trestle tables, folding chairs and picnic blankets have appeared, scattered across the grass, and random relatives wander through the kitchen carrying tablecloths, plates and cutlery.
‘I wish it wasn’t such a muddle,’ I frown, stacking the dishwasher as Cherry hands out buttonholes and posies. ‘We’re supposed to be leaving in a few minutes …’
‘We will,’ Skye laughs. ‘Relax!’
People begin to gather on the lawn, the chocolate-spread children, cleaned up to an angelic shine, the Yorkshire aunts like garish, well-upholstered sofas, scary hats balanced on tightly curled grey hair. JJ drives the gypsy caravan right up to the house and jumps down to hold the dappled grey horse. Someone has twined a string of tiny bells through her harness – I suspect it was probably Coco.
Grandma Kate and Jules appear, smiling and proud, and Grandma Kate takes the reins and climbs up on to the caravan step. Our real grandad died before Skye and I were born, so Grandma Kate is giving Mum away. She knows how to drive the wagon because she used to do it, years ago, when she lived here at Tanglewood.
‘Here they come!’ someone yells, and then the art school friends spill out of the house, a riot of bright hair and red lippy, and finally Mum is in the doorway.
Her hair is pinned up in a loose, messy bun with corkscrew curls falling down around her face, tiny blue flowers threaded into the tawny-blonde waves. Her dress is a gorgeous, vintage-inspired sheath of soft white velvet; her tanned legs are bare and on her feet she wears jewelled flip-flops that cost £2.99 in a cut-price shoe shop in Minehead. She is holding a spray of starry white jasmine and roses tied with ribbon and her face is lit up with happiness and hope.
My heart swells with pride. I am happy for Mum, I really am, but sad too, for the family we used to be. Everything is changing, and I am not sure I like change.
Jules helps Mum up on to the wagon seat, Grandma Kate snaps the reins and the dappled grey horse moves forward, jingling, down towards the church.
3
We walk down to the village behind the gypsy wagon, bridesmaids first and everyone else following. It is slightly weird to be at your own mum’s wedding, but there’s lots of laughter and chat, as if we are setting off for some kind of crazy family picnic. When we pass the inn at the edge of the village, Paddy’s musician friends from Scotland latch on, playing guitar and fiddle and flute, so we arrive at the church in style.
The aunts and cousins and art school friends file into the church to the sound of leaping Scottish fiddle music while the rest of us gather on the church steps. Mum smoothes down her white velvet dress and tucks a stray ringlet behind her ear.
The church is full to the brim and Paddy and his brotherare standing down at the altar with the vicar. Then the church organ strikes up ‘Here Comes the Bride’, and Grandma Kate takes Mum’s arm and the two of them walk inside and move slowly down the aisle with us following along behind.
All eyes are on us, and even though I have had my moments in the spotlight, this is a whole lot more nerve-wracking. On stage I am a performer, hiding behind a role, lost in the dance. Here I’m just me, with nothing to hide behind, awkward in a petticoat dress I’d never have picked out for myself. Two spots of colour burn in my cheeks, but I link Skye’s arm and we fall into step together.
We squash into the front seats, Coco struggling to keep Humbug the lamb on a short leash, and the ceremony starts. It all goes smoothly, and then we get to the point where the vicar asks whether anyone has any reason why Mum and Paddy should not be legally wed, and I look around anxiously in case Dad should stride suddenly into the church to object. Of course he doesn’t because a) he is in Australia and b) he doesn’t care whether Mum gets married or not. All that actually happens is that Honey whispers, ‘Because Paddy is a jerk,’ under her
‘I wish it wasn’t such a muddle,’ I frown, stacking the dishwasher as Cherry hands out buttonholes and posies. ‘We’re supposed to be leaving in a few minutes …’
‘We will,’ Skye laughs. ‘Relax!’
People begin to gather on the lawn, the chocolate-spread children, cleaned up to an angelic shine, the Yorkshire aunts like garish, well-upholstered sofas, scary hats balanced on tightly curled grey hair. JJ drives the gypsy caravan right up to the house and jumps down to hold the dappled grey horse. Someone has twined a string of tiny bells through her harness – I suspect it was probably Coco.
Grandma Kate and Jules appear, smiling and proud, and Grandma Kate takes the reins and climbs up on to the caravan step. Our real grandad died before Skye and I were born, so Grandma Kate is giving Mum away. She knows how to drive the wagon because she used to do it, years ago, when she lived here at Tanglewood.
‘Here they come!’ someone yells, and then the art school friends spill out of the house, a riot of bright hair and red lippy, and finally Mum is in the doorway.
Her hair is pinned up in a loose, messy bun with corkscrew curls falling down around her face, tiny blue flowers threaded into the tawny-blonde waves. Her dress is a gorgeous, vintage-inspired sheath of soft white velvet; her tanned legs are bare and on her feet she wears jewelled flip-flops that cost £2.99 in a cut-price shoe shop in Minehead. She is holding a spray of starry white jasmine and roses tied with ribbon and her face is lit up with happiness and hope.
My heart swells with pride. I am happy for Mum, I really am, but sad too, for the family we used to be. Everything is changing, and I am not sure I like change.
Jules helps Mum up on to the wagon seat, Grandma Kate snaps the reins and the dappled grey horse moves forward, jingling, down towards the church.
3
We walk down to the village behind the gypsy wagon, bridesmaids first and everyone else following. It is slightly weird to be at your own mum’s wedding, but there’s lots of laughter and chat, as if we are setting off for some kind of crazy family picnic. When we pass the inn at the edge of the village, Paddy’s musician friends from Scotland latch on, playing guitar and fiddle and flute, so we arrive at the church in style.
The aunts and cousins and art school friends file into the church to the sound of leaping Scottish fiddle music while the rest of us gather on the church steps. Mum smoothes down her white velvet dress and tucks a stray ringlet behind her ear.
The church is full to the brim and Paddy and his brotherare standing down at the altar with the vicar. Then the church organ strikes up ‘Here Comes the Bride’, and Grandma Kate takes Mum’s arm and the two of them walk inside and move slowly down the aisle with us following along behind.
All eyes are on us, and even though I have had my moments in the spotlight, this is a whole lot more nerve-wracking. On stage I am a performer, hiding behind a role, lost in the dance. Here I’m just me, with nothing to hide behind, awkward in a petticoat dress I’d never have picked out for myself. Two spots of colour burn in my cheeks, but I link Skye’s arm and we fall into step together.
We squash into the front seats, Coco struggling to keep Humbug the lamb on a short leash, and the ceremony starts. It all goes smoothly, and then we get to the point where the vicar asks whether anyone has any reason why Mum and Paddy should not be legally wed, and I look around anxiously in case Dad should stride suddenly into the church to object. Of course he doesn’t because a) he is in Australia and b) he doesn’t care whether Mum gets married or not. All that actually happens is that Honey whispers, ‘Because Paddy is a jerk,’ under her
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