Jude’s gran had confided in everyone that she had some little red pills that might help calm this Araminta woman down, claiming they ‘did wonders’ for her pals at the New Start Luxury Residential Village. Daniel and Ekon, both very familiar with their hospital’s dispensing cupboard, had taken one look at her stash and confiscated them, saying there was no way she’d have been prescribed those. Jude had made a mental note to ring the New Start owners to inform them of a black market in recreational drugs on their premises. Another thing she didn’t think she’d be doing on her wedding day.
It wasn’t quite the send-off she’d imagined either, but Jude was determined to have the traditional bride’s ‘poor oot’, like in her little Scottish village back home.
Her mum handed her the jangling bag and even though there wasn’t a soul on the main road to catch them, Jude threw the coins into the air and her dad watched them fall at his feet, picking up a shiny fifty pence and holding it up proudly.
‘Send the taxi back for me,’ he shouted weepily. ‘And good luck!’
‘And you!’ Mrs Crawley called back, blowing kisses, as her husband pulled his Crawley and Son apron over his head and marched back inside, determined to make something of his own for his daughter and son-in-law to cut into on their wedding day.
The grey sky had done nothing to dampen the mood of Clove Lore’s residents as they made their way Up-along to the Big House estate.
Mrs Crocombe had splashed out on a new dress and her daughter had set her perm freshly the night before. Bovis walked ahead of her in his skinny T-shirt and apron, pulling the insulated bags of confetti burst ice cream, fifteen big tubs, behind him on the ice-cream parlour’s delivery sled.
Mrs C. had her eye fixed on the top of the slope, where James da Costa had set their rendezvous. Her nerves threatened to get the better of her. After all, weddings were renowned for moving guests to feats of romantic revelation and all week long she’d suspected her dashing beau was planning something big. He’d fallen more reticent and withdrawn each day, busying himself on his phone, tentative, twitchy, and he’d been so shy around her. There might well be another wedding in Clove Lore soon if her suspicions (and hopes) were correct, and they almost always were when it came to this sort of thing.
The nip of whisky she’d taken to calm her nerves was working its magic. She was going to be brave and take the plunge if he asked her. At her age, what was she waiting for? The young ones got their Clove Lore love stories, she saw to that, but did that mean she never would? James had shown her how good rebelliousness and romance could feel. The last fortnight had been a whirlwind of emotion and happiness and, even if the whisky was making her tummy churn a little, she had no intention of going back to her wallflower ways.
On her way to meet him, she greeted Tom and his girlfriend Lou as they left their cottage at the top of the slope. Tom, who was rarely out of waterproofs, looked devilishly handsome today in his suit.
‘Seen your brother this morning?’ Mrs C. called out.
‘He’s been up at Wedding Central since first light,’ the fisherman told her.
‘Shame the computer lady’s gone, really,’ she said wistfully. ‘I had her picked out for Monty.’
Tom, holding Lou’s arm as she struggled in heels on the cobbles, shook his head and inhaled through his teeth. ‘Bachelor for life, my brother.’
Mrs C. didn’t think so and explained at length all the way up to the Big House how, ‘Some folk think they’re destined to be alone forever but that special someone shows up out of the blue andpoof!Love happens.’
A few feet ahead of them, Bovis shook his head grumpily at all this.
‘I hope you’re right,’ Tom told her, all the more glad to have Lou on his arm.
Mrs Crocombe broke away from the little party saying she’d better wait for James, and Tom made a very immature ‘Wooo!’ that left her chuckling. Once they were gone she turned her face to the village and watched, waiting placidly for her dashing yachtsman, humming a bridal march and thinking of the surprise they were going to give everyone tonight.
Bella and Finan arrived next at the Big House, carrying two cases of emergency Prosecco to replace the expensive champagne that had hit the floor earlier. Minty looked like she wanted to sob in relief as she took the boxes to the fridges, but not without first berating Bovis for dragging his mucky sled up to her doors. He doffed his invisible cap and made for the big freezer in the back kitchen with his ice-cream bags.
The Siren’s Tail was closed up for the afternoon, though a very promising-sounding sous chef was on their way to the village to help relieve Monty for the evening service tonight and, if things went well, they’d stay on, if they could be convinced to. It was Monty’s moping these last few days that had prompted Finan to at last get him some cover. Their chef really hadn’t been himself, padding silently around the kitchens, unshaven and sallow.
Monty, however, had brushed up well for the sake of Elliot and Jude and was waiting at the open doors to the ballroom. He smiled and chatted, shaking hands with each new arrival, as was his duty, though his dull eyes told a very different story of defeat and regret.
Elliot was on florist watch, even though it was dawning on everyone that if they weren’t back by now, and they weren’t picking up the phone, they probably had no intention of coming back.
Minty clutched her schedule. ‘So many things to tick off, Jowan,’ she said with hushed urgency in her husband’s ear. ‘And they’re not here! They’re simply not here!’
Jowan, in his wedding suit, pulled his wife aside so she could run through the catalogue of failures. Elliot followed.
‘No balloon lady! She said she’d been forced to rethink her entire business plan after visiting us and she was jacking it in to try selling Avon! And I’ve been on the phone begging the harpist to reconsider this last half hour, but she was adamant wehadn’tactually come to an agreement and that she wouldn’t be setting foot in this house.
‘That woman used some verychoicelanguage you wouldn’t expect from a classically trained member of the Barnstaple conservatoire! And we’ve obviously got no flowers now. And not one of the society papers have sent a photographer. Too rural, I suppose! And I’m afraid I didn’t think we’d need a run-of-the-mill wedding photographer if the papers were coming, so… there isn’t one. And after the scone farrago, the caterer has downed tools and told me I wouldn’t get so much as a ham butty out of her.’
‘Oh, Mint,’ exclaimed Jowan in sympathy.
‘Perhaps I could have been a little less insistent she replace all the spoiled food at no extra cost, and well… they’ve all gone.’
‘Gone?’ echoed Elliot.
‘Even the college boys have left, said it wasn’t worth their while, not for five quid an hour.’
