‘Freya, can you please stop fidgeting!’
Freya’s hand froze at her mother’s warning. They’d been hanging around in the church porch for ages. Her veil tickled her nose and her knickers had ridden up her bottom and were horribly uncomfortable. If she held her posy in one hand, surely she could reach down under her wedding dress, for a sneaky tweak.
She and her mum, Sandra, had been allowed to wait in the vestry while everyone took their seats and settled down. Her ‘bridesmaids’ – two classmates – were standing outside with her teacher, chattering excitedly. The buzz of anticipation from the church full of schoolkids, parents and villagers, sounded like a swarm of angry bees.
And they were all waiting for her to make an entrance.
Despite the warmth of the sticky July afternoon, Freya shivered.
‘Are you OK, love?’ Her mum smiled down at her from beneath the brim of her new feathered hat. ‘It’s normal to be nervous, dear. Travis might be feeling the same way.’
Freya knew he wouldn’t. Travis Marshall might be angry or bored or plotting something wicked but he’d never be nervous. No one scared Travis – though many were scared of him.
‘Though why the teachers picked him, goodness only knows,’ her mother said with a heavy sigh. ‘He’s always causing trouble at school, his mother neglects him and as for his father, we all know what kind of a man he is.’
‘I don’t think he wanted to do this …’ Freya murmured, dreading someone overhearing.
Her mum tutted. ‘Then why ask him at all?’
Freya didn’t bother putting Travis’s case. Her mother had made up her mind about the Marshalls and nothing she could say would have any effect, but if only her mother could have heard the fuss Travis had put up about being groom at the mock school wedding.
During the weeks before, he’d driven their teacher mad.
He’d tugged the teacher’s sleeve. ‘Can’t I take the photos, Miss?’
‘No. You’re the groom.’
‘But I want to take the pictures. Can I borrow the camera?’
‘No, it’s very expensive. Leave it to Mr Patel. The groom is a very important person. You’re very lucky.’
‘I don’t want to be important. I want to be the photographer.’
‘It will do you good to take a central role that will teach you about responsibility and commitment. It’s a privilege. Your mum will be pleased.’
‘Maybe Mr Patel will let me look at his camera afterwards,’ he’d said with a sly grin that Freya secretly admired. ‘If I’m good.’
‘Look, I’ll ask him,’ the teacher had said, finally worn down. ‘If you’re good.
The bargain had been struck. Travis would go along with the ‘wedding crap’ if he got to hold the camera.
‘You should see the state of his trousers,’ her mum muttered, adjusting Freya’s flowery headband. ‘The hem’s come down. I’d have sewn it up it for him myself, but you don’t like to interfere, do you?’
‘No, Mum,’ Freya murmured, cringing. Her mum meant well but she was obsessed with making sure Freya always looked perfectly turned out. She’d said she didn’t want people thinking she couldn’t manage, because she was on her own, but Freya just wished she’d let things go once in a while; let Freya get messy and make mistakes.
‘I expect she’s got enough on her plate, with her husband locked up, but to send her child to school in dirty clothes on such an important occasion.’ Her mum shook her head in despair. ‘Never mind, you look gorgeous, darling. I can’t believe it’s been ten years since I wore that veil myself. Your dad would have been so proud if he could have been here.’
Her dad, again. Her mum had talked about him more these past few weeks than Freya could ever remember. The school wedding seemed to have made her mother very emotional, and prone to sharing memories of her father that Freya hadn’t heard before. Some of them had made her mum smile but others had made her cry a little bit too.
Freya felt helpless to understand and at a loss how to react. Her dad had died in a car accident when she wasn’t even two and she had no memories of him whatsoever. All her knowledge of this perfect being had come from her mum, who’d always made him sound like the perfect man: strong and kind and loving.
Her mother gazed down at her, her eyes glistening. ‘It makes me feel all teary, thinking of the future. One day, we’ll be doing this for real …’
‘B-but I might never get m-married,’ Freya muttered.
Her mother laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. You’re only eight. I’m sure you’ll meet someone nice. When I was younger, I never thought I’d find anyone, then along came your dad and I fell head over heels. I bet he’s up there somewhere looking down on you today.’
Freya shuddered, thinking of the carved angels peering down at her with their stone eyes from the church walls. When she was tiny, her mother had once told her that her dad had gone to be with the angels, and she’d found them creepy and ghostlike ever since.
Freya’s head went a bit swimmy, and her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t had any breakfast, too nervous to eat her Coco Pops – maybe that’s why her tummy felt so peculiar. She didn’t dare tell her mother how weird she was feeling; there was so much riding on this wedding. So many people looking forward to it, so much hard work and fuss by the grown-ups and all her classmates waiting for her in church.
Oh no, she might be sick …
‘Are we ready, then?’
The vicar loomed in the doorway. He seemed so big in his long white and purple robes, his few remaining hairs plastered across his head while bushy ones protruded from his nostrils.
‘Your bridesmaids are outside along with half the village. Shall we make a start?’ his voice boomed.
Her mum grasped Freya’s hand. ‘We’re ready, Vicar!’ she said, her feathers dancing wildly. ‘Now remember to smile, love. This is meant to be the happiest day of your life.’
‘Excellent. Now, who’s walking you up the aisle?’
‘I am,’ said her mother. ‘We decided on a break with tradition.’
‘That’s fine. I had a bride accompanied by a Shetland pony once.’
‘A pony?’ Her mother smiled back but had a steely look in her eye that Freya knew all too well. ‘Shall we make a start? I’m sure Freya’s keen to get it over with.’
Her mum steered her out into the church and the two bridesmaids took their places behind her. Her teacher had chosen them; one of them – Roxanne Jameson – stuck out her tongue at her.
Freya’s stomach did a somersault. If she got this wrong, she’d be teased and tormented for months.
The organ started, incredibly loud and scary like the vampire TV show Roxanne had persuaded her to watch which had left her with nightmares for weeks.
Her mother’s arm tightened around hers. ‘Smile …’ she murmured.
Freya tried but her jaw was frozen with terror. So many people staring at her; the other kids who’d spent weeks making paper flowers for the church; the mums and dads grinning like idiots at her; and the stone angels staring down from the roof, their eyes boring into her.
The only one not looking at her was Travis. Facing the altar, he had his hands shoved so far down his pockets that one finger poked out of a hole in them.
She hesitated but her mum’s hand tightened around hers.
‘It’ll be all right, love,’ she murmured, and finally let go of her arm so she could stand next to Travis in front of the vicar, who was beaming down at them.
‘Hold her hand, lad,’ he said, ‘though you’ll have to take them out of your pocket first.’
‘Yuk,’ Travis muttered, yet a moment later his fingers closed around hers and squeezed them gently.
‘Dearly beloved …’
Freya’s stomach was swishing like a washing machine.
‘… we are gathered here today …’
Her heart was thumping so hard, it would surely burst out of her chest and she was definitely going to be sick.
‘… to celebrate the marriage …’
She couldn’t do this, not in front of all these people gawping at her, with the angels and ghosts staring down, all expecting her to be perfect. In fact, maybe not ever.
‘… of Travis and Freya …’
Freya tore her hand out of Travis’s and ran down the aisle. She carried on running, out of the church and down the path, into the street, heading for the hills as if her life depended on it, with her mother’s screams ringing in her ears.