第21章

Midsummer Day dawned with a thick grey haze in the air and a heavy dew on the meadows and trees.

Down among the little gardens of the still-sleeping cottages of Howling an idyllic procession might have been observed making its way from flower-bed to flower-bed, like ravaging bees. It was none other than the three members of Mrs Beetle’s embryo jazz-band, shepherded by the patriarchal form of Agony Beetle himself.

They had been commissioned to pick the bunches of flowers which were to decorate the church and the refreshment-tables up at the farm. A lorry load of pink and white rose-peonies, from Covent Garden, had already been discharged at the gates of the farm; and, even now, Mrs Beetle and Flora were crossing and re-crossing the yard with their arms full of sleeping flowers.

Flora noted the heat-haze with joy. It would be a day of heat; brilliant, blue and radiant.

Adam Lambsbreath had been even earlier astir, making wreaths of wallflowers with which to garland the horns of Feckless, Pointless, Graceless and Aimless. It was not until he actually came to affix the decorations that he observed that none of the cows had any horns left, and had been forced to fasten the wreaths round their necks and tails instead. This done, he led them forth to their morning pasture, singing a smutty wedding song he had learnt for the marriage of George I.

As the day emerged from the heat-haze, and the sky grew blue and sunny, the farm buzzed with energy like a hive. Phoebe, Letty, Jane and Susan were whisking syllabubs in the dairy; Micah carried the pails of ice, in which stood the champagne, down into the darkest and coolest corner of the cellar. Caraway and Harkaway were fixing the awning across from the gate of the yard to the door of the kitchen. Ezra was putting his rows of beans under a net to protect them from damage during the festivities. Mark and Luke were arranging the long trestle tables in the kitchen, while Mrs Beetle and Flora unpacked the silver and linen sent down in crates from a London store. Reuben was filling with water the dozens of jars and vases in which the flowers were to be arranged. Mark Dolour’s Nancy was superintending the boiling of two dozen eggs for everybody’s breakfast. And upstairs on her bed lay Flora’s new dress, a wonder of frilled and quilted, ruffled and tucked, pinked and shirred green batiste, and her plain hat of white straw.

At half-past eight everybody sat down to breakfast in the dairy, for the kitchen was being prepared for the reception, and could not be used for meals today.

‘I’ll just take up ’er breakfast,’ said Mrs Beetle. ‘She’ll ’ave to ’ave it cold today. There’s ’alf an ’am and a jar of pickled onions. I won’t be a jiff.’

‘Oh, I’ve just been in to see Aunt Ada,’ said Flora, looking up from her breakfast. ‘She doesn’t want anything for breakfast except a Hell’s Angel. Here give me an egg. I’ll mix it for her.’ She rose, and went over to the newly-stocked store cupboard.

Mrs Beetle stared, while Flora tossed an egg, two ounces of brandy, a teaspoonful of cream and some chips of ice in a jam-jar, and everybody else was very interested, too.

‘There,’ said Flora, giving Mrs Beetle the foaming jam-jar. ‘You run along upstairs with that.’

So Mrs Beetle ran; but was heard to observe that it would take more than a mess like that to keep her stomach from rumbling before one o’clock. As for the other Starkadders, they were considerably intrigued by this dramatic change in Aunt Ada’s diet.

‘Is the old ’un gone off again?’ asked Reuben, anxiously. ‘Will she come down and upset everything after all, do ’ee think, Cousin Flora?’

‘Not on your sweet life,’ said Flora. ‘Everything will be all right. Remember, I told you there was going to be a surprise. Well, it’s just beginning.’

And the Starkadders were satisfied.

Breakfast over, they all fell to work like demons, for the ceremony was at half-past twelve and there was much to be done.

Agony Beetle and the jazz-band arrived with their arms full of nasturtiums, sweet-william and cherry-pie; and were sent off on a second journey for more.

Reuben, obeying a request from Flora, pulled out from the cupboard in which it was usually kept the large carved chair in which Aunt Ada had sat on the night of the Counting; and Mark and Luke (who were so stupid that they could have been relied upon to lay a mine under the house without commenting upon it) were told to decorate it with wreaths of rose-peonies.

It was half-past ten. The awning was up, looking immediately festive, as awnings always do. And in the kitchen the two long trestle tables were decorated and ready.

Flora had arranged two kinds of food for the two kinds of guests she was expecting. For the Starkadders and such of the local horny peasantry as would attend there were syllabubs, ice-pudding, caviare sandwiches, crab patties, trifle and champagne. For the County there was cider, cold home-cured ham, cheese, home-made bread and salads made from local fruit. The table from which the County were to feed was rich with cottage flowers. The rosy efflorescence of the peonies floated above the table from which the peasantry would eat.

Wreaths of cottage flowers, like chains of little gems, hung from the rafters. Their reds, oranges, blues and pinks glowed against the soft, sooty-black of the ceiling and walls. The air smelled sweet of cherry-pie and fruit salad. Outside the sun flamed in glory; and inside the kitchen there were these sweet smells and cool, delicious-looking food.

Flora took a last look round, and was utterly satisfied.

It was eleven o’clock.

She went upstairs to Aunt Ada’s room, knocked at the door, and in response to a crisp: ‘Come in, my dear’, entered and shut the door carefully behind her.

Phoebe, who was on her way up to her room to put on her wedding array, nudged Susan.

‘Did ’ee see that, soul? Ah! there’s somethin’ strange in the air today, love ’ee. And to think on it … our Rennett is no more a maid! Last night, as ever was, ’un came to say goodbye to me before ’un took the twelve-thirty train from Godmere with un’s husband-to-be.’

‘Was ’un weepin’, poor soul?’ enquired Susan.

