Chapter 30
Hello,
My name is Martina O’Neill, and my fiancé James Cassidy and I had planned to get married in Galway next February.
We had our hotel booked, and a hundred and fifty guests invited – but sadly my sister was diagnosed last month with a very aggressive cancer.
Her time is limited, so we want to bring the wedding forward and just have a small family wedding instead.
Your venue sounds like it might be what we’re looking for.
Our guest list is now seventeen, including ourselves – I wonder if you could accommodate us, sooner rather than later, ideally within the next few weeks?
I know it’s a tall order, and you’re probably busy, but I thought it was worth a try.
You might let me know as soon as you can,
Many thanks
Martina
Martina
First, let me say how sorry I am to hear your sad news: my heart goes out to all of you. On a more positive note, I can accommodate you and your guests as soon as you want – this is a new business venture, and you would be my very first guests. How about Saturday week, the ninth of November?
Let me know, and we can talk practicalities, like room allocations, dietary requirements, etc
My best,
Lydia
Lydia
That date would be ideal, thank you so much.
We’re very happy to be your first wedding party.
I’ll get back to you about bedrooms and food as soon as possible – I just need to check with everyone.
I see you’re offering an option of having the ceremony in the house as well as the meal, so we’d like to do that too, but one of my uncles is a priest – could he officiate?
A little more about my sister Karen. She’s thirty-two, and she’s my only sibling, and I can’t imagine living without her. She’s married, no children – they were planning to start a family next year. You never know, do you?
Love, Martina
Martina
Of course your uncle can marry you and James. It’s your day, so you must have it as you would like it. Pass on my details and ask him to let me know if there’s anything I can supply for him.
I lost someone very dear at the beginning of this year.
Like you, I didn’t think I could go on without him.
I thought I’d never get over it, and someone wise agreed that I wouldn’t, but told me I’d learn to live with it, and I am.
It’s slow, and at times it’s still very painful, but I’m learning. This might help you, later on.
You’re in the diary for the tenth – talk soon.
Love, Lydia
Lydia
I’m so sorry. Thank you.
Martina xx
And now everything was organised and the day was here – cold, dry – and Lydia awaited arrivals with inner flutterings, and was glad of Greta, in an unfamiliar grey dress, who’d helped with room preparations the day before and who was now on hand until she was no longer required.
What about your animals? Lydia had asked.
They are not a problem – my neighbour looks after them when I am away, in return for all the eggs and cheese he can eat.
Is that Bob, your artist neighbour?
It is. He has painted my goats. I will show you some time.
Cathy was in the kitchen with her teenage niece – She wants to follow in my footsteps, she’d told Lydia. She’s a great assistant. Both had arrived in their black trousers and white shirt uniform, and Ann, the niece, had her long red hair secured in a plait.
When Lydia peeped into the kitchen later the two of them were scurrying about, taking things from the fridge, slipping trays into ovens.
Tessa had migrated to Marian and Tom’s house with Naomi, armed with bottles of milk and the rest of the paraphernalia a travelling baby required.
The apartment was needed, they’d decided, as a sort of holding pen for the bride before the ceremony began.
Large as the house was, keeping the bride apart from the rest of the guests would be tricky otherwise.
Come around to the side, Lydia had emailed Martina, and tell everyone else to use the main entrance.
The heating was on, the dining-room fire lit.
The yoga studio had been transformed with bunting and flowers, the wooden floor polished, windows cleaned, chairs set out.
The hall had more flowers, and a banner strung above the studio doors that featured a champagne bottle whose exploding bubbles formed the word Congratulations!
Lydia had debated hanging it – was it insensitive in this case? Marian, when consulted, hadn’t thought so. They’ll probably be glad of all the cheer they can find, she’d said, so up it had gone.
James the groom and his two brothers were first to arrive, forty minutes or so before the ceremony was due to start.
All in suits, two pale grey, one darker.
‘No buttonholes,’ Greta observed, plucking three white carnations from one of the vases in the hall.
‘Wait here,’ she ordered, and vanished into the apartment, while Lydia, in a loose blue tunic that hid the elasticated waistband of her black trousers, pretended it was all part of the service, and hoped Greta wouldn’t go in search of a veil, if the bride arrived without one.
