‘It’s me,’ Merrin began without pre-planning or forethought. ‘It’s Merrin.’
‘Merrin.’ There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call.’
‘I’m . . . I’m at the church and I don’t know what’s going on. I . . . I need to speak to Digby.’ She heard the crack in her voice.
‘Merrin, dear.’ Mrs Mortimer took a deep breath and her words when they came were issued slowly, as if rehearsed. ‘Now, I’m sure this is a rotten day, but you will look back on it and breathe a sigh of relief.’
‘What are you talking about? I just want to speak to Digby, please.’ She was in no mood to listen to his mother; she needed to speak to her fiancé. ‘Please, can you just put him on the phone?’ She was aware of her tone of desperation.
‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’
‘Not there? Where is he then?’
‘I don’t know where he is.’ It sounded like a lie. ‘Probably packing and then heading to the airport. I told him I thought the South of France was a good idea, but I’m not entirely sure.’ Her tone was a little clipped, and whilst it wasn’t lacking in kindness, it suggested it was a done deal. He had bolted.
‘What do you mean, you suggested the South of France? What’s going on?’ Merrin could only repeat. ‘We are getting married today! Right now! We are getting married! I’m here in my dress and there’s a church full of people!’ Her voice rose.
‘Well, that won’t be happening.’ Merrin let the woman’s words sink in. ‘And as I said, in time, you will come to see that it really is for the very best. I think he may have had a change of heart.’
‘A change of . . . I don’t . . .’ She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how she should feel or what she should do. The whole thing felt surreal, dream-like. Once or twice she looked towards the door, expecting Digby to burst in and point at her. ‘Got you! Come on, Merry, let’s get hitched!’ But he didn’t, of course. Her head swam and her thoughts were foggy. Her legs shook so badly she thought she might tumble. She was aware of her dad and the vicar staring at her.
‘Trust me. Go home, dear. Go home to your family. And one day you will be able to look at this day without pain. Let yourself live, Merrin. Grab life and run with it, because it’s short.’
The woman’s advice landed in her ear like salt in a wound. She put the phone down sharply.
‘Merrin, love? What did she say?’ Her dad stared at her, his arms wide, as if he, too, were at a loss as to what came next.
She looked up and spoke calmly, belying the desire that was building inside her to scream the place down or smash something, possibly both. Her heart hurt, like it was speared, and each beat caused the tip of the spear to pierce her skin.
‘Go and talk to everyone, please, Vicar. Tell them . . . tell them thank you for coming, but that there won’t be any wedding today.’
Her dad swallowed and the vicar nodded, his cassock swishing as he walked through a back door into the church. Merrin could hear the faint strains of music, the music she should be walking down the aisle to. It came to an abrupt halt. And next she heard the sharp collective burble of surprise and the odd shout and cry. Sinking back down into the chair, she decided to wait until the place had emptied before making her exit, wanting to see as few people as possible. A girdle of shame made breathing difficult.
Only a minute later, the vestry door smashed open against the wall. It was her mum and her gran.
‘Ben!’ Her mum searched her husband’s face, the man who fixed everything for his family, as if he might have the answers. ‘What in the name of Judas?’ She put her hand to her throat.
‘He’s not coming.’ Her dad shook his head and breathed through his nose.
‘Not coming? What are you talking about?’ Her mum parroted her own disbelief.
‘He’s not coming, Heather. He left a message with the vicar. The cowardly little shit.’ He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Wait till I get hold of him!’
Her mum rushed to where Merrin sat in the middle of the room, and she, too, dropped low in front of her, and smoothed her hair from her face. ‘Merry, my little darlin’, what’s happening?’
‘I . . . d-don’t know.’ She spoke the truth. The voices in the room seemed to echo as debate and questions flew back and forth. ‘I don’t know anything . . . I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘It’s a bloody disgrace is what it is! Them Mortimers are more trouble than they are worth, always were, always will be!’ Merrin’s gran shouted, loud enough to show that she didn’t care who heard. ‘There are ways to stop things. There are ways! But to let you come to the bloody church? Wicked is what it is! Wicked!’
‘Not now, Mother!’ Ben quieted his mum and the room fell silent, eerily so.
After such an upset, an event so surprising and curious, Merrin might have assumed that tempers would fray, questions would be fired thick and furious and that each one of them there would try to verbally work out just how they had arrived at this point? But no, her dad stood with one arm across his waist and the other hand up over his mouth and chin, as if holding himself together, her gran cooed, as if Merrin might be sleeping, and her mum, with the tip of her tongue resting on her lower lip, shook her head repeatedly in short, sharp movements, as if trying to clear a fog. But all were quiet, as were she and the Reverend Pimm, who darted in and out of the room. Once or twice he placed his hand on Merrin’s shoulder and pressed down, as if he wished to transfer some of his strength, his calm belief, to get her through the day. She wished it too.
They stayed this way for some minutes – how many she couldn’t be sure, five, ten, thirty? Everything, including her grasp on time, was skewed. Waves of nausea flickered in her gut and she had to remind herself to take a breath, to stay present. Her thoughts were watery and once or twice she forgot where she was. It was only the sight of the frock bunched up on her lap and the flowers in her hand that reminded her, and the realisation gave her a start, as if she had hit the floor.
‘Jarvis’s brought the cart round,’ Ben whispered to his wife.
With her mum at her elbow, Merrin stood on wobbly legs, her feet feeling strangely disjointed, as if she had no control of them. With her parents either side of her, each holding an arm, keeping her upright, and her lily-of-the-valley bouquet now abandoned on the vestry floor, she stepped into the porch and out into the light of day. Her two beautiful bridesmaids were standing where she had left them. Their expressions of sorrow were at odds with their pretty lilac dresses. The cart, too, looked a little sorrowful, stripped of its beautiful flowers, but she thought it fitting. Word had obviously spread and with this realisation came a flush of hot shame that coloured her face.
The vicar flapped up and down the path, his long black cassock billowing as he moved. He seemed to be doing a good job of clearing the church grounds, waving off friends and neighbours, all of whom were staring at the floor or each other, seemingly at a loss as to what to do next. Embarrassed on her behalf. This she understood: they, like her, had expected a day of celebration, of fine food, good wine and a night of dancing, but instead they were being asked to go home without so much as a slice of wedding cake. Her dad checked the coast was clear as he guided her out along the path. She leant on him, unable to trust her body to stay upright without such a prop. Ruby and Bella ran forward, their tears loud and their distress raw. They held her, touched her hair and kissed her face, placing their arms around her shoulders as they murmured gently to her.