Gutted

Chapter 33

I know why my words with Katrina Crawford dredged all of this up, but I didn’t want to face it. Sometimes, though, there’s just no escaping the past. I guess there’s just no way I’m getting free of this stuff, ever…

We can’t afford anything flash, so it’s a register office do. Hod’s helping out: hired the kilts, put Debs in a decent dress. Nothing fancy — she doesn’t need it. I can hardly stop staring at her as she appears, walking down the row of cheap plastic chairs they’re still laying out in a makeshift aisle. They play ‘Teenage Kicks’ by the Undertones, our wee joke; it’s a moment like no other.

We’re too young for this. Everyone says so.

‘Should be playing the field, Gus,’ Hod tells me. He’s done this a million and one times already.

‘Debs is all I ever wanted,’ I tell him back. I see it doesn’t register. It’s my first inkling that this day isn’t exactly blessed.

My heart’s beating so hard I wonder if it’ll burst out my chest and onto the floor. As Debs reaches my side she smiles. Not a big smile. Not even a natural smile. Nervous. She’s trembling. I don’t know if I’m allowed to look, never mind touch her, but I want to scoop her up in my arms and say, It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.

I freeze as the registrar speaks. She’s an old woman, steel-grey hair and specs. Small round ones like John Lennon’s. I like them because the fashion right now is for great big ones in bright red or green. She looks — what’s the word? — schoolmarmish.

It’s a joy to hear Debs say ‘I do’.

I’m so choked I can hardly manage to get my own words out.

When the ceremony’s over there’re calls for Debs to throw her little bouquet into the crowd. She doesn’t want to, says, ‘I’d like to hold on to it.’

It’s only a?1.99 job from the garage at the supermarket.

‘Well, don’t do it then. Keep it,’ I say.

‘That wouldn’t be fair.’

I know this is Debs all over — putting others first. She turns her back, throws the little bunch over her shoulder. I’m so glad to see the scramble for the flowers, the smiles and the heartfelt joy. I look at Debs and she’s smiling too. Maybe everything will work out okay, I think.

Hod has a camera. We go into the street. We have sunshine, a rarity.

An old woman wrapped in a blue scarf walks past and puts her hand on Deborah’s elbow, says, ‘My, you’re a beautiful bride, love.’

Debs smiles, thanks her.

I see cars slowing down to check us all in our best gear, happy. Rice and confetti go up and Hod hollers on us to get in a row in front of the register office.

We line up; there’s joking and fun all about. Debs reveals her garter; people applaud.

‘Gus, what’s worn under that kilt?’

That I don’t reveal. An old joke: ‘Nothing, it’s all in perfect working order!’

Hod clicks away. I imagine we’ll have quite an album. I’m growing used to the idea that we’ve made the right decision. Even after all that’s happened, all the pain. The heartache. The tears. The bloodshed. I forget the days before, when Debs begged her parents to give her another chance, to come to the wedding, give their blessing. I forget what I know people will be saying about why we’re here. We want to show the ones who said we were just stupid kids. To show the ones who said I’d amount to nothing. To show the ones who called Debs a silly wee cow. A hing-oot who got what she deserved.

We made a mistake. We know it. But this is putting it right, isn’t it? This is showing them.

Hod yells, ‘That’ll do… It’s a wrap!’

There’re laughs all round. People applaud.

The old woman with the blue scarf has stayed to watch. ‘You’ll have some lovely, lovely pictures, dear!’

Debs smiles. ‘Thank you.’

The old woman has a tear in her eye, a croak in her voice when she says, ‘You can tell the ones that are in love, you know… You can tell, for sure you can.’

I take a hankie out of my sporran, hand it to her. ‘I hope they’re happy tears, now.’

She wipes her eyes, says, ‘Och yes, och yes… I’m just so happy to see a young couple so in love.’

Debs reaches in, places a hand on her shoulder. ‘Oh, that’s so sweet of you. I’ll remember this moment for ever.’

I’m so filled with pride. I know what we’ve done is right now. Not because of what the old woman said, but because I see Debs believes her. She knows what she said is true. We have something special.

The old woman dabs at her eyes and, as she turns, says, ‘Cherish each other.’

I watch Debs’s lip tremble. I believe we both see decades of life together for us. We see each other growing old and grey. I know I feel sad, but I know it’s because the situation is such a happy one. It’s a complex feeling that I can’t explain. And then it vanishes.

There’s a kerfuffle. A struggle in the crowd.

I see Hod put down his camera bag, drop the tripod. He’s running towards the crowd, but it’s too late. A figure has pushed through; people step away.

Deborah’s mother appears.

Her face is a war mask. Dark. Angry. Violent.

She moves quickly. Not a run. But a purposeful stride. I grab Debs’s hand, move in front of my wife. I know what’s coming.

There’re words yelled. I only pick up a few of the familiar ones. The hatred in her voice is drowning the others out.

She reaches over me, tries to claw at Debs. Her own mother, clawing. Not a slap. Not a punch. Real, vile hate. Directed at her daughter.

I hold her away. She doesn’t land a single blow.

She tires herself out and stands back.

I release my grasp.

‘Shame on you,’ she says.

I raise my arms.

She speaks again: ‘Don’t touch me, you fool boy.’

I hold firm.

Debs is shaking with fright, tears, her face a red mess.

‘Why, Mum? Why?… I’m still the same person.’

Her mother steps forward. I’m surprised by her strength, power. She says, ‘You’re no daughter of mine.’ She spits in Debs’s face: ‘You whore!’

That’s it for me. ‘You don’t talk to my wife like that.’ I’m ready to slap her. I’ll kill her, I know it. Hod sees the fire in my eyes, steps in. He puts an arm round the mad woman’s waist, carries her away, kicking and screaming.

I turn to Debs. She falls into my arms. I have to hold her up.

Over her shoulder I see the old woman with the blue scarf standing open-mouthed. As she walks away, she drops the hankie I gave her. I want to tell her, but I’m too far gone from this world for words now. I wonder: Will I ever come back?