The World is a Wedding (2 page)

‘And to think you are wearing the same muslin dress as I wore, the one belonging to your great-grandmother,' her mother said, arranging the flowers in her hand. ‘That reminds me, I have a small gift for you.' She went into White Hook and Flora stood waiting, looking at the large, old house that was her home, and could not imagine having another home. Her mother returned with a neat box wrapped in dark green ribbon. ‘It is for you, now you are almost married.'

Flora carefully removed the ribbon and brown paper, opened the glossy black box and pulled out a lipstick in a pale, pearly pink.

‘It's for you to wear today,' her mother explained. ‘Something new to go with the something old—the wedding dress—if you think you would like to use it.'

‘I'll try it,' Flora Myffanwy said, carefully dragging the lipstick across her lips.

‘If ever there is a day a woman can begin wearing lipstick,' her mother said, ‘it is surely her wedding day.'

 

‘Tell out my soul, the greatness of the Lord,'
 
the reverend roared, and Handel Evans hit the organ chords as if his life depended on it. Wilfred stood at the altar next to Flora Myffanwy and sang, strong and deep, with his shoulders back and head high, losing himself in the voices of those he loved surrounding him. He sang with all his might so that his heart was full of lightness and he felt he could float above Stepaside and Narberth and be singing with the stars. His joy was as plain as the written sign.

When the final thunderous organ chord had faded to a slow echo and the Benediction had been given, Wilfred, beaming, held out his arm for Flora to take and they walked together down the aisle to the church door. These are our first steps, he thought, of a long journey.

Wilfred and Flora Myffanwy stepped out into the sunlight to the sound of voices raised in a cheer. A shower of rice confetti landed with a pitter-patter on Wilfred's top hat and tails. The rice fell helter-skelter onto his shoulders and into Flora Myffanwy's bouquet, nestling among the lilies and the ivy. Small children from the local cottages strewed wine-red camellia and rose petals at their feet for the bride and groom to walk on.

‘Here's the bride and groom,' Jeffrey announced. ‘They look a masterpiece.'

Wilfred and Flora stood outside the small chapel in Stepaside. Wilfred noticed the quivering aspens and wild rambling roses. It was a glorious day, the sun was shining and the sea in the distance was still. A blackbird was putting loops and twists in his voice and a solitary plump bee hovered about the honeysuckle. The black clothes and the white linen of the guests were very plain against the green of the trees and the silvery-grey of the chapel.

‘There's one thing I will say, and it is this,' Mrs. Annie Evans stated. ‘There's children you'll have, with all this rice thrown.' Men in bowler hats and top hats nodded in agreement, as did the ladies in bonnets with feathers in them.

‘It's better than the old shoes of tradition they threw at my wedding,' Willie the Post called, pulling Mrs. Willie the Post towards him. ‘We're only happy because I'm deaf and my wife is blind.'

‘Wondrous sermon. The reverend is like Milton and Cromwell rolled into one,' Wilfred overheard Handel Evans comment.

‘Aye,' Dai the Mint replied. ‘There's no flies on that bugger.'

Arthur Squibs of Arthur Squibs Studios of Tenby emerged from the gathering, lugging his cumbersome camera.

‘Good afternoon, Mr. Price. Good afternoon, Mrs. Edwards. Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Price.' He doffed his bowler hat in greeting. He gazed up at the light of the sun, then set up his heavy wood and brass camera on a tripod.

‘Now, Mr. Price and Mrs. Melbourne Edwards, if you would stand next to your son and daughter respectively.'

His da, smelling of mothballs and boot polish, stood beside Wilfred, his fine hair fluffing out around his hat, as white as if the snow had fallen in it. Mrs. Melbourne Edwards, holding a new handbag, stood next to Flora. Wilfred watched his da attempting to straighten up.

The Reverend Waldo Williams MA (Oxon.) sashayed forward, his cassock swaying about him freely, with two simple wooden chairs for his da and Mrs. Melbourne Edwards. His da sat down, as if resting from a long journey taken and completed.

‘Wilfred, move closer,' Arthur Squibs said. Wilfred leaned towards Flora. Flora smoothed the wisps of brown hair springing loose from the delicate white veil placed over her head.

‘There's beautiful the bride is,' said Mrs. Bell Evans with admiration.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Evans,' Flora replied quietly.

