The Witness at the Wedding

Four

Jude hovered by the front door. In her hand was the brightly woven African straw basket she used for shopping. She was dressed in her usual warty style – a long Indian print skirt in burgundy tones, a voluminous amethyst silk jacket over a pale pink T-shirt. The blonde hair was held up by an insufficiency of chopstick-like wooden pins.

She looked across at the sofa. In the last forty-eight hours Gita had gained a bit more colour, but still did everything in a kind of slow-motion lethargy. She had retained the jogging bottoms, but the trainers had given place to smart grey sandals, and the tracksuit top to a well-cut loose denim shirt (whose sleeves were still long enough to hide her bandaging). There was the lightest of foundations on her face, a touch of mascara and a dash of pale lipstick. It wasn’t her full working war paint, and the white central streak was still in her hair, but it was a step in the right direction.

“I was just off to the shops, Gita. Anything you need?”

This prompted a sleepy smile. “You know there isn’t anything I need.” Her speech was still a littleslurred, as though the words were too big for her mouth.

“Well…”

“And it’s very unlike you, Jude, to be so indirect.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that what you’re really saying is: ‘Gita, are you sure you’ll be all right on your own here while I go to the shops?’”

“All right.”

Jude parroted, “Gita, are you sure you’ll be all right here on your own while I go to the shops?”

“Absolutely. My emotions are so damped down by the medication that I’d hardly react to the news of an imminent nuclear holocaust. I’m OK. You don’t have to worry.” She gestured to the pile of women’s magazines on the sofa beside her. “I’ll be quite all right here, reading very slowly, checking out the opposition.”

Gita was a journalist; a feature writer. A very good feature writer. Or at least she had been until recent events.

“That’s good,” said Jude. “Well, I’ll have my mobile with me if…”

“If what?”

“If you think of anything you need at the shops.” There was another tired, wry smile from Gita.

“Meaning: ‘If you suddenly feel bad and need me’.”

“Well…”

“This is really most unlike you, Jude. Look, OK, we both know what I did, but I can assure you I’m not about to do it again.”

“No.”

“And my staying here with you – for which I am more grateful than I can say – well, it’s not going to work if you’re constantly afraid of letting me out of your sight.”

“No. Right. I accept that.”

“Good. Off you go.”

With a surprisingly sudden movement, Gita reached for her handbag. “Ooh, there is something I want you to get at the shops.”

She handed across a twenty-pound note. “Convert that into Chilean Chardonnay, will you? My contribution to the Woodside Cottage domestic economy.”

As she took the money, Jude grinned. “Thanks, Gita.”

Carole got the feeling that a lot of thought had gone into the choice of restaurant for her encounter with the Martins. It was pricey – probably Stephen’s input – but reassuringly homely. Gaby wouldn’t want her parents fazed by menus they might need to have explained to them, by flamboyant waiters or an over-trendy clientele. So she’d homed in on a restaurant that specialized in traditional English cooking for traditional English people who wouldn’t respond well to it being called traditional English cuisine. So traditionally English was the food that many of the customers were Japanese and American tourists, under the illusion that their Burberry and Dunhill disguises would let them pass for the real thing. But it was the perfect venue for those in search of such delicacies as potted shrimps, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, steak and kidney pie and bread-and-butter pudding.

As predicted, Stephen was not there, but Gaby was already installed, sitting between her parents, when Carole was led across to the table. Marie and Howard Martin could not have been less alike. She was a tiny, birdlike woman, whose tight, greying curls accentuated her resemblance to Gaby. Thick glasses and vague, blinking eyes indicated extreme myopia.

Her husband, by contrast, was huge, not fat, but very tall with a bulky body and gunmetal hair slicked back almost in the brilliantined style of the late forties. He looked like an old black-and-white photograph of a former boxer, and when he rose to greet Carole, he towered over everyone else in the room. He was a lot older than his wife, perhaps as much as eighty, and he had bulky hearing aids in both ears. Marie herself looked so washed out it was difficult to fix her age with any certainty. Still, given the fact that Gaby must be round the thirty mark, her mother couldn’t be less than fifty. Might even be my age, thought Carole.

Howard Martin did not carry with him the assertiveness that might be assumed to go with his size. In fact, both he and his wife seemed paralytically nervous. Carole was nervous too, but she liked to think she wasn’t showing it as much as they were.

Gaby was maintaining a professional front, but she couldn’t hide her own unease. Her body language was taut and jumpy. She sat awkwardly on the edge of her seat. When she’d rung Jude she’d claimed her back was better, but Carole reckoned the problem had now returned with a vengeance.

As soon as they were all seated, Gaby suggested drinks. The situation needed an injection of some relaxant, and alcohol was traditionally the most reliable ice-breaker.

