and looked up at the terrace and the house. ‘It's totally and absolutely perfect, Charlotte. Wonderful. Oh, it's the best idea ever. But won't it put
you out? You'd have marquee people and caterers and florists swarming all over the place. Could you stand it? The disruption?'

‘I'd be honoured,' said Charlotte. Truly. It'll be magnificent.'

Zannah sat down again, and picked up Isis's sketchbook. She began to draw. ‘I'm thinking of something like this,' she said. ‘What d'you reckon?'

In a few quick pencil strokes, Zannah had drawn a beautiful tent, with flaps pulled back, and the house behind it. In the foreground, she'd sketched in a few people with glasses in their hands. ‘I just hope,' she said ‘that Adrian likes it. Oh, how could he not? It's gorgeous.'

‘Marquees these days,' said Val, ‘can be terribly luxurious, can't they? And I'm sure you could decorate it yourself. Though I suppose there'd be people to consult if you needed to. Gosh, it's going to be fun. You must let us help. I can be very useful in the garden. I'll make it my business to see that everything's tickety-boo in that department.'

‘Thanks, Val. I'm so grateful to all of you,' said Zannah.

‘Mummy and I can do the decorations,' said Isis. ‘For the marquee. We're good at decorating things.'

‘I'm sure you are, dear,' said Charlotte. ‘It'll look wonderful.' She turned to Zannah and added, ‘I want this to be my present to you and Adrian. The house and garden. And I insist on paying for the hire of the marquee.'

Zannah went to kiss her. ‘I'm speechless,' she said, wiping away a tear. ‘Oh, God, I'm crying, Charlotte. You're so good to me.'

‘It's my great pleasure.' Charlotte hugged her tight. ‘I love you, Zannah. Your wedding day must be exactly as you want it to be. Be happy.'

‘I am happy. I can't wait to tell Adrian. And Ma, on
Saturday when she comes to lunch. And Maureen. I'm sure she'll love the idea once she hears about it.'

Charlotte wasn't convinced of that, but she said nothing. Let Zannah have a few days of pleasurable anticipation.

‘Edie,' Zannah said, ‘I meant to ask you before, but it went out of my head. What should I do about arranging a church? I'm useless when it comes to churches, I'm afraid. Would you help me?'

Edie put her knitting down on her lap and said, ‘If you're not in a hurry, I can take you with me to midweek evensong round the corner at St James's. You must have passed it a thousand times on your way here. I often go midweek. It's a very nice service.'

Zannah blushed. ‘I feel so guilty. I have noticed the church, you're right, but without seeing it, really. Can you introduce me to the vicar? Or whoever it is who agrees to marry people. Honestly, I am sorry for being so ignorant, Edie.'

‘Never mind,' said Edie. ‘Better late than never.' She glanced at her watch. ‘I'll go upstairs and get ready. We'll leave in twenty minutes.'

‘I'm very grateful,' Zannah said. ‘I hope I'm properly dressed for church.'

‘You look lovely,' Edie said. She picked up a flowered bag from the flagstones, thrust her knitting into it, stood up and made her way into the house.

*

Even though she only went into them at Christmas and Easter, Zannah had an idealised notion of churches and strong opinions about what she liked when it came to ecclesiastical architecture. She hadn't given proper attention to St James's, that was true, but she adored visiting cathedrals and abbeys as a tourist if not as a believer. She liked church decor – ornate altar screens, statuary, carved wooden pews and especially stained-glass windows. Colouring glass and using it to make
pictures was, she reckoned, one of the best ideas any artist had ever had. She often wondered who'd first thought of doing such a brilliant thing. As she and Edie walked sedately along the pavement and round the corner (the church really was very close to Charlotte's house) she found herself wishing most fervently that it might be suitable. How convenient for the guests to be able to walk from the service to the reception!

St James's occupied a large corner plot, and the grounds were extensive. Zannah noticed the trees first: chestnuts and plane trees and a lot of lawn going up to the church porch. A traditional shape, vaguely Victorian Gothic, greyish brick, and best of all, a spire. There's something about a spire, Zannah thought, that's just that little bit more churchy and elegant than a squarish tower. This church even had a few rather undersized flying buttresses.

Inside, there was a vaulted roof, and glorious stained glass everywhere. The whole building was beautifully light and airy and the evening sun was shining in through the west window, making coloured patterns on the floor. The music coming from the organ loft filled the space and Zannah listened to it with growing elation. It would be marvellous. It would be splendid. She imagined the flowers that she'd make sure were banked there, and there, and perhaps she would copy the Prince of Wales and put a tree or two on either side of the big wooden doors. The vicar … Edie had said she'd introduce Zannah to him at the end of the service … had a pleasant voice and looked nice, too, like everyone's idea of an elderly uncle. She wished Adrian were there. He would love it. He was bound to. She could honestly tell him the church was exactly what she'd dreamed about.