When You Are Mine(40)

Now Janet is making tea with ritual precision, warming the pot first, spooning in the loose-leaf tea – one for each person and one for the pot. The knitted tea cosy looks like an owl. China cups and saucers are set out – her best ones – which she probably reserves for the bishop when he visits.

Standing at the French doors, I look into a neighbouring yard where two teenagers are erecting a makeshift badminton net, which keeps sagging in the middle. Janet slices an orange teacake. The black seeds on the top look like insect droppings. She’s talking about the wedding.

‘Although neither of you live in the parish, or regularly attend worship, we can still go ahead, because Henry was baptised here. We thought it might be nice if Rector Nicholas did the honours. He’s known you since you were little.’

Henry nods in agreement and puts his arm around my waist.

‘We should arrange a get-to-know-you session,’ says Janet.

‘But I already know him,’ says Henry.

They’re all looking at me. Clearly, I don’t appear keen.

‘It’s only a chat,’ explains Reverend Bill. ‘He’ll ask how you and Henry came to be together and why you’ve decided to get married in the church.’

Because of you, I want to say, but hold my tongue.

‘He’ll want to talk to you frankly about your past, your hopes for the future and your understanding of marriage. Do you want to raise your children in the Christian faith – that sort of thing.’

‘They’re more for Henry because he’s divorced,’ says Janet, who sounds disappointed. ‘He’ll have to provide the decree absolute, and explain what went wrong first time around.’

‘That was a false start,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.

‘And we don’t want him to make another mistake,’ says Janet.

Ouch!

Reverend Bill suggests we talk about the order of service.

‘We have a local printer who does a lovely booklet,’ says Janet, who produces a folder full of examples. ‘You can have a photograph on the front, or a quote.’

‘You’ll have to choose a Bible reading and what hymns you’d like people to sing,’ says Reverend Bill.

‘Do we have to have hymns?’ I ask.

‘There’s a wide choice and I’m sure you’ll find something you like.’ He adds, ‘You can choose different music for your entrance and exit.’

‘As long as it’s not too wacky,’ says Janet.

I glance at Henry. ‘We thought we might have a gospel choir.’ Janet is nodding, but her smile is frozen.

‘They’ll sing “All You Need Is Love” as I come into the church and “Oh, Happy Day” as we’re leaving.’

‘Everybody can sing along,’ adds Henry.

Janet seems to be ticking like a timebomb.

Reverend Bill cuts in. ‘Have you decided who will be walking you down the aisle? It’s entirely optional, of course. You’re not anyone’s property to be given away. Not in this day and age.’

‘My father,’ I say quickly.

There is no sharp intake of breath, or cry of alarm. Instead, there is silence. Even the ticking has stopped. Janet lets out a laugh like a hiccup, thinking I’m being droll. At that moment, an overweight tan-coloured Labrador wanders into the room and sniffs at my shoes. He raises his nose towards my crotch and I push his head away.

‘He’s looking for crumbs,’ says Reverend Bill. ‘On your lap.’

‘Oh.’

He steeples his fingers. ‘I thought you were estranged from your father.’

‘I want him to be at my wedding – along with my uncles.’ There is another long silence. Come on, Henry, say something. Support me.

Janet begins packing up the tea things, wanting to busy herself, spilling a lump of sugar, which the Labrador hoovers up and swallows without chewing.

‘You can’t,’ Janet says suddenly, as though that is the end of that.

‘Pardon?’

‘We don’t want Edward McCarthy in our church.’

‘My father is a businessman.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘What?’

She glances at the reverend, expecting him to agree with her, but the vicar has lowered his eyes, as though searching his conscience, or praying for guidance. After a long pause, he clears his throat. ‘Everybody is welcome in our church.’

Janet is about to protest, but is interrupted. ‘We all have weaknesses and we have all sinned, which is why we must keep our hearts open,’ says Reverend Bill.

‘Mr McCarthy is very nice,’ adds Henry, finally showing some gumption, which is a real Janet word.

My phone chirrups. It’s a message from Tempe. She’s catching the train from London and we’re going to visit Milford Barn to discuss the catering and seating plan.

‘I have to go,’ I say, pleased to escape. ‘Can I borrow your car?’

Henry fetches his keys, and whispers, ‘Chicken.’

I make a clucking noise and squeeze his bum. ‘Your family. Your problem.’

Tempe is waiting for me outside Hitchin station. She looks like a young executive in a pencil skirt and matching jacket. We laugh about my future in-laws as the satnav directs us to Milford Barn. We’ve been meeting up once a week to discuss the wedding, or to go shopping or to galleries, or to the cinema in Leicester Square. The National Portrait Gallery is a favourite because Tempe loves to look at the pencil and charcoal sketches.