But ordering drinks did not ease the atmosphere. Marie Martin said all she really felt like was mineral water, and Howard agreed, “Yes, I could go along with that.” But Gaby wasn’t satisfied. She was going to give them a slap-up lunch, whether they liked it or not. “No, we’ll have some wine.”

“Well, I won’t,” said her mother, with self-effacing firmness.

“You prefer white, don’t you, Carole?” asked Gaby as she perused the wine list.

“Yes, but if I’m the only one, I’m very happy with mineral – ”

“I’m drinking too,” Gaby announced firmly. “And Dad’ll probably have a glass or two when the bottle’s actually here.”

“I might at that,” Howard Martin conceded.

Gaby attracted a waiter’s attention with practised ease. Her job as an actors’ agent involved a lot of professional lunching, so she knew her way around restaurants. Her familiarity with the milieu seemed only to point up the discomfort of her parents. And yet why were they so ill at ease? Marie was half-French. They spent their Augusts in France. Surely they should be used to eating out? Still, Carole wasn’t about to get answers to those questions. On with the social niceties.

“Well, I must tell both of you how delighted I am about the engagement.”

“Oh yes, we’re very pleased too.” Marie Martin spoke cautiously, as if in danger of using the wrong word. “It’s very good news.”

“Very good news,” her husband agreed.

And that seemed to be it. Neither had anything further to add, so Carole, forced to be more than naturally fulsome, went on, “No, I’m so pleased for Stephen – that he was lucky enough to meet Gaby.”

“Yes,” Marie agreed, and Howard nodded. Carole decided that their hesitancy had nothing to do with disapproval of the proposed union. The Martins just weren’t people who were used to expressing their emotional reactions.

“The fourteenth of September doesn’t seem far away now, does it?”

This elicited no response, but fortunately Gaby came to the rescue. “No, and there’s still so much to do.”

Marie seemed to take this as a cue. Hesitantly, and blushing furiously, she began. “I would like to apologize, Carole, that Howard and I haven’t offered to do more in making the arrangements for the wedding.”

The way she spoke suggested that she was embarking on a prepared speech.

Carole was embarrassed at the prospect of hearing more of it. “Not a problem,” she said. “Stephen and Gaby have explained everything to me. Quite honestly, at their age, it makes much more sense that they should do it all themselves. Then they can have exactly the kind of day they want.”

Marie seemed not to hear this, but pressed on with her text. “The fact is, we’re not very good at public events. We tend to keep ourselves to ourselves very much. It’s not something we’re proud of, but that’s the way we are. So we thought it better that I should explain that to you now, so’s we don’t get off on the wrong foot.” That was the end of her speech. To emphasize the point, she said, “That’s all.”

“It’s not a problem,” Carole reiterated. Making the statement had been such agony for Marie that it had been agony for her too. The conversation needed to be moved on as quickly as was humanly possible.

Gaby came to the immediate rescue with the menu, and some time was spent choosing what to eat. Her mother insisted that she “didn’t want much, not a big eater at lunchtime.”

This was true of Carole too, but, seeing how determined Gaby was to make the meal an event, she ordered much more lavishly than she normally would. Chef’s pâté, followed by Dover sole. Gaby ordered two courses as well, and Howard was persuaded to go for a prawn cocktail before his prime sirloin of beef. But his wife wouldn’t be shifted from her decision to have “just a cheese omelette and I probably won’t eat all of that.”

The ordering had used up only a few minutes, and the lunch yawned ahead of Carole. Marie and Howard didn’t seem about to offer any further topics for discussion, and in their presence Gaby too was uncharacteristically subdued. Carole realized that, unless the meal was to pass in total silence, she was going to have to take on the role of conversational initiator.

“Now, I’m sorry to say,” she began boldly, “that I know almost nothing about you. Just that you live in Harlow…”

“Yes, we do,” Marie agreed. “Very nice and quiet, Harlow.”

Howard didn’t take issue with this assessment. He nodded, but said nothing.

“And I do remember Gaby saying that her grandmother lives in France…”

“Yes, that’s my mother,” Marie acknowledged.

“The South of France, I gather.” Carole was having difficulty matching the undeniable drabness of the senior Martins with her image of the South of France – rich people with yachts.

But Gaby quickly put her right. “It’s the south-west, actually. Lot-et-Garonne. Near Villeneuve-sur-Lot.”

Her French accent was impeccable. “That’s where Grand’mère grew up. But I doubt if she’ll be able to make it over for the wedding.”

“No, Maman is far too frail,” her mother agreed. “And she can hardly see at all these days. Her eyesight was always very bad.”

“Yes,” said Gaby glumly, “and I’ve inherited that. Can’t see a thing in the mornings till I’ve got my lenses in.”