‘Nay; but ’un said ’un would feel safer when once the words was said, and un’s man could not get away. Well …’tes done now, Lord love ’ee. And they will be here for th’ breakfast, man and wife, as ever was.’

A hush now fell upon the cool, flower-garlanded, sweet-smelling farm. The sun climbed royally towards his zenith, and the shadows grew shorter. In a dozen bedrooms the Starkadders struggled with their wedding garments. Flora came out of Aunt Ada’s room exactly at half-past eleven, and went along to her own room.

She was soon dressed. A bathe in cool water, ten minutes’ brushing of her hair and some business with her make-up boxes, and she emerged, serene, gay and elegant, and ready for the pleasures of the day.

She went straight down into the kitchen, to reassure herself that everything was still as it should be; and arrived just in time to prevent Mr Mybug, who had arrived unexpectedly early, from picking a cherry off one of the cakes. Rennett was imploring him not to, and he was laughing like a boyish faun (or so he thought) and just about to pick at it when Flora sailed in.

‘Mr Mybug!’ exclaimed Flora.

He jumped as though he had been stung and gave a boyish laugh.

‘Ah, dear lady … there you are!’

‘Yes. And so are you, I see,’ said Flora. ‘There is plenty for everybody, Mr Mybug. If you are hungry, Mrs Beetle will cut you some bread and butter. How are you, Mrs Mybug?’ and Flora pressed Rennett’s hand graciously, and congratulated her upon her striking toilette, which had been borrowed from one of Mr Mybug’s girl friends who drank rather a lot in one way and another and kept a tame boxer in her studio for the sheer love of the thing.

The other Starkadders now began to come downstairs; and as the sound of the church clock coming across the sunny fields now warned them it was twelve, they thought it time to go down to the church.

After a last glance round the flowery kitchen, Flora floated out with one hand on Reuben’s arm, and the others followed.

They found quite a big crowd already assembled outside the church, for the wedding had aroused much interest in neighbouring villages, as well as in Howling itself. The little church was crammed and the only empty seats were those for the County and those in which the party from the farm now took their places.

On rising from her knees, Flora had leisure to study the decorations. They were really charming. Agony Beetle had done them, with the help of Mark Dolour. They had agreed with pleasing unanimity that only white flowers were suitable to Elfine’s extreme youth and undoubted purity. So the pews were hung with chains of marguerites, and two tall lilies stood like archangelic trumpets at the end of each pew, lining the aisle. There were many jars filled with white pinks, and the altar steps where the bride would kneel were banked with snowy geraniums.

Flora repressed the unworthy reflection that it reminded her of a White Sale at Messrs Marshall & Snelgrove’s, and turned her attention to Letty, Jane, Phoebe, Prue and Susan, who had all begun to cry. Silently she fitted them all out with clean handkerchiefs from a store previously laid in for this very purpose.

Reuben, very nervous, stood at the door, waiting for Elfine. The sun blazed down outside, the organ wandered softly through a voluntary, and the crowd respectfully buzzed at the County as it came in, bursting with curiosity and wearing its direst hats. The hands on the clock tower jumped on, minute by minute, to the half-hour.

Flora took one cautious glance round the church before she settled down to wait in decorous quietude for the last few minutes.

The church seemed full of Starkadders. They were all there; and all there by her agency, except the four whom she had helped to escape.

There they all were. Enjoying themselves. Having a nice time. And having it in an ordinary human manner. Not having it because they were raping somebody, or beating somebody, or having religious mania or being doomed to silence by a gloomy, earthy pride, or loving the soil with the fierce desire of a lecher, or anything of that sort. No, they were just enjoying an ordinary human event, like any of the other millions of ordinary people in the world.

Really, when she thought what they had all been like, only five months ago …

She bowed her head. She had accomplished a great work; and had much to be thankful for. And today would see her achievements crowned!

At last! The organ struck bravely into ‘Here Comes the Bride!’ and every head turned towards the door, and every eye fixed itself upon the large car which had just drawn up outside the church. A low murmur of interest went up.

And now the crowd was cheering. Something tall, white and cool as a cloud detached itself from the car, and floated quickly along the path to the church door.

Here comes the Bride! Here is Elfine, pale and serious and starry-eyed, as a bride should be, leaning upon the arm of Reuben. Here is Dick Hawk-Monitor, his pleasant red face betraying none of the nervousness he must feel. Here is Mrs Hawk-Monitor, looking vague in grey; and the healthy Joan Hawk-Monitor in pink organdi (a deplorable choice – quite deplorable, thought Flora, regretfully).

The procession reached the altar steps, and halted.

The music ceased. Into the hush that fell the vicar’s voice broke quickly yet gravely: ‘Dearly beloved …’

It was not until she was standing in the vestry, smilingly watching the best man (Ralph Pent-Hartigan) kiss the bride, that Flora felt an unusual sensation in the palm of her right-hand glove. She looked down at it, and saw to her surprise and amusement that it was split right across.

She realized then that she had been extremely nervous least anything should go wrong. But nothing had; and now she was extremely hungry.

Susan, Letty, Phoebe, Prue and Jane were still roaring away like town-bulls, and Flora had to tell them rather sharply not to make such a noise. Several persons had already asked them, in kindly concern, if they were in pain, or had had bad news.

‘Of course,’ Mr Mybug was explaining to Rennett, who was also crying because she had had only a nasty registry office wedding and no lovely dress or wreath – ‘of course, this is all the sheerest barbarism. It’s utterly pagan … and a bit obscene, too, if we only look below the ritual. That business of throwing the shoe, for instance—’

‘Mr Mybug, we are all going up to the farm now. Of course you’re coming too?’ Flora had interrupted him, she felt, just at the right moment. He hastily promised Rennett another wedding, a proper one, if she would only stop crying, and rushed away with her under his arm after the rest of the party.