Olivia was ruthless in her pursuit of perfection and had reduced more than one business owner to tears in the process. Thank God, Verity was the last child because Hal was sure that no sane person would agree to work for Olivia again, unless massively compensated for their troubles. For his part, he’d prefer just to arrive at the church, sing a few hymns, toast the happy couple and then disappear. He also knew that it was unlikely to happen and that he must endure it as best he could. Even if it displeased Olivia, there was still only twenty-four hours in a day and he only had to get through them once.
***
Abigail returned home from a long day standing on her feet, tending to the thinning locks of elderly ladies in the small hairdresser’s down the road. It had been there since she was a child, and where she had routinely gone to have her hair cut until the fateful day she’d gone for the Chelsea. The set-up had never changed; shampoo and set or a blue rinse, and the ladies came as much for the treatment as for the company. They sat under the hooded driers with curlers in their hair and gossiped themselves silly, whilst they flicked through dog-eared copies of Women’s Weekly.
Abigail was a talented hairdresser, but somehow this was comforting. She had known these old duchesses for as long as she could remember. They’d cover their newly-set hair with headscarves to preserve it from the wind, and call her “dear” as they slipped a pound tip into the pocket of her work bib. She’d smile, say thank you and collect them in a jar she kept in the broom cupboard out the back.
When she had enough tips, she’d treat Rory to a trip to the gloriously named Silver Screen cinema in Gaol Lane, down the side of the museum. It sounded so Hollywood, but it was about the size of a living room! Clearly the town planners had decided, when they agreed to such a tiny venue, that Dovorians didn’t have an appetite for popular culture, and then wondered why people went to Canterbury to spend their money. Still, she couldn’t complain, it was a rare treat at the best of times and they always enjoyed themselves.
She could have gone and worked for a trendy salon and explored her creative side, or gone out on her own, but she didn’t because she was happy where she was.
When she first entered the kitchen, she hadn’t noticed the missing envelope. She pottered around, dodging Darcy, who thought every moment was dinner time, tidying up the mess that had been left all day.
Rory came in, sat at the small square table and read his school reading book out loud. Abigail corrected his pronunciation as she switched between turning the chops under the grill and opening a can of mixed veg. Ellie returned from seeing her best friend, Tiffany, and Abi noticed, with a jaundiced eye, that her school skirt was now the regulation knee-length whereas that morning, as Ellie had hurried past the salon, it had been most definitely mid-thigh.
Ellie slung her bag onto the back of the chair and grabbed a bag of crisps from the basket on top of the fridge. Then the arguing started. Despite the difference of seven years, Ellie and Rory could go at it hammer and tongs.
Abigail slammed down the fork she was using to turn the chops and told them to pack it in. As she chastised Ellie for being the oldest and therefore of knowing better, her eyes wandered to the vacant spot behind Ellie’s ear where the envelope had been propped up.
“Where’s that invite gone?” She pointed to the space with the fork.
Ellie poked out her tongue at Rory, then said,
“I posted it.”
“I posted it,” mimicked Rory.
“Rory,” snapped Ellie.
“Rory,” said Rory, in a singsong voice.
“Muuummm!”
Abigail’s mind was racing. She shook off the sound of their bickering.
“You what? When?”
Ellie shrugged and clipped Rory’s knuckles lightly with a spoon, which sent him into paroxysms of imagined pain, designed to work on his mother’s instincts and get his sister into trouble. Abigail saw but didn’t register the spat.
“Ellie, when?”
“This morning.”
Abigail groaned.
“What?” Ellie said, her eyes opened expressively wide, her shoulders hunched and her arms spread out. “Chill out, just a letter. God.” She snatched Rory’s book from him and ran out of the kitchen with her brother in hot pursuit. Darcy, always ready for a game of chase, hurtled through the kitchen and the three of them rushed upstairs to great noise and slamming of doors.
Abigail threw the fork angrily into the washing-up water and lit a cigarette, her mind was frantic. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Was the address obscure enough to fool the Post Office? What would happen if Hal came home? She stopped herself just in time. There was nothing she could do about it now. Ellie, bless her, had tried to be helpful and with a fourteen-year-old she had to be grateful for any spontaneous acts of helpfulness she could get. If Hal, by some fluke, got the invite and decided to trek halfway across the country for a lousy school reunion then she’d do what she always did, she’d deal with it.
***
“The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You keep going, pretending it’s all fine. Do what her family wants. Ignoring your own tribe and not standing up for yourself...” Hal was dropping Michael back at the surgery, where Michael kept the flat above.
Hal had been called out to a calving and Michael, his appointments cleared, had gone along for the ride. From here, Hal was off to spend the weekend at his in-laws, to endure the wedding day that was now less than twenty-four hours away.
“It’s not that easy,” Hal interjected.
“I know! We’re blokes! This much self-awareness I’m going to have to lie down. It’s not natural.” Michael pulled out his ‘baccy tin and began to roll a smoke. “As me gran used to say, there’s
no rich men in the churchyard. Houses... they’re just bricks and mortar.”
He lit the rollie and took a puff. He looked around the small car park and towards the practice as if he would find inspiration for what he needed to say there. Then he glanced back at Hal who hadn’t made any move to drive away. Michael nodded.
“Flamin’ heck. I’m going to sound like a right pansy saying this, yeah, but you... something’s going on here.” He tapped Hal’s temple to demonstrate. “I’ve seen it, right from day one. Back at university when you were moping after that lass who dumped yer. You, my friend, have never been happy. Never mind Julienne; before you even met her, you had some serious shit going on.”
Hal didn’t speak. What could he say? Michael, in his weirdly wonderful way, had reached into his brain and found the reason for Hal’s restlessness and given it voice. Hal had been acutely aware of it, but pretended it didn’t exist; the nagging voice he suppressed that goaded him, taunted him, and caused him to doubt himself.
He’d lost the one thing that had meant the most to him in the world and he had never even seen it coming. Unthinking, he had gone his own way and never imagined that it would cause him such heartbreak. Instead of dealing with it, he had taken the high ground, stuck out his chin and never looked back. The small voice had been drowned out. But only temporarily.
Michael could see from Hal’s expression that he’d hit home, although he was on a fishing exercise because, whatever it was, Hal had never confided in Michael. It was a secret he had wanted to keep and Michael respected his right to it. Now, though, he’d started the conversation and was determined to have his say, even if it didn’t elicit any form of confession from his friend.
“I know it’s not easy. Look at us. We’re children of the seventies. Wearing that much corduroy was bound to mess with our heads.” Michael glanced down at the olive-green cords Hal was wearing. “Case in point.” Michael flicked the tiny stub of rollie across the asphalt and got serious. He pulled Hal’s arm towards him, yanked back the sleeve to reveal the fading tattoo and looked him squarely in the eye. “Get it sorted, ey?” He let go of Hal’s arm and walked away.
Hal stared down at the fading initials and gently ran his fingers up and down his arm, but no amount of rubbing would e
rase the memory.
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