“Well, Maman was only in her forties when she started to have to read large print books.”

“Thanks, Mum, that’s really cheered me up. Something to look forward to in ten years’ time. I wonder if Steve realized what he had taken on when he asked me to marry him.”

Having met the Martins, Carole was rather beginning to wonder that too.

“Still,” Gaby went on, “I must try and get out to Villeneuve-sur-Lot before too long. Ideally with Steve – if he can get the time off work. I really want to introduce my fiancé to Grand’mère.”

“I’m sure she’d like to meet him,” said Marie automatically.

The chasm of silence once again gaped before them. Carole gamely bridged it. “But that’s about all I know about your family. Oh, and, of course, that you were brought up in Worthing.”

Marie Martin looked alarmed. “How did you know that?”

“Gaby mentioned it.”

Marie’s daughter received a look of pained reproach for passing on the information. Carole persevered. “Which is of course very near where I live. Do you remember Fethering?”

“No. I don’t remember anything much about the area. I didn’t live there long.”

Which was a very clear ending to that subject of conversation. Carole struggled on. “But I do feel I still know very little about you. For instance, I don’t even know whether Gaby has brothers and sisters.”

“I have a brother,” said Gaby, looking at her mother, as if expecting to prompt further comment. But none came. The ball was back in Carole’s court.

“As you probably know, Marie, Stephen’s an only child. I sometimes think it’d have been nice to have had more, but…well, I had a full-time career andthen…” Time to bite the bullet. “I’m divorced. Did Gaby tell you that?”

“Yes, she did.”

But again Marie Martin didn’t volunteer anything else. No judgement, no reaction.

“So what’s your son called?” asked Carole desperately.

“Phil.”

“And is he older than Gaby?”

“Oh, no. Pascale came first.”

“I beg your pardon?”

It was Gaby, rather than her mother, who provided the explanation. “I was christened Pascale. Changed my name when I was in my teens. You know what teenage girls are like, unhappy with everything about themselves, about their home, about their family – so I became Gaby. And it kind of stuck.”

“Not with me, it didn’t,” said Marie, with more vigour than she had shown before.

“Well, I like the name. And the rest of the family have accepted the change, except for Grand’mère who still calls me Pascale. Anyway, all my working life I’ve been Gaby Martin, so that’s the way I’m going to stay.” This was said defiantly, but her mother did not rise to the challenge.

“So how old is Phil?”

“He’s twenty-nine. Only eighteen months younger than me.”

“It must have been hard, when they were little, having two children so close together.”

Carole had said it as an all-purpose platitude, but Marie Martin seemed to take the comment more seriously. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it was a very hard time.”

“They go so quickly, the childhood years,” Carole went on, with continuing banality.

Marie nodded, but didn’t speak. Howard shadowed his wife’s nod, though Carole wasn’t sure that he could hear much of the conversation. His large face was impassive most of the time, only showing animation when someone looked at him or addressed a direct question. He sat still, isolated in the muffled world of his deafness.

“So what does Phil do?” asked Carole, sticking to her role as conversational initiator. “Is he in show business like you, Gaby?”

She laughed dismissively. “It’s hardly show business. But Phil doesn’t do anything like that. He works in a warehouse.”

“He’s a checker,” Marie added, as if this were important.

“And is that near you, in Harlow?”

“Near Harlow. Hoddesdon.”

“Ah.”

“He’s got his own flat there,” Marie volunteered, with something approaching pride. “In Hoddesdon.”

“Well, I’ll look forward to meeting him.” Carole saw a look pass between Gaby and her mother at this, but she couldn’t interpret its subtext. “I look forward to meeting all the rest of your family and friends at the wedding.”

“There aren’t many others.”

Gaby grimaced. “As I say, Grand’mère’s unlikely to leave France.”

“Very unlikely,” her mother agreed. “Which may be just as well.”

“Oh?” asked Carole casually.

She looked at Marie, but it was Gaby who supplied the explanation. “Mum means Granny would disapprove of my not being married in a Catholic church.”

“Ah yes, I’d forgotten you said your family was Catholic.”

“Brought up Catholic, but none of it means anything to me now.”

“Well, it should,” Marie asserted feebly.

“Why? Why do you say that? When did you or Dad last step inside a church of any denomination?”

“I may not be very good at church-going and what have you, but at least I’m not disrespectful to the church. And, when he was younger, your father was a very devout Catholic.”

Marie Martin was now, by her standards, quite animated, and Carole intervened to avert the incipient row. “Does this mean, Gaby, that you and Stephen have decided on the church where you are going to get married?”

“It looks like we have, yes. Most of the ones round Fethering were already booked for the fourteenth of September, but one vicar thought the wedding on that day was about to be called off.”

