Fair Do's Read Free Page A

who tried to smile confidently. His smile curled at the edges like a slice of tongue approaching its ‘sell-by’ date. The eyes of the congregation were upon them.
    â€˜If she isn’t here soon,’ whispered the vicar, ‘I’ll have to truncate the ceremony.’
    â€˜Truncate the ceremony?’ hissed Gerry Lansdown. ‘I don’t want a truncated ceremony. I haven’t paid a truncated licence fee.’
    â€˜I don’t approve of divorcees marrying in church, even though I understand your fiancée was not the guilty party,’ whispered the vicar, who was still referred to by his congregation as ‘the new vicar’, as if he would have to prove himself before earning the dignity of a name. ‘My predecessor was less strict. I’ve inherited you as a fait accompli. I do not intend you to be a fait accompli worse than death.’ He laughed briefly, with more self-congratulation than humour. ‘I have another wedding later, the groom is a councillor, and I do not intend to have to delay an important wedding in my very first week here.’
    Gerry Lansdown’s hackles rose. His back arched. He was an insulted cat, ready for battle. But the vicar had gone.
    â€˜She’s not coming, Rodney,’ whispered Betty Sillitoe, over-excited as usual. ‘She’s jilted him. How awful!’
    â€˜She may have had an accident,’ whispered Rodney.
    â€˜No. I know it. I feel it.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know whether to feel glad or sad.’
    â€˜I never do these days,’ whispered Rodney. Affection softened his florid face as he added hurriedly, ‘Except about you.’
    â€˜Aaaah,’ said Betty, so loudly that several heads craned to identify the source. They heard her, oblivious to them, saying, ‘I’d kiss you if we weren’t in church.’
    In front of them, the ravishing Liz Badger whispered into the immaculate right ear of her husband, ‘Maybe Gerry isn’t getting married after all. Maybe you’ll still have cause to feel jealous.’
    â€˜Liz!’ Neville’s protest was too heartfelt to be contained in awhisper. ‘I respect you far too much to feel that I need ever feel jealous.’
    â€˜Oh, Neville,’ whispered Liz. ‘You’re hopeless.’
    The clock struck the half hour.
    â€˜Five more minutes,’ whispered the vicar.
    Gerry’s lips twitched. ‘Your precious councillor will have to wait, vicar,’ he hissed. ‘I think you should know that I just happen to be the prospective Social Liberal Democratic parliamentary candidate for Hindhead.’
    The vicar smiled thinly. ‘He’s a serving councillor, not prospective. And he’s chairman of the Tower Appeal Fund Committee. Five minutes.’
    The hum of conversation grew louder still. Leslie Horton’s playing grew slower. The sun lit up the garish battle scenes in the modern stained-glass window, dedicated to the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.
    Ted’s eyes were drawn to Liz’s again and he realised that he was smiling. Hurriedly he tried to look horrified.
    The new young vicar made a signal to Gerry.
    Gerry nodded resignedly. A crescent of blue, reflected from a stained-glass window, was falling across his face.
    â€˜Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the vicar. ‘It looks as if something has happened. I’m afraid we have no alternative, for the moment, as we have further nuptials pending on a tight schedule at this ever-popular venue, but to respectfully suspend the wedding for the moment. Mr Horton, would you please play us out?’
    Leslie Horton, water-bailiff and organist, who hated to be called Les, would wonder to the end of his days why he played ‘The Wedding March ’ at that moment.
    The vicar raised his eyes to heaven, but received no immediate help.
    In the town the traffic moved slowly. A police horse, en route to football duty, crapped