‘There's proud you must be of your daughter, Mrs. Edwards.' Mrs. Edwards swallowed visibly, unable to reply.

‘Look straight ahead,' the photographer advised, clapping his hands to attract their attention. Flora Myffanwy stood by Wilfred, her shy eyes smiling. Wilfred stood tall and upright in his best suit.

‘Stand still, if you please.' Mr. Arthur Squibs moved his large camera and tripod slightly to the left, hid his head under the thick cloth and emerged, moving the camera nearer again. He stood beside the camera, like a magician about to capture their souls. The photograph was eventually taken.

‘There are photographs, and then there are . . . photographs,' Mr. Squibs said enigmatically, ‘and
that
was a photograph.' Then: ‘One more picture, please. It is important to have two of everything that is important to have,' he announced to the baffled gathering, adding, ‘like kidneys.' He took a cloth from his waistcoat pocket and rubbed the camera lens vigorously. ‘Now, keep still, don't move a muscle,' he instructed. ‘This is a ten-second exposure. Talk among yourselves, ladies and gentlemen . . .' Arthur Squibs pressed the shutter. ‘One second, two seconds . . .'

Wilfred stood as still as he could. This was a proper wedding in an ancient chapel, and standing next to him was the woman he wanted as his wife. Out of the corner of his eye he looked at Flora Myffawny—beauty was around her like lavender—and thought to himself that this was the happiest day of his life. And there was the night to come as well. He felt the muscles in his belly contract and the long muscles heat and flare inside him. It would be the happiest night of his life, too, when the air between them was hot. He had not yet had conjugal relations and did not know the exact ins and out of these things, but he had lain in bed with a woman before and he felt confident this practise would hold him in good stead tonight. He glanced at Flora Myffanwy.

‘Wilfred, you're twitching!' Arthur Squibs reprimanded. ‘Six seconds and seven seconds . . .'

Flora was looking at the camera lens with her solemn beauty and serious eyes. It wasn't always like this at a wedding, Wilfred knew. But he wouldn't think about that today. That was the past. Whomever else he had professed to love, honour and obey was gone. He would dwell on it no more. He would put it behind him. Flora was his wife now and he couldn't be happier. To think that the days earlier in the year had been so dark, so imprisoning, when all had seemed lost . . . and now here he was.

And Flora had loved before, but the chap had died in that dreadful war and so that was all over and they could both begin a new life. The past was gone for Flora, too. She loved
him
now. He must remember Mr. Ogmore Auden's advice. Mr. Auden had asked him, when he was an apprentice undertaker: ‘Do you know the secret to a happy life?'

‘No, Mr. Auden,' he'd replied.

‘Two words: “Yes, dear”.'

Wilfred decided, there and then, that he would call Flora Myffanwy ‘dear' and he hoped that she would like that. It was important to call one's wife ‘dear'. It was called a term of endearment, Wilfred knew, and was the opposite of a term of abuse. One would never call one's wife a term of abuse. That was unthinkable.

‘Nine seconds and ten seconds,' Arthur Squibs counted. There was the fat click of the camera then a fizz of the photograph being taken. A dignified round of applause broke out.

I will kiss her cheek, he thought to himself, and felt the gentle warmth of her skin.

‘There is good to have flowers so near you,' Wilfred remarked on Flora's posy. ‘Dear,' he added. Flora looked up at him quietly. Still waters run deep, he thought to himself, though she had said the only words that mattered to Wilfred: ‘I do,' and in the gentlest voice he could ever imagine. Wilfred put his hand tenderly around her small warm waist and looked at the woman he could almost barely believe existed. And he could see the smile coming in her eyes. Wilfred was aware that he knew very little about women, as his mother had died on the fourth day of his life. Women were different from men. He had already noticed, and he'd only been married five minutes.

‘Shall the bride throw the bouquet?' Mrs. Willie the Post suggested.

‘Those flowers are more beautiful than poetry,' Mrs. Cadwallader remarked.

‘There's an abundation of lilies for you,' Mrs. Annie Evans agreed, ‘and with the smell of the scent of paradise.'

‘Jeffrey, if you catch the bouquet it will be your wedding next,' Mrs. Willie the Post encouraged.