“Oh?”

“He sounded a bit vague, but he’s going to ring us in the next week when he knows for sure.”

“And which church is this?”

“The one in Fedborough. All Souls’.”

Carole knew it. She had also met the vicar, the Reverend Philip Trigwell, when she and Jude had become involved in an investigation into a human torso found in one of the town’s cellars. That he should ‘sound vague’ about arrangements was entirely in character. She had never met a man so indecisive or so unwilling to express a firm opinion.

“Oh well, I hope it works out. All Souls’ is a lovely church.”

“Yes,” Gaby agreed. “If we’ve heard from the vicar by the weekend, we’re going to come down on Saturday and check out some venues and caterers.”

“Maybe I’ll see you again then.”

“Maybe.”

The conversation was once again becalmed. “So,” Carole battled on, “I now know about all your immediate family, do I?”

“Except, of course, for Uncle Robert.”

“Oh yes – Uncle Robert.”

In her echo of Gaby’s words, for the first time Marie Martin displayed genuine enthusiasm, and also her French origins – the ‘t’ at the end of the name was silent.

“He’s Mum’s brother.”

“Always a very lively person to have around. And he’s always adored Pascale. Having no children of his own, he thinks of her almost as his own daughter. You’d like him, Carole. Everyone likes my brother Robert. Don’t they, Howard?”

Her husband nodded, though quite possibly he hadn’t heard the question.

“Yes, Robert’ll certainly be at the wedding. He’s areal live wire. We must get him to do a speech. He’s very funny when he does public speaking – just a natural at it.”

Inwardly Carole flinched. Over the years she’d suffered from too many public speakers who were naturals at it.

“Actually, I’ve had a thought…” Now her brother had been mentioned, Marie Martin seemed quite happy to take over the conversation. “Perhaps Robert could give you away, Pascale.”

“No.” The suggestion stung Gaby. “Dad will give me away. It’s always the father who gives the bride away. You only get someone else to do it if the father’s not around.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” But Marie sounded disappointed. And her next words made it seem as if she was trying to convince herself. “Your father’ll do it absolutely fine.”

“It’s all very exciting,” Carole observed meaninglessly. “Everything about the wedding.”

“Yes. You will like Robert,” Marie repeated. Her brother seemed to be her prize exhibit. As a couple, the Martins might not have much to show for themselves, but they did at least have Robert. “It’d be nice if you could meet him before the wedding.”

“Yes. I’d love that.” Unease encouraged fulsomeness in Carole.

“I know!” Her mother’s sudden boldness was so out of character as to prompt a curious look from Gaby. “We’ll give an engagement party for you and Stephen.”

“Oh, I don’t think we really want that.”

But Marie Martin was impervious to the warning in her daughter’s eye. “Yes, you’ll love it. It’ll make your dad and me feel better about not making the wedding arrangements.”

“Mum, you don’t want the trouble of anything like that. It’d be a lot of hassle.”

“I’m not suggesting we do it in the flat. We’ll go to one of the local hotels, and get them to cater it.”

“I really don’t think – ”

“There was that hotel you went to that function at, wasn’t there, Howard? You remember, last Christmas.”

Her husband opted for a ‘Yes’, which he reckoned was a safe response to most questions.

“What was it called now?”

This he seemed to hear, because he replied that he couldn’t remember.

“We’ll find out when we get back home. And I’ll have to sort out a date when Robert’s free. But it’ll be such fun.”

If it was anything like the lunch, Carole wasn’t so sure about that. But further discussion of the engagement party was stopped by the arrival of a waiter with the three starters. When conversation was reestablished, Marie, after her brief flurry of animation, had shrunk back into her shell.

Still, there was one topic on which Carole genuinely wanted to check the Martins’ opinion, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any to broach it.

“Marie, Howard, I’m sure you’ve already had this discussion with your daughter – but I wondered whatyou thought about a newspaper announcement of the wedding?”

Alarm flickered instantly in Gaby’s eyes. “Steve and I have talked about it further, Carole, and we’ve decided we don’t want any announcement.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t going to be stopped by that. “I just wondered, though, what your parents thought. I mean, to me, an engagement doesn’t seem complete until it’s been trumpeted abroad in the national press.”

Marie Martin’s face had lost the little colour with which it had started the lunch. Her eyes widened as she murmured, “No. I don’t want it in the press. Nor does Howard. We don’t want anything about it in the press.”

And Carole realized that what she could see in the woman’s face was not just self-effacement, but fear. And that, indeed, except for the brief moment when she had proposed the idea of an engagement party, Marie Martin’s predominant emotion throughout the lunch had been fear.

There was something of which she was desperately afraid.