Four Weddings and a Fiasco. Catherine Ferguson
Bloody hell, what’s wrong with me?
Cheeks well alight by this time, I raise my hand and march off with the soggy parcel under my arm, painfully aware I’ve left him bemused. Probably wondering what sort of a halfwit climbs over the fence instead of using the gate like most normal people.
It’s only when I’ve turned the corner at the bottom of the street that it occurs to me I can’t possibly send the album off in this wrecked brown paper packaging.
But I can’t just do a U-turn. What if Runner Man is still watching? What if I have to cheerfully explain that I actually hadn’t noticed the shagging dirty marks and the wodge of something revolting that’s completely obscuring the address?
I sidle back to the corner and, feeling like a total fruit loop who’s been allowed out for the day, peer furtively along the street, clutching my damp parcel.
Phew! The coast is clear.
He must have run the other way.
‘I’d use the gate next time,’ says a voice behind me, making me jump.
Runner Man speeds past me with a cool, backwards wave, and slows to cross the road.
He half-turns his head and grins. ‘A fence can get caught in all sorts of tricky places.’
It’s almost March.
Every day this week, the residents of Willows Edge have awoken to blue skies and a silvery frost on the trees at the edge of the village green and on the roof of the cricket pavilion.
But as I walk the familiar route to the little row of shops that borders the green, I can see signs that spring is on its way. Little clumps of crocuses, in brilliant shades of violet and egg yolk yellow, are bravely defying the cold snap, and the daffodils are beginning to push through.
As a child growing up in the idyllically pretty village of Willows Edge, I took my surroundings completely for granted.
I wasn’t especially interested in the way the houses in the village centre were ranged so picturesquely around the village green and how the row of stylish and colourfully painted shops lured customers in with their tempting window displays. People came in from neighbouring villages to shop for their weekend croissants and Danish pastries at the family-owned bakery; to sip hot chocolate in the welcoming warmth of Rosa’s coffee shop; eat their ploughman’s at The Bunch of Grapes, just off the main street; and to wander into the pretty church with its ancient bell tower and low porch, set back from the green and shaded by willow trees.
The greengrocer’s on the main street was forced to close when people started shopping at the new express supermarket, but apart from that, the village has managed to retain all its charm.
It wasn’t until I moved away, first to college then to London for work, that I started looking at Willows Edge in a new light and realising how special it actually was.
This afternoon, my destination is the florist’s.
The shop owner, appropriately named Daisy, greets me with a cheerful smile.
Daisy is about my age with long dark hair in a ponytail and her one-year-old, Luke, almost permanently welded to her hip. Like the bakery, the florist’s is a family-owned business and Daisy recently took over the reins.
‘Hi Katy. How’s things? Are you doing Ron and Andrea’s wedding?’
‘I am indeed.’ I smile at her. ‘Three weeks on Saturday. You?’
Daisy has a crack of dawn start on wedding days, driving up to the London flower markets to buy her blooms dewy-fresh.
She nods and hoists Luke higher on her hip. ‘It’s going to be a wedding with a difference by all accounts.’
Luke gurgles and holds out a pudgy fist towards me.
‘It certainly is, Lukie,’ I say in a sing-song voice, bending towards him and tickling his cheek.
He biffs me smartly on the nose. It takes me by surprise and makes my eyes water.
‘Celebrity-style, I hear,’ says Daisy, after gently reprimanding Luke. ‘Are you going in fancy dress?’
I grin. ‘No, thank goodness. I’ll be blending into the background, as usual.’
‘Well, what can I do you for today?’ She places Luke in his bouncy chair and clips him in.
I glance around at the floral displays, breathing in the heady mix of scents and wondering how much a small bunch of freesias will cost. I hate having to skimp when it comes to my best friend’s birthday, but I know Mallory understands. In fact, she’d tell me off if I spent too much on her.
Mallory is similarly strapped for cash and her motto, as regards gifts, is always brisk and practical. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’ (Her thoughts usually originate in charity shops, but that’s fine by me because she’s great at hunting down amazing birthday presents that you’d never, ever guess were second-hand.)
Not only is Mallory a great friend, she also assists me at weddings, gathering folk together so all I have to think about is taking the photos. For a while, after Sienna left, I struggled on alone, trying to manage without an assistant. But then Mallory stepped into the breach, offering to help out when she could. (She runs her own on-line vintage clothing business, so she can generally be fairly flexible.)
Mallory lives at Newington Hall, a huge and draughty cavern of a place belonging to her parents, Roddy and Eleanor Swann. They’re practically never there, so she rattles around it on her own. The house was quite clearly magnificent in its heyday but now the roof leaks into buckets dotted around the place and many of the window frames are sadly rotting.
Taking my freesias, I get in the car and set off to see the birthday girl.
Even though my temperamental little Fiesta has been fixed, I find I’m still tensing up as I drive along, waiting for the dreaded knocking sound that led me to the garage in the first place. But so far, so good …
Newington Hall is situated five miles outside the village of Willows Edge, and as I turn in and bump along the potholed driveway, I can’t help wondering how on earth Gareth, the gardener, manages to keep the fairly substantial grounds from running completely wild. A much younger man would struggle, never mind someone in his fifties, however fit and strong he might be.
I park up and get out of the car, walking round to the back entrance, which everyone uses, and bracing myself for the challenge of gaining entry. The doorbell there doesn’t actually work, which means that unless Mallory is in the kitchen, or at least in one of the ground-floor rooms, you haven’t much chance of being heard. Unless you graze your knuckles knocking and yell ‘hello-o-o!’ through the letter box. Which is what I do.
Today, the door opens almost immediately and Mallory appears.
‘No need to shout, darling,’ she laughs, tossing back her long, strawberry blonde hair and wiping her hands down the front of her flower-sprigged dress.
I grin and open my mouth to say, ‘Well, actually, I do.’ But my words are drowned out by a vast sucking sound coming from somewhere in the chilly depths of the house. The noise is getting louder and angrier by the second.
‘Blast! The coffee.’ Mallory rushes off to rescue the ancient stove-top beast, and I follow her down the flagstoned corridor into the huge kitchen.
Despite the enormously high ceiling, it’s cosy in here after the biting March wind outside. Actually, it’s the only warm room in the house. The rest of it is like a massive, twelve-bedroom fridge that instantly freezes your breath and gives you ice-encrusted eyebrows. Okay, I exaggerate slightly – I think there might be eight bedrooms –- but not much, believe me.
‘Crikey.