Broken Country (Reese’s Book Club)

24. 1968

1968

Nina’s father insists on marking her engagement to Jimmy with an open bar at the Compasses. I could have told him free drinks on a Friday night would mean bun-fight at best, total carnage at worst, but, as a pub landlord, I suspect he knows that.

To begin with, I enjoy the engagement party. I love watching Nina being hugged and kissed, and even thrown up in the air by one whiskery old farmer. Like Jimmy often says, teasing her—she’s a big hit with the over-seventies. In truth, Nina is everyone’s favorite. In her bright pink minidress, joy is radiating from her. The men pretend to be jealous—“Lucky bastard, what have you got that we haven’t?”—and give Jimmy too many pints, then too many whiskies. The women want to see Nina’s ring. An opal surrounded by seed pearls, it used to belong to Jimmy’s mother.

There’s a fair amount of backslapping and cheek-pinching for Frank too, as he’s well loved in the community. Frank donates a whole lamb for the church raffle at Christmas, allows farming friends to graze our fields for free, has been known to leave mystery food parcels on the doorsteps of those who need it. When Bobby was alive Frank was often at the school bleeding radiators and patching up rotten doors as if he were an odd-jobman rather than the time-pressed farmer he is. Every year he won the fathers’ race at sports day, a foregone conclusion with his long legs, his fitness and extreme youth, but even so, you’d see the whole crowd screaming his name.

I watch my husband climb up on a barstool which looks too rickety for his frame but he balances effortlessly, bangs a spoon against his glass. “There’s going to be a wedding at Blakely Farm. And you are all invited.”

The uproar is intense. Village weddings tend to follow a pattern in Hemston: Everyone comes, everyone provides, the cost and stress shared equally among the families who have lived here forever. The people of Hemston know how to throw a good party. And if these collective weddings feel a bit formulaic sometimes—same faces, same food, once or twice even the same dress, altered a little to fit the new bride—no one cares.

Within an hour we have been offered a marquee, trestle tables, bunting, a live band, barrels of cider and ale from the pub, pigs for a spit-roast, a wedding cake. The ladies who do the church flowers volunteer for the wedding, and a sideline conversation breaks out. What would be best for September—marigolds and white azaleas? A traditional orange-and-white theme, they decide. Helen says she will make Nina’s dress. She’s still a talented seamstress who, like me, was once top of the class at school and destined for greater things. Life rarely works out the way you expect.

I could watch my brother-in-law all night. He looks so proud as his future wife is embraced by one pair of arms after another. Nina has tried her best to modernize Jimmy, bringing home jeans from London and a rather garish short-sleeved shirt, which he wears tonight, under duress.

“Snazzy outfit,” I tell him, and he rolls his eyes.

“I feel like a fool.”

“What will you wear for the wedding?”

“Something my fiancée”—he breaks off to grin at me—“doesn’t have a say in. She’d have me trussed up in a purple suit, no doubt.”

Trays of whisky are circulating through the pub. Jimmy takes two glasses from a passing tray, offers one to me, downs both of them when I refuse. I’ve never acquired a taste for whisky.

“Oof,” he says, turning to me, eyes streaming.

“Horrible?” I ask.

“Actually pretty good.”

Helen comes up to us, hugging Jimmy first, then me. “This is the best news. Let me make you a suit, Jimmy. I’ve been wanting to try my hand at men’s tailoring.”

“He’s thinking purple,” I tell her, and Jimmy laughs.

When Jimmy begins another conversation, Helen and I talk in our learned language of glances and half phrases.

“How’s Frank?” she says, and we both turn to look at my husband, standing a foot away, surrounded by friends, laughing.

“He’s good,” I say. “We both are.”

Because in this moment, it’s true.

With all this festive fever none of us notice how drunk Jimmy is getting until Andy Morris, the local bobby, reaches out and places one palm in the small of his back, keeping him upright. He’s a good guy, Andy, we have known him for years. Plenty of times he delivered Jimmy back to us blind drunk in his delinquent, pre-Nina years. He got into fights, was caught drunk driving without a license, and, every single time, Andy let him off with a warning. He understood, like everyone in the village understood, the loss of his mother had hit Jimmy hard.

“Steady on, lad” is all Andy says. “Maybe give the whisky a break?”

“Are you joking?” Jimmy says, spilling a bit of his pint as he throws his arm around Andy’s shoulders. “I’m getting married. It’s traditional for the bridegroom to get very drunk.”

I glance at Frank, raise my eyebrows a fraction, a warning he understands instantly.

He puts his arm around me, murmurs in my ear. “His night, isn’t it?”

There is a sudden quiet, voices dipping, a few people turning to stare before I see for myself Gabriel has walked into the pub. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in here.

Gabriel has not made any effort with the villagers since he arrived. I don’t blame him. He’s lived away from home for most of his life, and he always said he didn’t fit in here. The people know him without knowing him. It’s an uncomfortable dissonance and it makes them wary.

When Gabriel sees me, standing close to the bar, surrounded by family, his face tenses. Quite suddenly, we are in a goldfish bowl.

“What can I get you?” Nina’s dad asks him.

“A pint of bitter, please, and a lemonade—?” He turns to me with an apologetic shrug.

“Leo’s in the car. I know it’s late. Just felt I needed to get out.”

“Why don’t I go and keep him company and you can drink your pint in peace? You won’t be long, will you?”

Before Gabriel can reply Jimmy grabs his arm, spins him around until their faces are inches apart. “You’re not welcome in here.” He almost spits the words, the scorn in his voice sharp as a blade.

“Is that so? Bluntly put,” Gabriel says. “Well, don’t worry, I’m leaving the moment I have my drinks.”

“Lay off, Jimmy,” Frank says, stepping in. “The pub is for everyone.”

Gabriel nods at him, that’s all. But something about the quiet understanding between the two of them inflames Jimmy—he’s on edge anyway, so it doesn’t take much.

“Why don’t you go back to London or wherever you came from? No one wants you here. Get lost.”

None of us see it, the way Jimmy draws back his arm, fist clenched in sudden anger. None of us but Andy, who moves in, quiet and efficient, encircling Jimmy’s chest with his arms. Jimmy flailing and helpless. Andy, soothing, restraining.

“No need for that, lad, on such a happy night,” he says, as Jimmy slackens in his arms. “Fresh air is what we need. Come on, fella, let’s take a turn outside.”

“Why does he do this, Beth?” Nina says beside me. “Why does he get so drunk? Five minutes ago he was happy.”

“He shouldn’t drink whisky. He’s not good with spirits. It’s my fault, I gave him mine.”

“No. It’s my fault,” Gabriel says. “It was wrong of me to come. I didn’t realize—”

Gabriel doesn’t say what it is he has realized and I am left watching him walk away, feeling my husband’s eyes upon me, wondering how much longer the three of us can carry on like this before something catastrophic happens.