Thirteen
Lizzy gets married at a registry
office, in the summer before my own wedding, and I am invited to attend, as I
knew I would be. She is stronger than me, or else she does not feel the pain I
feel.
“You have to come, Al. Promise you will!” She knows I will do whatever she asks.
It is the final day of our
camping trip to Thetford forest. The
holiday has been my last chance to be with Lizzy before she is taken from
me. The weather has been warm and sunny
and we have been on long walks together, looking at birds with the cheap
binoculars she has brought, arguing about names and making up new, ridiculous
species, according to where we spot them.
“That’s a tangle-bramble
sparrow,” Lizzy announces, “and that’s
a muddy-arsed thrush.”
We collect insects in a jar for
her to draw – she has always been good at drawing. I hold the magnifying glass,
and she uses a soft pencil to sketch them, going over the outline with a darker
one afterwards. I tell her she has a
real talent and that she should send some sketches to a publisher. She says I am a stupid bint. She says I would make a good mother. She tells me to shut the fuck up. She draws a stick insect with my head on it.
As she sketches I think about the
absurdity of the unstoppable wedding day.
Here in the forest, there is no excuse for the banal future she has
planned for herself, and my frustration simmers dangerously near the
surface.
“I don’t want to come Liz,” I
say, so quietly that I do not know whether I have spoken the words at all. “I hate weddings, especially yours.”
Her pencil hovers for an instant
and then resumes. “But you will. For me?”
I say, for her, I would do
anything.
We brood for the rest of the
afternoon, and make the short hours together last as long as we can. Lizzy has hardly spoken about the wedding,
which is to take place on the following Saturday. Nevertheless, as we pack away the tent and the rest of our gear,
the fact of it hangs in the air, a palpable force, drawing us reluctantly
towards it. I am desperate that my
friend should not marry this man I have never met, but I know no way of
preventing it. She has, it seems,
resigned herself to her fate, like some tragic nineteenth century literary
heroine. She will not be swayed by
reason or logic, and I fiddle with blades of grass and pick up pebbles, turning
them, letting them fall through my fingers, not knowing what to do, or what to
say. She watches me, willing me not to voice my feelings.
“There’s no point, Al. It’s going to happen,” she says, when I beg
her not to go through with it.
“But you don’t love him.” I smash my fist into the soft ground, and
feel the sting of tears boiling up in the corners of my eyes. Lizzy sighs, but stays where she is, cross-legged,
her knees muddied.
“Love is not important in a
marriage. My mum told me it was
over-rated, and that money and kindness were what mattered.”
Her words sound hollow, and I say
so. “Utter crap, and you know it.”
“No, I think she’s right. Anyway, I don’t need to love him, I have
you.” And she jumps up for me to chase
her, laughing and taunting me.
I am not in the mood to be
teased, and she comes back, coaxing.
“Don’t be sad, Al. We can still
have lots of time together. I’ll have plenty
of dosh, too. We can go travelling,
like we said we would. To Europe, or
America if you like.”
Her enthusiasm is childlike, its
irony crushing. I want to make her
stop. It is pointless to persist, and I force myself to stand. I can bear the intensity of her closeness no
more.
“Come on you fat cow, we’d better
shove this stuff in the car.”
Carelessly, I grab the stove and a couple of noisy pans.
“Look, Al!” She points into the forest, her voice
hushed, her body tensing.
The deer emerge just in front of
us, a mother and her fawn, twitching in the dappled low light, alert to our
presence. Hardly daring to breathe, I
observe the delicate sinews moving under the sleek skin of the magical
creatures, their eyes a rich, earthy brown, born of the forest. I feel the bond between them, and, looking
back at Lizzy, who has a single tear running down her face, I am startled by
the realisation that what I hold most dear is to be lost to me forever.
I cannot say that Lizzy knew what
was in my heart; perhaps she has never known such anguish as I held inside
myself during those brief seconds, when I knew, with certainty, the transitory
nature of my bliss. My unutterable,
impracticable love.