‘Good God Almighty, there's a thought!' Handel Evans retorted.

Flora smiled, turned her back to the expectant crowd but the bouquet slipped from her hands, falling onto the soft grass. Wilfred, removing his top hat, bent down to pick it up.

‘Oh,' she said, blushing a little.

‘Let me. Dear,' he offered, picking up the bouquet and handing back the slightly crushed lilies. Flora took the flowers and threw them carefully behind her to a cheer of joy and excitement from the anticipating crowd.

London, midsummer 1925

 

 

T
he Ritz is a machine that manufactures tranquillity.' The butler pulled a fat gold watch from his waistcoat and noted the time. He continued: ‘A beautiful, purring machine oiled by money and cleaned by maids. Guests create chaos, the maids provide order.'

Grace held her hands protectively in front of herself and watched while the butler smoothed the shining bald dome of his head with a starched handkerchief, then drew the blinds to cut out the summer sun.

‘So you want to work in the Ritz.'

Grace nodded.

The butler leaned back on his mahogany desk-chair and peered at Grace over his half-moon spectacles. ‘You are not alone. In these times of increasing unemployment,' he pontificated, ‘many girls come from the provinces—and the Valleys,' he flicked a hand at her, ‘to earn money so their brothers and sisters can eat. And,' he folded his arms, ‘because a certain breed of young girl likes to serve—and ape—the rich.' He asked sharply, ‘Have you worked as a servant before? Are you a servant?'

‘No.' Grace waited while the butler refolded his handkerchief and dabbed the sweat on his jowls.

‘What have you done?'

What, indeed, had Grace done? She had cooked and cleaned under her mother's critical eye, she had read novels and she had kept bees, and the keeping of bees was what she was most proud of. The honey she'd collected from her hive, then sold, was a rich amber and flecked with pollen, but she had no illusions: beekeeping was fruitless to her here. She had been in the city only a few days but she doubted there were any honeybees in London; there were so few flowers. But she was alone and must earn her own money.

‘Are you in good health?' the butler enquired, in response to her silence.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘In which case, Mrs. . . . ?' He looked down at his papers and straightened his glasses.

‘Rice,' Grace mumbled, feeling herself tense from telling a lie.

‘And am I to suppose that you are a war widow?' he asked with a weary sigh.

Grace nodded.

‘In which case, Mrs. Rice, you will be a chambermaid. You'll work six and a half days a week. One week's holiday a year—unpaid, of course. Stand up straight, girl.'

Grace stood up straighter.

‘Report to the head housekeeper's office in two hours' time, at six o'clock sharp. She will apportion you your uniform. You will sleep in the maids' dormitory from tonight and begin work in the morning.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘No visitors in the dormitory. On pain of immediate dismissal.'

Grace nodded; she expected no visitors.

‘You are dismissed.'

 

Grace wandered the labyrinthine, muggy streets behind the Ritz, unwilling to venture far, frightened she would be late returning to the hotel. As she walked along the pavements, Grace thought how much had happened, and how quickly: within a matter of weeks she had married, divorced, left home and now become a maid. It was as if her life had been suddenly concertinaed, when before it had been an expanse of sameness. Grace was bewildered, numb and in shock, and amidst these changes, all she seemed able to understand was the unstoppable forwardness of life.

She walked until she found a small ladies' dress shop squashed between a tobacconist's and an Italian café. The bell above the door rang shrilly when Grace entered and she tentatively browsed while the assistant finished serving a woman with a Pekingese dog, who was purchasing a clutch bag embroidered with King Tutankhamun.

‘Customers are asked to refrain from opening the cabinet drawers,' the shop assistant announced with a tight smile. ‘Madam is looking for a corset?'

Grace wanted to turn and walk out of the door, away from this shop hidden behind Piccadilly, its window crowded with mannequins—armless, legless, headless figures which suggested that a butchering of the body was needed to buy clothes here—but the shop assistant quickly steered her into a changing room, in which stood yet another mannequin, like a cloth Venus de Milo.

‘Madam should try a Rayon Corset first. It has steel stays,' pronounced the woman, standing close to the curtain dividing them. Shortly, a hand poked through the dusty, ruched curtain and gave her a corset. Grace yanked her dress down and took the rolled-up piece of elasticated fabric.