First of all, I'm really sorry I've kept you waiting this long!
Chapter Seven
A few weeks had passed and finally everything had been taken care of. The dress had been fitted, the church and hall had been hired, flowers arranged, invitations sent, and Louisa had bought herself a new outfit and Martin a new tie.
Now the wedding was only twelve hours away, and Martin was full of a jumble of emotions. Unbelievably for his eighty five years, this was a new experience for him. He could switch from one to the other fairly quickly, but when he felt something it was as if it took over his entire being, and there was no room for anything else. His childhood had been perpetuated almost entirely by misery and despair – the misery of the bullying he suffered at the hands of everyone around him and despair that there was nothing he could do to make things right. Those feelings were cast off each summer by what felt like eternal happiness as he stepped off the train and was enveloped in the warm, loving presence of his aunt.
Upon growing older, Martin left home and broke away from those who had caused him such anguish, building for himself an air of respect yet indifference from those around him. He was eager to prove to those around him that he was no longer the needy child that they had known. Loving though she had always been, he cringed when Joan had teased him about his childhood bedwetting and other things which he was keen to forget – so he distanced himself from her too as the years went on. No longer was emotional contact necessary as part of his everyday life. Edith for a short while took care of his physical needs but there was to be no true connection in the relationship between the two professional, clinical young students. Rarely did he feel strongly about anything – and when he did, it was almost always anger.
That all changed on the fateful day on which he returned to Cornwall after so many years. Suddenly he was all over again encouraged to feel love – by his aunt, who inspired the same old alternation between love and exasperation – and now by Louisa. Suddenly, he was being encouraged to partake in intimate and loving situations which he would happily comply with, and then ruin in the heat of the moment. His passion almost instantly would turn to confusion when she tried to explain how she was feeling love, and frustration, and upset, all at the same time, and all with him. He failed to comprehend just how he was inspiring so many feelings in her at the same time – but now he understood.
He lay there in bed, kept awake as all of the thoughts and feelings rushed through his mind, repeating frequently but so quickly that it was hard to identify them as they went past and new worries and possibilities opened up to him all the time.
First there was the base – his overwhelming love for Joan, his only daughter who he had seen through every stage of her life. Her adolescent years hadn't been the best and he'd had endless rows which he'd later regretted – much like the ones he'd had with Louisa, they were stupid, tiny things that were just so trivial. But just like her mother, she'd forgiven him and loved him anyway, despite what he felt were important shortcomings.
And then on top of that there was the urge to protect her, to take her away from Peter and wrap her up somewhere where he could keep her close and made sure that nothing and no-one could ever hurt her.
There was the fear that something could go horribly, dreadfully wrong. He'd seen it several times – both in his surgeon's life and as a GP. Perfectly healthy women who had gone on to develop life threatening conditions as a result of an unpredictable, yet also unpreventable disaster. One of them had even... no. He couldn't even consider that outcome.
Then there was the possibility that something could happen to the child. He had no idea of the statistics of miscarriage and stillbirth, but he knew that their combined percentages were hardly low. Joan would be heartbroken... and he was not sure how he could cope with that, how he could help her to cope with that...
Then there was anger, anger at Peter, even at Joan to an extent. If this hadn't happened he wouldn't have to worry about such things.
Then there came guilt, guilt for being so selfish, because it was his daughter's life, not his, and what right did he have to wish her child away, just on the basis of the risk that something may go wrong? What right did he have to wish away such joy?
Then there was his common sense kicking in – the common sense that knew that it was too late for any of that, that she needed to be let go and that if he was too overprotective than her headstrong ways would drive her away from him, and he'd lose her altogether. Being realistic, there was probably no better place for her than to be married, married to the father of her child, who would give her all of the love and comfort she needed. Peter, who was a doctor – she'd be living with a doctor, he reassured himself, who he was sure would take no risks with Joan's health. And if something did come up, she'd be much better with Peter who was practising, who had a working set of legs and who was much more likely to be taken seriously in an emergency.
Then finally, the grief hit him as he realised that all he was to her, everything he possibly could have given Joan was redundant, because Peter had it all. Peter had taken over that role; he was the most important man in her life now. He'd done his part, he'd had his day, and he'd raised her as best he could. And now he had to step back and give her away.
Suddenly, the thoughts lessened as he opened his eyes. The lamp on Louisa's side had been turned on, and as his eyes got used to the light her face slowly came into focus above his.
'Are you alright?'
It was only then that he realised that his body and face were damp from sweat and something else – could it be...? As Louisa helped him to sit up she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and lay her head on one of them, allowing him to turn his head towards her as his tears fell onto her head. Having observed his mood, seen his glances at Joan and heard tell tale hints in conversation, Louisa had a fair idea of the turmoil that her husband was going through.
'She'll be fine. She will. I was fine, wasn't I? You made sure of it. Peter is a good man, he loves our Joan and he won't let anything happen to her. She'll be fine...'
She carried on in that vein, speaking to him in the way she used to with her children when waking up after a nightmare. Stroking his shoulder, she carried on speaking in her soft, soothing voice, repeating that phrase until it began to make sense to him. Exhausted from lack of sleep and the unexpected emotional ordeal, he lay back against the pillows.
