Chapter 3 #2
‘I wasn’t going to let anyone see it yet. It’s still such a mess. I want to wait till it’s all done before showing it off.’
‘But I’m not just anyone, and I promise I won’t tell.’
Lydia considered. ‘I’ll show you one thing,’ she said. ‘No, two things.’
When they’d finished eating she brought her into the yoga studio – floor down now, radiators installed but not connected, walls still unpainted – and Brona shook her head in wonderment. ‘This is marvellous, Liddy. Your own studio. I’m so happy for you.’
‘I know. I can hardly believe it.’
‘What’s the other thing I’m allowed to see?’
‘It’s outside. You’ll need your coat.’
She brought her round the back and along the planks Gareth had put down to give access to the bottom of the garden. At the sight of the little cove, Brona gave a surprised cry.
‘You told me about this – I’d forgotten. Is this the place Damien popped the question?’
‘Yes, right there.’
‘Ah, Liddy. Promise me we can drink wine down there when I visit.’
‘Every night, winter or summer.’
They were on fresh coffees when Marian and Susan reappeared. Lydia made the introductions. ‘My oldest friend,’ she told them.
‘Sorry you’re losing her to the west,’ Marian said to Brona.
Brona made a face. ‘Me too. As if there weren’t enough eligible Dubs, she has to fall for a culchie.’
‘They’re just better all round,’ Susan said. ‘Lydia, Damien rang Andrew last night to ask him to take the reception photos – turns out Denny’s doing that airport run, so he’ll have to leave after the church. Maybe Andrew told you when he brought the furniture.’
‘No, he said nothing.’
‘He’s good,’ Marian said, seeing the slight fall in her smile. ‘He’s done lots of other weddings.’
‘Who are we talking about?’ Brona asked.
‘My brother,’ Susan told her. ‘He’s the local butcher.’
Brona smiled. ‘Wow. You certainly like to do things differently here.’
‘Yes, we do. You’re not in Dublin now.’
It was lightly said, but Lydia saw Brona’s smile stiffen a little.
‘Champagne,’ she said, reaching swiftly into the fridge to pull out the bottle Damien had given her yesterday. ‘I’m under orders from my future husband to open this.’ Earlier than she’d planned, but so what? It was her wedding day.
The cork was popped, glasses filled. ‘To the bride and groom,’ Brona said, raising her glass.
‘To a long and happy marriage,’ Marian said.
‘To Chance House, and all who sail in her,’ Susan said.
The day moved on. Marge appeared with her bag of hairdressing supplies.
Marian’s florist friend brought the bridal bouquet – a gorgeous mix of deep red rosebuds, gypsophila, mistletoe, berried holly and trailing ivy.
Denny arrived with two cameras – ‘Colour and black and white, so you’ll have a choice. ’
After Marge had styled their hair, Lydia and Brona did each other’s faces – no make-up artist to be had in the village – and got into their finery. Brona had brought a dress in duck egg blue that she already owned, to tone in with Lydia’s lilac.
‘Lovely,’ Susan said when they reappeared.
‘Beautiful,’ Marian said.
‘Picture perfect,’ Denny said, snapping with his cameras.
Lydia’s parents were the last to arrive, bearing another bottle of champagne. Her mother was immaculately dressed, pale pink with navy piping. Very Chanel. Chances were it was Chanel.
Lydia felt her excitement mounting. In a couple of hours she would be Mrs Lydia Cotter. She’d toyed with keeping her maiden name, like some of her friends had done, but after thirty-two years she was tired of Lydia Foley.
Her phone pinged. Damien.
Good morning. Hope you’re feeling bridal. Just getting into the good suit here. x
She smiled.
We’re drinking champagne. Not sure I’ll make it to the church actually. Would you mind?
Quick as a flash, he came back. Don’t make me come and get you. You’ve met your match, lady.
She remembered him scooping her up and carrying her over the apartment threshold the day they’d moved in – had it really been only a month ago? I need the practice, he’d said. Today would be the real thing, no more practising.
I’ll be there. x
She sipped champagne and thought of him.
*
At a few minutes past three, she climbed into her father’s car with Brona, her mother having already left with Marian.
Denny had also gone ahead, to capture their arrival at the church.
Even though her father turned up the heat fully Lydia was very glad of Marian’s red wool wrap.
Beside her, Brona put an arm around her.
‘Have a ball, Liddy,’ she whispered. ‘You look wonderful, and this is your day – enjoy it.’
