As it turned out, it was Connie who was the sensation of the wedding. Or, at least, one of them. Uninvited, unannounced, undesired and unexpected, she turned up at the Kennington Town Hall just as the sacred moment – if there is a sacred moment at such ceremonies – was approaching. And, simply by being there, she helped to banish that note of Civil Service greyness that somehow hangs over all State marriages.
It was her clothes that did it. Romantically conceived, they clashed violently with the buff distemper of the walls. But clothes like that would have clashed with anything – even with themselves. The magenta blouse and hat, the bunch of yellow artificial flowers, the brown handbag, the red shaggy fur of the coat – they seethed in a disharmony that was all their own. It may, of course, have been simply that the various bits and pieces hadn’t yet had time to settle down together. For they were all new – new for the wedding, in fact. On Doris’ account, Connie had been making some pretty serious inroads into what was left of the cheque for damages.
She was easily the most elaborately dressed person present. The respective mothers had turned up in severe matter‐of‐fact tailor‐mades like schoolmistresses off duty. And Doris herself was in a plain blue dress that a nursemaid might have worn. No pleats. No Empire sleeves. No chic. Nothing. Connie was disappointed.
Connie had managed to give the company a quick all‐over as she sidled in. But it was only now when she had taken up her position in the happy group that she was really able to study details. And they were a shoddy looking lot, she decided. No use concealing the fact. The puffy little man in the dark suit with his tie riding up over his wideawake collar was evidently Bill’s father. And no beauty, either. ‘Five foot seven and moulting,’ Connie said to herself, and passed on.
Not that Mr Josser was any better himself. But she liked him and wasn’t going to make jokes about his appearance, even to herself. It wasn’t his fault if his clothes just hung on him: it was simply because he’d lost a lot of weight over that last illness and hadn’t put it back again.
With Bill, it was different. She kept herself shifting backwards and forwards so that she could get a better look at him. And was she surprised? It was wonderful, downright wonderful, what an improvement uniform had made. If he’d grown a moustache she wouldn’t have known him from a soldier. But it was the best man, a brother‐officer, who really took her fancy. He was a proper little beauty. A bit on the short side, he had a cocky air about him that appealed to her at once. And close crinkly black hair. Now if Doris had gone after him, Connie could have understood it.
She stood back modestly while they were all signing the register with the Registrar’s own fountain pen; and by doing so she saw the whole proceeding in perspective. It was just as though they’d been grouped there on a stage. Connie the Thespian took over from Connie the lodger and she saw it all in terms of tragedy – the window sandbagged outside because of air‐raids, the notice about what to do in case of Gas, the two young men in uniform. It was heart‐breaking, downright heart‐breaking. Toppers, silk stocks, photographers, floppy hats, bunches of flowers – everything in fact that goes to make up the spiritual side of marriage was missing. And it was only Connie apparently who could see how much was wrong.
‘My God,’ she thought, ‘the offers I’ve had. The chances I’ve turned down. Including one Frenchman. If only I’d wanted to. If only I had. Queen bees weren’t in it with me… .’
The Registrar had got his fountain pen back by now, and the kissing had started. Dr Davenport was kissing Doris, Bill was kissing Mrs Josser, and Mrs Davenport and Mr Josser brought suddenly face to face wore the embarrassed expression of two people conspicuously placed who wondered if something were expected of them too. It was Connie who saved the situation. As soon as Doris was free, she sank her feelings, pushed her way in and kissed her too. And Bill. Then just to liven things up she kissed the best man as well. And that so far as she was concerned was where things ended for the moment. She wasn’t, even for old friendship’s sake, going to make a martyr of herself and kiss Dr Davenport. Or Mr Josser, for that matter.
Mr Josser, indeed, seemed surprised to see her there. Surprised, but friendly.
‘Hallo, Connie,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you were coming along.’ ‘Nor did I,’ added Mrs Josser.
But there was no time for any unpleasantness because, at that moment, the second sensation of the day occurred. The door opened and a rather timid little man in a black coat and striped trousers peeped round the door. He hadn’t finished peeping when a large fur‐coat appeared behind him and he was given a push from behind.
‘Do get on, Monty,’ a voice said. ‘I know we’re hideously late. I can feel it.’
Then the little man was thrust to one side and Doreen pushed her way up to Doris.
‘My pet,’ she said, ‘I only heard yesterday. And I felt I had to. I simply had to. I couldn’t have endured it, if I hadn’t been here.’
Then she turned to Bill.
‘Bill darling, you look marvellous. I’ve quite forgiven you. You two are simply made for each other. Really you are.’
Connie recognised Doreen, and she was glad to see her. She and the little man in the striped trousers – her father, possibly? – added something that up to now had been missing. They introduced just the right note of St George’s, Hanover Square or St Margaret’s.16 But she gave up thinking about them because she was too much concerned with her own little surprise. She’d planned something and she wanted to be sure that it would go off just right. She’d had a hunch – the old stage instinct – that she’d be needed to do her little bit. And all that she was waiting for was her cue.