'She'll be fine...' he muttered, before succumbing to sleep.
xxx
The next morning however, the jitters had returned. This, added to the fact that he'd only had about four hours sleep, made him very irritable and clumsy. As they awoke and began going about their morning routine, Louisa kept shooting concerned glances in his direction. Looking over at the familiar, grouchy Martin that she knew and loved, she wondered if it had all been a dream. No, it couldn't have been. He was still slightly hot when they woke that morning – she hoped that the nerves were all that was wrong, and that he wasn't coming down with something.
At nine a.m. there was a knock at their door and Joan bounded in, looking the picture of health. She'd clearly slept well and wasn't remotely fazed at the prospect of the day ahead. Not wanting to break from tradition, she had spent the night in the visitor's room of the retirement home, so that Peter wouldn't see her before she arrived at the church. Hauling in the large cream box containing her wedding dress, she placed it on the floor of their room before dashing back down to collect the rest of her things. Ten minutes later Martin was being presented with one of his favourite books by Louisa and banished to the lounge.
'Just make sure you eat something,' he grumbled to Joan as he wheeled himself out of the door.
'We will,' Louisa reassured him before closing the door behind him. Turning back to her daughter, she delighted in her full on Mother-of-the-Bride duties. She'd been looking forward to this day for weeks, and ever since she'd seen the photo of Joan at the bridal shop she'd been dying to see the dress in three dimensions.
Martin began to despair after a while. He thought that after thirty eight years of living with Louisa he was used to women's dressing habits, but seemingly not. After they'd been up there for three hours he was just about ready to tear his hair out, when Louisa entered through the door in front of him. He blinked. She was dressed in a lilac floral dress with matching cardigan, and had let her hair loose for once. He was again taken aback by her gentle beauty.
'You look beautiful.'
It had taken a lot of training over the years, but Louisa had eventually coaxed Martin out of his shell slightly, so that he actually voiced what was in his head instead of simply staring unnervingly at her.
'Save your compliments, Joan will be down in a minute. She looks perfect, Martin, so grown up.' Despite her self-assurance, Louisa felt compelled to let the happy tears shine through for a minute as Joan finally entered the room with a twirl.
Louisa had been right, Martin realised. Here, he was truly lost for words as he stared speechlessly at his daughter. He was seeing her in an entirely new light. Whatever her age, whatever she wore, he always saw in the corner of his mind the small, dark haired child in the pink dress playing in the sand, picking daisies in the park, begging her mother for a piggyback.
Today the child was banished, playing happily in the past, transformed into the elegant woman in front of him. She was wearing a pure white floor length dress with a wide neckline which just skimmed her shoulders. Layers of fabric under the skirt made it spread around her feet and swirl about her legs in a swish of beading as she walked. Gathered under her bust, the dress just skimmed the evidence of her pregnancy, which Martin had not noticed under her usual jeans-and-jacket attire. Her hair had been gathered into an elaborate array of curls and knots, upon which was perched a small silver tiara.
After absorbing in her breathtaking appearance, he focussed on her large green eyes, which still held the mischievous sparkle of her childhood, and which were looking at him for approval as she grinned at him. Her infectious happiness caused something to rise inside of him, enabling him to whole-heartedly return her broad smile. He beckoned her towards him and she obliged, crouching beside him and allowing him to stroke her face and whisper to her.
'You really are perfect.' And he finally gave in to the tears prickling his eyes. She returned his whisper.
'Just because I'm getting married, doesn't mean you get out of being my dad, you know.'
She planted a kiss on his cheek and then straightened up.
'You'd better get ready, Dad. The car will be here in an hour or so.'
Martin wheeled himself over to the door where Louisa was waiting. They watched as Joan flitted about the room to oblige the nosy residents, laughing and chatting and clearly loving all of the attention. Louisa was amused, reminded suddenly of Pauline on her and Al's wedding day.
'Where the hell did she get that from?' she muttered to Martin, who was also marvelling at their daughter's brazen self confidence.
'Probably my father. Luckily she had your genes to balance her out.'
'Hmm.' Casting a last look back, they headed back up to their room, which was absolute chaos.
xxx
The next two hours passed in a blur, and suddenly the moment had arrived. Martin was waiting beside Joan in a side room of the church when the vicar burst in.
'Okay, ready to go? Great. If you'll proceed to the main doors, we'll be starting in just a sec!'
Martin was somewhat reassured by the vicar's enthusiasm. Joan squeezed his hand and he gripped hers back. Taking position behind the large wooden doors, they heard the beginnings of the familiar wedding march played on the organ, by the now long lived, wispy haired Mrs Tishell.
As the doors opened and the congregation turned to face them, Martin placed his hand on Joan's back as he felt hers on his shoulder. There was a whirr as he directed his wheelchair forwards and she stepped up the aisle beside him towards the altar, where Peter was stood, mesmerised by his fiancée as Martin had been so many years ago. He could feel her steps, each seeming to be part of an endless countdown to the inevitable.
Too soon, her steps stopped. The music ceased. He braked. They had arrived. He removed his hand from her back and took her soft, slight hand in his for a moment, treasuring the feeling. Then he felt the hard engagement ring against his fingers. He met the eyes of Louisa, followed by Peter's, and finally Joan's, as she smiled sadly at him. The last ever smile of Joan Ellingham.
He took a deep breath, released her hand from his, and watched as it moved forward and linked with Peter's.
Ten minutes later, that same hand belonged to Mrs Joan Cronk.