When they’d been equipped with their flowers she showed the trio upstairs to the room where the brothers were to stay. ‘I’ve been ordered not to let you into the bridal suite until later,’ she told James apologetically. ‘I have to do what I’m told.’
‘No problem,’ he said, dropping his bag against the wall. He struck her as having the look of a poet about him, pale of complexion, soft-spoken, dark-haired, dark-eyed, glasses. For a man about to be married, he seemed a little mournful.
She brought them across the corridor to the guest lounge and invited them to help themselves to tea or coffee from the station in the corridor, and told them about the drinks and nibbles that would be served shortly in the studio.
‘All very informal,’ she said. It sounded better than admitting she was making it up as she went along.
‘Wow,’ one of the brothers said. ‘A gramophone. Does it work?’ ‘It works perfectly.’ She showed him the record collection Marian was still adding to whenever she came across vinyl for sale.
Somewhat to her surprise – all three looked to be in their twenties – he selected Louis Armstrong. ‘Love jazz,’ he said.
‘Great view,’ the third brother said at the window. ‘So close to the sea. Can you actually go into the water from the end there?’
‘You can – there’s a little beach, not visible from here.’ ‘Amazing.’
The other came to join him, but James took a seat instead on the chaise longue, his expression still brooding. Maybe it was just normal pre-wedding jitters – or maybe it was something more, considering the sad circumstances.
‘I hope it all goes well today,’ she said quietly, and at that he gave her a grateful smile and murmured his thanks. Yes, she thought, conflicted about showing happiness, on a day that should be such a happy one for him.
The doorbell rang again, and Greta appeared shortly afterwards with more guests, and by a quarter to four, everyone but the bride and her immediate family was installed in the studio with a drink, and Ann from the kitchen was circulating with a tray of little bites, still warm from the oven.
Conversation within the group was easy, but under the smiles Lydia recognised a melancholy she knew well. Gaiety was a thing put on for form’s sake, to mask the foreboding and get them through the day.
Just before four, the bride and her party arrived. ‘Thank you,’ Martina’s mother said, in a burgundy dress and matching coat, ‘for accommodating us at such short notice.’
‘We’re very grateful,’ her husband said.
The strain showed on their faces, despite their efforts to hide it.
Smiles didn’t reach eyes. How did they cope, knowing what lay ahead for their daughter?
Where did they get the strength? Again, Lydia wondered about the wisdom of the banner above the studio doors. Too late to do anything about it now.
Martina was in a white calf-length dress with a short veil, the first traditionally attired bride at Chance House. ‘My sister Karen,’ she said to Lydia, ‘and her husband David.’
On the face of it, she looked no less healthy than Martina, wearing a dress the colour of Gareth’s stolen primroses under a warm-looking shrug in the same shade. Perfectly made up, a soft cream beret perched on short blonde hair. Bird-shaped silver earrings, a silver stud in one nostril.
Lydia could see no obvious sign that she had received the diagnosis everyone dreaded – but then Karen reached out to grip the back of a kitchen chair, and lowered herself on to it.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured, ‘bit tired,’ and everyone turned to her.
Her husband – tall, auburn-haired – rested a hand on her shoulder, and silence descended.
Lydia opened the prosecco she’d set aside for them, and the conversation stuttered along until the bride’s mother put down her glass.
‘We’d better get going,’ she said. ‘They’ll be waiting for us. Karen, love, are you able?’
‘I am.’ She rose and left the apartment on her husband’s arm, her mother following, and Lydia showed them to the studio. She let the priest and the groom know that the bride was on the way, and watched them take their positions at the top of the room.
‘You can start the music,’ she murmured to Greta, who was poised by the sound system Gareth had donated, and as the opening chords of a Bach prelude sounded, father and daughter emerged from the apartment.
The ceremony was a muted affair. The vows, the ring exchange, the first kiss. The joy was quiet – but Lydia felt the love that was everywhere, drifting about, butting against the sadness.
When the ceremony ended the guests sat on in the studio, chatting while they waited to be summoned to dinner.
Karen nursed but didn’t drink the glass of wine someone had handed her, smiling when addressed, but not speaking much.
David sat next to her, holding her hand, his smile as forced as those of his parents-in-law.