The Girl From Barefoot House (56 page)

Every single person they knew was coming to the reception, which would be held in Mosely Drive – Josie’s staff, Jack’s friends and their neighbours either side so they wouldn’t complain about the noise. Josie didn’t bother to count the numbers. She ordered enough food and drink for a hundred and fifty, hoping there’d be enough and that the weather would be fine so people could go in the garden. If everyone had to stay inside, they wouldn’t be able to breathe.

The Irish group were coming, as were Greg and his jazz band. Francie was bringing his sixties records, and Josie made sure there was a spare stylus for the turntable on the music centre.

She had never known a week like it before in her life. The air tingled with bitter-sweet excitement. Her husband was dying, her daughter was getting married and she never seemed to be without a lump in her throat. The phone scarcely stopped ringing; people kept dropping in with wedding presents. She had Jack try on his suits and discovered they were all too big, so a tailor was persuaded to come round and measure for alterations. He took away the mid-grey flannel she liked best, and promised to have it ready by Friday morning. He was so nice and helpful that she invited him to the wedding.

There was a posy to order for Dinah, buttonholes for
the guests, flowers for the house, bedrooms to get ready. She still hadn’t bought herself an outfit. A problem cropped up at Barefoot House and she told them she didn’t want to know. The firm could go bankrupt for all she cared. This coming Friday represented a full stop in her life, and she didn’t give a damn what happened afterwards.

Dinah arrived with Oliver and Christopher on Tuesday, Dottie on Wednesday to ‘give a hand’. Peter wasn’t coming till Thursday evening.

‘Did you give him that letter to post?’ Josie said to Dinah anxiously. ‘It’s got to have a London postmark.’

‘He’s posting it Thursday morning.’

Josie gazed out of the window, where Jack was sitting on a bench with Oliver. Her heart turned over. There was hardly anything left of him. His face was calm, as if he were at peace with himself. With each day that passed she sensed he was growing further and further away, from her, from everyone, that he was holding himself together until Friday.

She took Dinah and the children to the fairy glen. ‘I used to bring you in a great big pram when you were Christopher’s age,’ she told her daughter. The baby was fast asleep in his carrycot on wheels, which would have been dead useful when she’d lived in Princes Avenue. Oliver chased the ducks, and Josie showed Dinah the bench where she’d had the argument with Ben, and where Daisy Kavanagh had been sitting the morning she’d rescued her from a great dilemma.

‘What sort of dilemma?’ Dinah wanted to know.

‘I can’t remember now,’ her mother lied. It had been all to do with Uncle Vince, and Josie found it hard to believe she was still the same person who’d lived in Machin Street with the man who had been both her
uncle and her father. Or the little girl from Huskisson Street whose mam was on the game. She hardly ever thought about Mam these days, yet there’d been a time when she’d thought of her every day.

‘Mum, what’s wrong? You look as if you’re going to cry.’

‘I dunno, luv. It’s the passing of time, growing old. It’s all so terribly
sad
. Oh,’ she cried angrily, ‘I wish people didn’t have to die!’

‘But then there’d be no space for babies to be born.’ Dinah sounded very practical. ‘One of these days Peter and I will die, by which time our children will have had children. Even this one in here.’ She patted her stomach. ‘It’s the way of the world, Mum.’

‘There’s still no reason why it has to be so bloody
sad
.’

She went shopping alone and bought a dress of ivory sculptured velvet, very fine. The material clung to her hips, swirling around her ankles in soft folds. Her own wedding outfit had been pink velvet, she remembered, and she’d got it in a thrift shop. When Dinah’s wedding was over, she would put this dress away and never wear it again, nor the delicate, high-heeled, strappy shoes and the hat that was like a large flower, the petals framing her face. She was buying everything especially for Jack.

‘You’ll look more like the bride than the real one,’ Dottie commented when Josie got home and showed her everything.

‘Dinah won’t mind.’ Dinah had decided on a plain blue suit that would ‘do again’. ‘What will you be wearing, Dottie?’ She was praying that one of the country’s bestselling novelists didn’t intend to turn up to the wedding in her customary leather jacket and jeans.

Dottie must have guessed her thoughts. She hooted
raucously. ‘I won’t let you down, Jose. There’s a smart check suit hanging in the wardrobe.’ She winked. ‘I got it in Harrods. By the way, has Lynne told you not to expect a book from me next year?’