The cue came when Bill and Doris were getting into the taxi. The door was wide open when Connie whipped out the first of the little parcels that she’d been carrying in the bosom of her coat. It was rice. And with a happy shriek she scattered it over them. But that was only the beginning. She’d got two other packets as well. The second contained confetti and she managed to make it go all round even though it was only small size. Everyone – even Doreen and the little man in striped trousers – got some. And finally to cap everything she scattered the contents of the last lot – small silver‐paper bells and horse‐shoes – on top of the load she had already distributed. It was a proper festive mess by the time she had finished. But it did, at least, give a lift‐up to the proceedings.
It turned out afterwards that there was a notice up about throwing confetti, let alone silver horse‐shoes – and rice, which was rationed anyway.
The porter at the Town Hall turned quite nasty about it.
In the general attitude of goodwill which prevails at all happy weddings, Doris forgave Doreen and asked her to bring Mr Perkiss back for the reception. Mrs Josser was amazed. But it was all right. They couldn’t stop long. Only just long enough for Doreen, in a whisper, to tell Doris all about the wonderful things that had been happening to her. She was expecting to get married herself, she said, as soon as Monty’s divorce had come through. He had been absolutely sweet about everything, she explained, and had kept her name out of the divorce altogether. Throughout the conversation, Mr Perkiss stood there smiling politely. He had caught the word ‘sweet’ but had no idea what such sweetness implied, and was trying to look like a model family man.
The early departure of Doreen and Mr Perkiss, who left wing to wing as though looking for a nesting box, did not break up the party. Indeed, it went on for some time after Bill and Doris had left, too. But by then there was no real life left in it. To some extent that was Mrs Josser’s fault. It was the saddest day of her life. And she made no pretence of concealing it. Rather red about the eyes and with the corners of her mouth tightly drawn in she sat next to Bill’s mother saying nothing.
With the hostess thus eliminated, the party naturally disintegrated. Dr Davenport and Mr Squales got together and found that they both knew Brighton. It was the only thing they had in common. Nevertheless it was a difficult conversation because Mr Squales kept referring mysteriously to his profession. After Dr Davenport had established that he wasn’t a doctor, he decided that he must be some sort of dentist; a smart American dentist with a Far Western diploma. And thereafter he talked to him about dentistry. The South Downs and the Black Rock became all mixed up with caries and transparent fillings.
Over by the window Mr Puddy was standing. He was talking to Mrs Vizzard. And this was unusual. It had taken a wedding to bring it about. In the ordinary way, they didn’t exchange more than a sentence or two in the whole week.
‘Id all debens on whad you bean by alarbig,’ Mr Puddy was saying. ‘In by brofession we can’t afford to take risks. We’ve god sand and shovels on every floor. And water danks.’
‘Mr Squales said something about our shelter not being strong enough,’ Mrs Vizzard said nervously. ‘Not in front, he feels.’
‘Dot strog edough,’ Mr Puddy asked. ‘I don’t subbose it is. They’re dud of them strog edough.’ He gave a shudder as he stood there. ‘Bud the real thig is fire. Thad’s whad we’re god to wodge oud for, fire. They’ve issued a friend of bine with an asbestos suit all over. Had, goat, gloves, everythid…’
Mr Josser came up and joined them. He smiled engagingly across at Mrs Vizzard.
‘Well,’ he said pleasantly. ‘It won’t be long now, will it? You’ll be the bride next time.’
He was aware as he began speaking that he wasn’t quite himself. Not that things were bad enough to make him slur his words. Only bad enough to make him bold and familiar.
Mrs Vizzard smiled and her eyes slid over anxiously in Mr Squales’ direction.
‘He was hæmophilic, remember,’ Dr Davenport had just said, ‘and the whole lot of them had to come out then and there. What would you have done?’
‘But really my dear sir, you mistake me…’ Mr Squales began. Then he caught Mrs Vizzard’s eye. ‘Forgive me,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I am wanted. I am called away.’
His mind was reeling with abscesses and laughing gas and wholesale extractions, and he came gratefully, obediently. He was smiling as he approached them.
‘My honey needed me?’ he asked.
Mrs Vizzard smiled back at him.
‘Mr Josser was just saying that it wouldn’t be long now. Doris isn’t the only person in Dulcimer Street who’ll be getting married, is she?’
The smile on Mr Squales’ face died away and was replaced by something tenser and more drawn.
‘No‐o‐o,’ he said slowly. ‘Not the only one. Not by any means.’ And the smile, to Mrs Vizzard’s great relief, returned. It was richer, blander even than before.
They all had gone now.
All except Mrs Boon, that is. She still sat on there, just as she had sat right through the party, saying nothing. She had been with them. But not of them. And, in an odd way, her presence was disturbing. With her there they couldn’t forget what had happened. Even quite little things like taking another lump of sugar in a cup of tea seemed, in her presence, callous and unrespecting. In consequence, silence fell over all three of them. Mr and Mrs Josser simply sat facing each other, thinking.
Then Mrs Boon suddenly said something. Raising her head she addressed Mrs Josser.
‘Every time I looked at Bill,’ she observed. ‘I could see my Percy standing there. That’s who she ought to have married – Percy.’