‘I intend to – and you too. Thanks for being here.’
‘Where else would I be?’
Denny was waiting for them outside the church.
She stepped from the car, trying not to hunch in the intense cold as he started snapping.
Cars were parked around the grounds in the haphazard way she’d seen on Sunday at Mass times, but this was Thursday.
Odd, she thought – until fiddles started up inside with their version of ‘Here Comes the Bride’, and she entered the church on her father’s arm, and saw that the place was packed.
Some she knew – Gareth, Marge, Susan, Greta.
Other faces she recognised – the woman from the hardware store, the girl from the chemist – but there were a lot she didn’t.
They were predominantly female, some in hats, all beaming at her as she made her way up the aisle – and there at the altar was Damien, his smile making her melt as it always did.
Her father kissed her cheek and moved away as she went to stand beside her groom. ‘You look wonderful,’ Damien murmured, taking her cold hand. How were his always warm?
Father Phil, resplendent in white and gold, smiled as they turned to face him. Before beginning the ceremony he welcomed Lydia to the village, and wished her and Damien success with their new venture and promised that everyone would support them.
‘Just as they’ve turned out today,’ he said, gesturing towards the congregation, ‘to witness the start of your journey together as husband and wife, and to wish you both long life and happiness in Chance House. As I found out on my own arrival here eight years ago, this is a place where community is strong, where newcomers are welcomed, and connections forged are never broken.’
It felt surreal. Most of them were still strangers to her – and while she was touched by their presence, she couldn’t help suspecting that they were here for Damien more than for her. Or maybe it was just another village tradition, everyone piling into the church, no matter who was getting married.
The ceremony began. When invited by Father Phil, her mother read from the Book of Genesis, and her friends lined up for Prayers of the Faithful.
At the vows, Lydia’s voice wobbled when she promised to love Damien for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.
‘Till death us do part,’ she repeated after Father Phil.
She’d never liked that phrase, the depressing reminder of what must come one day, but they could hardly have left it out, being part of the familiar profession.
Their little page boy, about to become her nephew by marriage, thrust out his cushion with the rings when prompted, before scrambling back to the safety of his mother’s arms. ‘With this ring I thee wed,’ bride and groom recited in turn.
A beaming Father Phil declared them husband and wife, and informed them that they might now kiss, so they did, accompanied by an enthusiastic round of applause.
Directly afterwards, Kathleen and Brendan left their pew and brought the offertory gifts to the altar.
We’d prefer that, Brendan had told Damien.
Neither of us would be comfortable doing a reading or that.
Not ones for the limelight, despite being among people they’d known all their lives.
Lydia was happy they were participating, even in this small way.
As the older couple turned from the altar, Kathleen caught Lydia’s eye and gave a small nod, accompanied by the ghost of a smile. She was in navy, with newly set hair. Lydia’s mother-in-law, for better or worse.
After the ceremony they followed the priest into the sacristy to sign the register, and when they emerged the crowd had melted away, leaving just their guests.
Everyone embraced the new Mrs Cotter, even Kathleen. ‘Congratulations,’ she said, her hug brief, and Lydia tried to quash the thought that she’d had to do it, for form’s sake. She’d done it, and that was what mattered.
‘Anyone who’s not working comes to the church for weddings,’ Marian told her, as Denny organised photos on the steps. ‘They love a good walk up the aisle. Jack, stop making faces – give Denny your best smile.’
‘Snow,’ Jack said, gazing at the sky, and everyone looked up to see a few tiny flakes drifting in the air.
Damien tightened his hold on Lydia. ‘Are you frozen, Mrs Cotter?’
‘I am completely frozen, Mr Cotter. I hope we’re going back to a warm house.’
‘We are, all sorted. The boys texted.’ His fellow chefs, who were bringing the food, had been charged with lighting the fire and switching on the heaters on their arrival at the house.
‘Thank God for that.’
Denny rounded them up again. ‘Last time,’ he promised, ‘everyone in,’ and they huddled together on the steps and smiled before scattering gratefully to cars and driving in convoy to the house, the newlyweds leading the way.
Someone, probably Marian, had dressed Damien’s car in white ribbons. Drivers coming towards them on the way to Chance House beeped and flashed in celebration. When he pulled up on the lane, Lydia looked at him. ‘You’re not driving in?’
‘I thought it would be more ceremonial if we walked.’