‘No, but I’ve deliberately cut meself off from Barefoot House all week.’ That could have been the problem they’d wanted to discuss the other day. Josie didn’t care if Dottie never wrote another book again.

‘Don’t you want to know why?’ Dottie pretended to look hurt.

‘Of course, Dottie. Why can’t I expect a book from you next year?’

‘Because I’m trekking round the world, that’s why.’ The small eyes twinkled wickedly.

‘Trekking!’ Josie giggled. ‘In a pith helmet and khaki shorts?’

‘Forget about the helmet, but I’ve already got the shorts. And, no, I’m not really trekking, but I’m going to visit the most out-of-the-way places where there’s no chance of being murdered or kidnapped, so Barefoot House doesn’t have to worry about paying a ransom.’ Dottie sighed rapturously. ‘I intend to cross America by Greyhound bus, travel through Canada by train, learn to play the didgeridoo in Australia. I’m fifty-five, Josie, same as you, and I’ve never seen an iceberg in the flesh, walked through a jungle, crossed a desert on a camel, sailed down the Nile. Before I get too old I want to do every single one of those things, and a few more I haven’t mentioned.’

Josie said it sounded marvellous, and she was looking forward to lots of postcards, though she was unable to imagine a time beyond Friday.

She woke at half six on the day Dinah was to marry Peter
Kavanagh. The glimmer of light showing between the curtains looked ominously dull. When she got out of bed to look out of the window, her worst suspicious were confirmed. It was raining, not heavily but a steady drizzle, and dark clouds rolled across the leaden sky.

‘What’s it like?’ Jack was struggling to sit up.

‘Horrible!’

‘It’s only early. There’s plenty of time for it to improve.’

Josie got back into bed and curled up against him. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Great.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to going to the register office?’

He looked at her, amused. ‘I just said I felt great. I mean it, Jose. This is a day I never in my widest dreams thought would happen. My daughter is getting married and I’m giving her away.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Thank you for the last five years, sweetheart.’

‘Thank
you
, Jack. They’ve been wonderful.’

They stayed leaning against the pillows for quite a while, neither speaking. Questions chased each other through Josie’s head. How many more times will I do this? How many more times will I hear him call me ‘sweetheart’? They were questions to which she didn’t want an answer.

The post came. There was a letter for Jack with a London postmark. Josie had typed the envelope herself a few days before. He was in the bathroom, no doubt having the first drink of the day. For some reason he had always shut himself away for the early morning drinks. She knocked on the door and sang out, ‘Letter for you. I’ll put it on your desk.’

By nine o’clock the sun was struggling to come out.
By ten it was a shimmering golden ball, and the clouds had miraculously disappeared. The garden was like a fairy tale, engulfed in a mist of steam as everything began to dry in the heat. Dinah’s posy and the buttonholes were delivered, along with a great heap of russet chrysanthemums. Josie mustered every vase she possessed and arranged them around the house. The caterers were bringing the buffet while the wedding was in progress – the woman next door would let them in. Jack still hadn’t opened his letter.

She went with Dinah for a shampoo and set, and Dottie looked after the children – nothing on earth could persuade Dottie inside a hairdresser’s. Peter had stayed the night with his father. It had been Josie’s idea. ‘It’s unlucky for the groom to see the bride before the wedding,’ she stated. Dinah thought the idea daft. They’d been living together for years and had two children and another on the way. ‘Don’t tempt fate, luv,’ Josie warned.

‘Oh,
Mum
,’ Dinah said impatiently, but nevertheless agreed.

They returned from the hairdresser’s to find the tailor had delivered Jack’s suit. Jack was in the shower, and emerged shortly afterwards, wearing the trousers and a new white shirt, a leather belt around his much too narrow waist. He looked ten years younger, and fitter than he’d done in weeks. There was colour in his cheeks, and he held himself sternly erect. ‘Which tie, do you think?’ He held up three.

‘Let Dinah choose, it’s her wedding.’

Dinah frowned at the ties. ‘The light grey one, Dad.’ She went to give Christopher his midday feed.

‘She called me “Dad”.’ Jack’s smile was sweet and grateful. ‘Your hair looks nice.’

‘I thought I’d have it tucked behind me ears for a change. It’ll look better with the hat.’

