A nervous-looking young man came forward to hand her a hymn book. ‘Bride’s side or groom’s?’ he asked.
‘Neither,’ said Fran, scanning the half-filled pews ahead of her. ‘I’m a friend of both parties.’
‘In that case,’ the young man said, ‘you may as well sit wherever you like.’
Instead of continuing down the central aisle, Fran was momentarily rooted to the spot. She still hadn’t decided whether she ought to go and sit next to Tom and his wife or not, but then she spotted Tom’s distinctive broad back and was confused to note that he appeared to be alone. At that moment he turned his head and, seeing her, gave an unmistakable smile of welcome.
‘Did you want me to show you to a seat?’ the young man asked, clearly wondering why she had not moved on.
‘No, no, thank you. I’m fine.’
Fran headed further into the church and slid sideways into the pew where Tom was waiting. ‘Are you on your own?’ she asked in the low voice one invariably adopted in church.
‘Poor old Veronica went down with a horrid cold yesterday and didn’t feel up to it,’ Tom said. ‘She insisted that I still come. As she said, Old Finney and Miss Spencely are my friends. Vee has never met either of them.’
‘Gosh, what jolly bad luck,’ Fran said, trying to eradicate every scrap of joy and relief from her voice. ‘I do hope she gets well soon.’
‘It’s only a cold,’ Tom said. ‘Runny nose and all that. Nothing to fret about.’
Fran thought it was a lovely wedding. The bride wore a fashionable lace gown with a drop waist, and a mauve sash to match the Michaelmas daisies in her bouquet. Both parties made their vows in clear, confident voices, and Miss Spencely looked up so sweetly at Richard Finney when she promised to honour and obey that Fran almost needed to follow the example of the bride’s mother and reach for a handkerchief from her bag.
Once the ceremony was over and the bride and groom had posed for photographs on the church steps and paid the obligatory ransom to a group of local schoolboys who had tied the church gates together in the North Country tradition, the entire party set off along the main street, with the newly-weds leading the way and passers-by stopping to cheer and applaud them all the way to the parish hall, where there was a sit-down lunch provided by professional caterers.
When Tom discovered that they had been seated at different tables, he swiftly exchanged Fran’s handwritten place card for Veronica’s, so that she could join him on a table about halfway down the room, between some cousins of the groom and an old school friend of the bride and her rather earnest husband, who looked as if he might turn out to be a bore until Tom diverted him on to the subject of cricket.
Another potentially awkward moment arose when the first course arrived and Fran saw that it was dressed crab, which she did not like. The very thought of it made her retch, but it would never have done to reject their hosts’ hospitality and, desperate not to be impolite, Fran was vainly attempting to hide some of the crab meat under the garnish of shredded cucumber when Tom came to the rescue by offering a discreet exchange of plates and disposing of both portions of shellfish in double-quick time. There were fortunately no such problems with the Melton Mowbray pie and salad, or the strawberry ice that concluded the meal.
The speeches which followed were mercifully short, the bride’s father inevitably saying that he was not losing a daughter but gaining a son, and the best man telling some frightfully lame jokes which were nevertheless greeted by uproarious laughter. After complimenting the bridesmaids, whose blushes clashed somewhat with their mauve satin, Richard Finney took the unusual step of asking everyone to toast not only the bridesmaids but also the late Robert Barnaby, ‘without whom, I might never have met my fiancée … I mean, of course, my wife’, which generated a polite ripple of laughter and more applause. The toasts were drunk in homemade lemonade, which was extremely refreshing, Fran thought, and much nicer than the beer and shandy which was occasionally offered at weddings where the family could not afford anything better.
Once the speeches were concluded, the ladies stood aside while the able-bodied men assisted in moving the tables and chairs in order to clear a space for dancing, and in next to no time a musical friend of the groom had tuned up and begun to play a waltz on his violin, which was the cue for the new Mr and Mrs Finney to take to the floor amid more applause from their assembled friends and relatives.
For the subsequent dancing, the fiddler was joined by a pianist and a chap on a double bass, and the trio cheerfully plugged away at waltzes and foxtrots, interspersed with an occasional livelier number for younger guests who were conversant with the Charleston and the Shimmy. In the meantime, while the bride and groom circulated, thanking everyone for their presents and receiving good wishes and congratulations in their turn, Fran and Tom were able to catch up with some old friends from the Barnaby Society, until eventually Tom noticed Fran’s tapping foot and asked, ‘Would you care for a dance?’
‘I’m afraid my Charleston has never been seen in public. Mo taught me and we’ve only ever done it with the rugs rolled back at home.’
‘High time it had a proper airing on the dance floor, then,’ Tom said, taking her hand and guiding her to her feet before she could make any further protest. ‘I should warn you, by the way, that I’m no Vernon Castle.’
Tom’s rendition of the popular craze owed far more to enthusiasm than to skill, and his insistence on pulling faces to make her laugh ensured that Fran was absolutely breathless by the time they resumed their seats. It was the first time she had danced in public since parting from Michael, and she found it somehow liberating to have taken part in something which her mother had once described as ‘a disgusting spectacle and completely unladylike’, particularly when her old friend Miss Robertson, chairman of the Scottish chapter of the Barnaby Society, welcomed her back to her seat with the words ‘Bravo, Mrs Black, a tremendous effort!’.
It crossed Fran’s mind to wonder what Jean Robertson made of the fact that Tom’s wife had stayed at home or the way she and Tom were talking and laughing together, and she was reminded sharply of the realities of obtaining a divorce and what it might mean in terms of giving up their friendship.
As the hour approached five o’clock and the caterers were clearing away the teacups and plates, which bore traces of dark, sticky wedding cake, the chap on the violin called for everyone’s attention and announced that they would be playing one last waltz before it was time to wave Richard and Julia Finney off on their honeymoon. Turning to the dance floor, Fran saw that the new Mrs Finney must have slipped away to change, as she was taking to the floor in a dove-grey travelling dress, enhanced with a row of mother-of-pearl buttons.
‘Come on,’ Tom said. ‘Last chance to cut a rug, as our American cousins would say.’
The slower dance meant more traditional positions. Tom’s left hand in her right, his other arm encircling her waist. Without even thinking about it, there they were, bodies resting gently against one another, Tom leading in an easy, comfortable way. She looked up at him and understood perfectly the message in his eyes. She must stay in the moment and enjoy it, not think about the future or how impossible everything was.
‘Thank you,’ he said politely when the music had finally ended and he was escorting her back to her seat, his hand clasping hers just a little longer than was absolutely necessary. The words seemed to convey much more than the customary pleasantry.
They joined the crowd on the front steps of the parish hall, cheering and waving as the newlyweds drove off in Richard Finney’s little Austin, accompanied by the clatter of the old tin cans tied to his rear bumper. The departure of the bride and groom signalled the conclusion of the celebrations, and Fran found herself swept up in thanking the bride’s parents and bidding various Barnaby Society friends farewell.
‘Safe journey home,’ she found herself saying to Tom. ‘I do hope Veronica gets over her cold soon.’ Their brief moment was over, and everything had reverted to normal.