‘I’m not! I swear on my life!’ The man put his hand on his heart. ‘He never showed. Everyone’s going home or going nuts! I can’t believe it!’
‘Me neither,’ Jarvis concurred, trying to take it in. ‘Why? Why would he do that?’
‘Who knows?’ Robin caught his breath. ‘Christ, Jarv, what do you think Ben’ll do when he gets hold of him? I almost fear for the lad.’
‘I wouldn’t like to say, and never mind Ben, wait till Ruby gets hold of him.’ She had a certain reputation for being lively. He felt something spark inside him that felt a lot like relief – not at the sadness Merrin might be feeling or for the humiliation she had endured, but simply at the thought that the girl he loved was not taking the name of or spending the night with Digby Mortimer. He decided to keep his relief to himself. ‘Did you see Merry? How is she?’ The enormity of the situation started to sink in, and one thing was for sure, this was no time for celebration, not if Merrin was hurting. He would never want that.
‘No, I didn’t see her. The vicar gave a short speech and all hell broke loose. Some of the women in the church started crying and Heather and Granny Kellow went roaring up the aisle like they were on a mission! I’ve never seen the old girl move so fast.’
‘I’d best get the cart back round; they are going to need a lift home.’
‘They could walk?’ Robin suggested. ‘It’s not like they have much to celebrate.’
Robin was right about that.
‘Help me get the flowers off!’ Jarvis set to, removing the pretty braids that had been so admired not an hour since. He figured Merrin would need no reminder of the journey she had taken, laughing among the flowers . . . Robin tugged on a plait of ivy and tossed it to the floor along with the bunches of lavender that had been tied into the corners. By the time they had finished, the cart, whilst still in better condition than it had been for years, was a lot less ostentatious.
‘Come on, Daisy. Come on, old girl!’ Jarvis climbed up into the seat and, with a soft click to the roof of his mouth, set off towards the church to collect the girl he quietly and discreetly loved.
Her face . . . he knew he would never forget it. Flanked by her parents, she had a look of utter confusion, as if she didn’t know which way to turn. Her mouth open, she was gasping for breath and without the words to convey her sorrow that her eyes had no such trouble relaying.
He wanted to run to her, take her in his arms and drag her away from the bloody church; he wanted to hide her, protect her and help her heal, and if it wouldn’t have been so ridiculous and misplaced, he wanted to place her beautiful head against his chest and cradle her better. He wanted her to know that Digby was a fool, an idiot, a madman to let her slip through his fingers! And that he, Jarvis Cardy, would never hurt a hair on her head or let her down. He would make sure she understood that what he felt for her was a heart-thumping, soul-sparkling love that filled him up. And he knew he would die a happy man if he could wake and look at her face across the table each morning; happy because he knew there was nowhere else he would want to be and no one else he would want to be with. She could rely on him. He would give her the fairy story, friendship, respect and deep, deep love. He wanted to put down strong roots with her that entwined and grew deep, going all the way to the mines, where their ancestors had dug in the dark for tin.
But of course he would do and say no such thing. Because today was supposed to be her wedding day. Instead he would go gently, slowly, and be there for her as her friend.
CHAPTER SIX
MERRIN
Merrin kept her eyes closed, trusting Jarvis to lift her down from the cart. The girls, again with arms wrapped tightly around her, spirited her into number one Kellow Cottages. If a close hold and whispered words of love and reassurance were enough to heal, Merrin would have skipped into the kitchen, whacked the radio on and danced her way back to happiness. If only.
Like a wobbly-legged survivor in the aftermath of an atrocity that had left the room darkened, changed, she tentatively felt her way to the window seat in the parlour and sat down, running her hand over the brightly embroidered cushion that had been there for as long as she could remember. Her dad filled the broad-based kettle and set it on the range. His morning coat lay discarded over the footstool in front of the fire. Scanning the room where she had spent the morning, Merrin felt the creep of cold over her skin, despite the warmth of the summer day. The curling tongs, her make-up mirror and the abandoned glass of gin were where she had left them. Bella picked it up and necked it. It seemed that gin, like tea, was communal in this house.
‘Merrin?’ Ruby spoke loudly enough to make her jump.
‘What?’ Merrin stared at her sister.
‘I’ve been asking what you want to do, love.’ Her sister spoke softly, kindly, her eyes mournful and her touch light as she reached for Merrin’s arm. ‘Do you want to go and lie down, or go for a walk, or just sit and have a cup of tea? What do you want to do, babby?’
Merrin shook her head; she hadn’t heard a thing, tuned out as she was to the awful reality of her situation. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t know. I think I’d, erm . . . I think I’d like to talk to Digby.’
‘You are joking right now?’ Bella suddenly stood tall and folded her arms as if she were a human shield.
‘I just want to check he’s okay—’
‘Check he’s okay?’ Ruby riled, interrupting her. ‘Why isn’t he calling you to see if you’re okay? It’s his fault, all of it! The bloke has got some bloody nerve, and when I get hold of him—’ She balled a fist and smacked the flat of her other hand.
Merrin shook her head, hating the rising tension and noise. ‘He . . . he wouldn’t have done this on purpose. There has to be a reason.’ Of this she was certain.
‘The reason is he’s a coward and a knob!’ Bella added.
Merrin chose to say nothing rather than invite more of their commentary. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate their concern, expressed in so many variants, but they didn’t know what she and Digby shared; how could they? What connected them was a deep and unshakeable love. He had said so only yesterday, and her instinct told her that nothing could have changed in such a short time. Maybe he had got cold feet over such a fancy affair? Maybe his nerves had proved too much and he, like her, would be happy to go to Vegas and let Elvis do the job? She wanted to talk to him, needed to talk to him, knowing that until she had heard the words from his mouth she would not believe that he had simply had a ‘change of heart’ and was popping off to the South of France. It didn’t make any sense. Not to her.
Her mum and gran walked in.
‘I just seen him,’ her gran blurted when she was barely over the threshold, the words desperate to escape.
‘Seen who?’ Ben called from the stove.
‘The Mortimer boy! Guthrie’s son, Digby!’ She spat his name like she was ridding her mouth of something nasty.
Merrin sat forward in the seat with difficulty; the frothy reams of material made free movement a little tricky as energy surged in her veins.
‘Where was he? Where did you see him, Gran?’ she asked, and for the first time since sitting in the vestry, hope spiked inside her. He hadn’t rushed off to the airport! He was still in Port Charles! Her instinct was to run out of the door and go to him.