‘When am I going to see this incredible hat?’

‘Later, when I’m completely ready. Who was that letter from?’ she asked casually.

‘I haven’t opened it yet. Probably an acknowledgement from one of the theatres for my play.’

Josie looked at her watch and screamed. A quarter past one! ‘I’d better get changed.’

She took particular care with her make-up, outlining her eyes with black kohl, which she hadn’t done in years, smoothing pale gold shadow on her lids, giving the lashes several coats of mascara. She lightly powdered her face, stroked her cheeks with blusher, painted her lips a shade similar to the chrysanthemums that filled the house. There were new tights, very pale, bought specially to go with the ivory dress. No need for a slip as the dress was lined. The cold material was icy when she put it on, making her shiver. The strappy shoes felt uncomfortable straight away, but she didn’t care because they went perfectly with the dress. She searched through her jewellery box for Louisa’s amber pendant, and the earrings Jack had given her to match. Finally, the hat, which cast shadows over her face, making her look enigmatic and aloof, like Greta Garbo.

She was ready, and her full-length reflection stared back at her from the wardrobe mirror. I
am
beautiful, she thought, but I will never be as beautiful again as I am today.

Jack was in his study. There was no sign of the letter that she was so anxious for him to open. ‘How do I look?’ She gave a little twirl.

He caught his breath, and the expression of tender, naked love on his face made her heart turn over. His lips
trembled slightly when he smiled. ‘Was that a Liverpool accent I just heard?’

She remembered the way his dark eyes had smiled into hers when he’d asked the same question on the steps of Best Cellar. ‘Yes,’ she replied now, as she had done then.

‘Please, can I kiss you? I haven’t kissed a girl from Liverpool in years.’ He took her in his arms, ever so gently.

‘I can’t remember what I said then.’ She rested her cheek against his. ‘It’s thirty-five years since the night we met.’

‘I asked your name and where you came from. You said you were Josie Flynn from Penny Lane. I decided there and then to change your name.’

She didn’t think that was true. ‘Have I ever told you I’d been watching you for ages?’ Watching the handsome, animated young man across the tables of the basement coffee-bar in New York.

‘Hmm. We only met because I’d forgotten my coat.’

And if he hadn’t! Oh, what would have happened then? Things couldn’t possibly have turned out more tragically if they’d both married someone else. Yet there was nowhere else on earth she’d sooner be at this moment than in the arms of Jack Coltrane.

He seemed to have found a mysterious inner strength. His voice in the registry office was steady when he gave his daughter to Peter Kavanagh. He firmly held Josie’s arm for the photographs, kissed Dinah, shook hands with Peter and Ben, shared a joke with Dottie and Francie.

They went back to Mosely Drive. Guests had already started to arrive. Champagne was opened, toasts were drunk, food began to rapidly disappear. Mona, Liam and Dave played Irish songs and encouraged everyone to join in the choruses. Greg and his group of grey-haired
musicians belted out ‘Sidewalk Blues’, ‘Beale Street Blues’, ‘Snake Rag’ … Francie put on his Beatles records, Dottie did an imitation of Mrs Thatcher, the tailor, whose name was Maurice Cohen, sang a haunting Yiddish ballad, and quite a few people cried.

The day wore on. Josie had removed her hat and shoes, Dinah had combed her hair loose and changed from the blue suit into something lilac and filmy. She looked heartbreakingly lovely.

Dusk began to fall, music continued to play, the children went to bed, and everyone lit the hundreds of candles which had been placed inside the house and in the garden, and it was like walking through stars.

But none of the stars shone as brightly as Jack. Josie couldn’t take her eyes off the man she had married. He seemed almost to float among the guests, a glass in his hand, everyone anxious to have a word with him, just catch his eye. Perhaps she had drunk too much, perhaps time was going backwards, but the more she watched, the younger he seemed to be, as if a miracle was happening.

‘He’s okay.’ Ben appeared at her side, slightly tipsy. He nodded towards Jack. ‘He’s okay.’

‘I know, Ben.’ She linked his arm in hers. ‘Can we be friends?’

‘Always, Jose. Always.’

Midnight. People started to leave. They shook Jack’s hand, pressed his shoulder, even hugged him, as if the men knew this was the last time they would see this very special person they regarded as their best friend and the women the lover they had always dreamed of.