When You Are Mine(26)

The garden stretches all the way to the River Darent, past a tennis court, a croquet green, swimming pool and summer house. Two huge canvas marquees, joined by a covered walkway, have been erected on the grass near the pond. Unlit torches line the path, and waiters and waitresses dressed in black and white are serving champagne.

I’m wearing my emerald jumpsuit and a short black blazer, with my ankle boots. Semi-casual. Flattering.

‘You didn’t say it was formal dress,’ whispers Henry, who has spotted what other men are wearing.

‘It was optional.’

‘I feel like a seagull among the penguins.’

‘You look fine.’ I hook my arm into his and we match our stride. We are approaching the main house from the riverside. The guests ahead of us are carrying gifts.

‘And you said no presents,’ whispers Henry.

‘That’s what the invitation said.’

‘Well, nobody else read it.’

‘I’m his gift,’ I say, which makes Henry laugh, I pick up a glass of bubbly from the first tray within reach and swallow it in two gulps before grabbing another.

‘Are you self-medicating?’

‘No.’

‘Well, slow down. You might have to rescue me.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m marrying Edward McCarthy’s only daughter. If he doesn’t like me, I could be sleeping with the fishes.’ He’s doing his Marlon Brando impersonation from The Godfather.

‘Not funny.’

We are walking down a flower-bedecked tunnel that leads to the main marquee. Another corner of the garden has been transformed into a funfair, with a merry-go-round, bouncy castle and dodgem cars. There are kids everywhere, having their faces painted, or queuing for a balloon animal.

The swell of voices is rising and washing over the lawn. I can feel eyes upon me. I’m like a butterfly caught in a glass jar, fluttering and tinkling against the sides.

‘That’s the Lord Mayor,’ whispers Henry. ‘And that guy used to host that TV show – the one about cars.’

‘Jeremy Clarkson?’

‘No, not him. The short gobby one.’

We’re standing under a huge oak tree, watching the other guests. Some of them I recognise from my childhood. Family friends. Business acquaintances. Others are perhaps from Constance’s side of the family. The ‘chinless toffs’ is what Uncle Finbar calls them. Altogether, it makes for a strange gathering – a melting pot of East End publicans, footballers and book-makers, mixing with B-list celebrities and minor aristocrats.

I’m on my fourth glass of champagne when someone yells my name. I turn to see a man barrelling towards me. Uncle Clifton is built like a rugby prop, with short legs and a barrel chest. I remember being carried to Highbury Stadium on his broad shoulders, and singing ‘We Are the Arsenal Boys’ at the top of our lungs.

Now he picks me up and swings me around like I’m five years old again.

‘Put me down. You’re giving me a wedgie,’ I say.

He apologises and plants me on my feet, but doesn’t let go of my hand. He’s wearing a black cashmere overcoat with a brilliant scarlet lining and grinning like a Cheshire cat with yellow teeth from too many cigars and glasses of port.

‘What a sight you are,’ he says in a thick cockney accent. ‘We figured you were persona non gratis, you know …’

‘I’m a birthday surprise.’

‘Eddie will have an ’eart attack.’

‘This my fiancé. Henry, this is my Uncle Clifton.’

He grabs Henry in a crushing handshake and pulls him nose to nose.

‘I got questions. You vote Labour?’

Henry glances at me nervously. ‘Mostly.’

‘You good to yer dear old mum?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You a Gooner?’

‘A what?’

‘A Gunners fan – the mighty Arsenal. Tell me you’re not a Spud.’

He means a Tottenham supporter.

‘Chelsea,’ says Henry.

‘Weak as piss!’ says Clifton, pushing him away and turning to me. ‘Sure he’s not a Doris Day fan?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Yeah, OK,’ Clifton concedes. ‘What’s he do?’

‘He fights fires.’

‘A water fairy.’

Henry looks completely lost.

Meanwhile, Clifton bellows across the lawn so loudly that the string quartet stops playing and every head turns towards us.

‘Hey, Daragh! Look what the cat dragged in!’

Uncle Daragh squints into the bright sunshine, holding up his hand to shield his eyes. He waves uncertainly.

‘Come here, ya blind cunt,’ yells Clifton. ‘It’s the girl.’

Daragh leaves the conversation and begins making his way between shoulders. The music has started again. He is halfway across the lawn when he recognises me and does a leap to the side, clicking the heels of his polished shoes. He’s wearing an expensive suit, but makes it look like a sack because of his strange body-shape and Popeye-sized forearms.

I feel such a surge of joy that I skip into his arms and bury my face against his chest, feeling a button press into my cheek.

Daragh has always been my favourite. Growing up, I saw more of him than the others because he and my father are the closest in age and were inseparable until Daragh went to prison. According to the stories – the legends, the myths – Daragh was always the family enforcer; a violent, vindictive, boozing, sociopath, whose fists answered for him. I’ve never seen this side of him, not first-hand. Around children, Daragh has a lightness of spirit that defies his reputation. He played Santa Claus every Christmas and is an amateur magician who can conjure coins and sweets from behind ears and below ponytails and inside pockets.