***
I arrive at the registry office
ahead of time. The previous, now
married, couple and attendant assembly have spewed out onto the car park, in a
frenzy of cheap frills, outrageous hats, and garish make up. They screech and cavort in extravagant
vulgarity, and I am transfixed, in spite of myself, by this parody of a
ceremony. The bride is a hefty girl of no more than eighteen or nineteen, clad
in layers of traditional taffeta that barely contain her enormous, fleshy
breasts. The groom is a skinny-faced
buffoon in hired attire, winking and joking uneasily with his circle of leering
cronies. There are sweaty uncles, with
slicked back hair and smart suits, and aunts in various ill-fitting outfits,
puffing and strutting like the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, and mean-faced
children, spiteful and wheedling in their fancy dress.
I sit on a bench under a willow tree, and wait for
them to squeeze into expensive cars with the windows wound down, eventually
driving off, presumably to some lavish hotel or other, where they will be
overcharged for everything, and have the dubious privilege of being free to
make an exhibition of themselves.
The last of the party hoots its way down Castle
Hill, and there is a momentary vacuum, in which I can almost sense a settling
of the fabric of the universe around me.
The afternoon is still again. And, in the stillness, there is time for
yet more regret and hopeless longing.
I seek a new distraction. In front of me, the
registry office building affronts me.
It is an annexe, and looks like an after-thought. I imagine what lies beyond the disabled ramp
and the conspicuous fire doors.
A uniformed parking attendant uninstalls himself
from his glazed lookout, and marshals what must be some of the guests for
Lizzy’s wedding towards their allocated parking space. I do not know any of them, although I am
relieved they seem more demure than the previous crowd. As more cars arrive, I begin to sort out who
is who, and think I recognise a couple of people from school. This makes me feel uncomfortable – I have
come out of a duty to my friend, I do not wish to reminisce. I am approached
however, and find myself hugging and kissing, making predictable remarks. We are jolly. We are full of good will.
“There’s Justin.
There, look. There he is!” One of them says.
“He’s bloody gorgeous, don’t you think, Alex? What a catch!” says another.
“I should say so!” replies a
third. “And his parents are
loaded. Lucky bitch!”
I see a tall, staggeringly
handsome man, immaculately groomed, step elegantly out of a silver Rolls
Royce. He wanders casually round to the
front passenger door and holds out a hand to a small, beautifully dressed woman
with fine features and obvious breeding.
His father stands beside him, and shows us what his son will look like
in twenty-five years’ time.
“Well?” Susan persists. “What do you think?” She elbows me, and I remember her in her
school uniform, chewing gum and goading boys who weren’t interested in her.
“Not bad, I suppose. Better than I had expected, anyway,” I
answer, truthfully.
“She told me he was nothing
special. Typical Lizzy, she’s always
been a bit of a dark horse.” Caroline twirls a strand of hair as I contemplate
this assessment of my closest friend.
We all decide that Lizzy has
played down her fiancé, and, privately, I wonder whether she has lied about
anything else. Does she love him? Was she too afraid to tell me that she
did? The thought makes me feel angry
and sick at the same time.
“Come on, Alex. Let’s grab a seat. We don’t want to be stuck at the back.”
They link arms with me
and more or less drag me inside the building.
I am puzzled as to why, if Justin comes from such a wealthy family, they
have chosen such an uninspiring venue. I wonder whether it has anything to do
with the bride being pregnant. Poor
Lizzy.
When the classical music
fades and the first triumphant blasts of the wedding march sound, I am afraid
to look round. I am not sure I want to
meet her eyes and find out that I mean so little to her, so I keep myself
rigid, while my school mates nudge each other and stifle their gasps. Lizzy will, of course, be a beautiful bride.
I have no doubt of that.
As she draws level, she turns, smiling, towards us,
and I feel a warmth rising from my toes, rushing upwards, making me feel that
distant, echoing dizziness that can overwhelm you during those moments when
your only desire is to somehow be transported away from where you find
yourself. As her gaze settles on me for
an instant, I feel, for the first time, a sense of betrayal. 