Читать книгу Once in a Lifetime - Cathy Kelly - Страница 11

Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.

Lizzie’s wedding morning was bitterly cold. Unusually low temperatures for the time of year, the radio weather forecaster said chirpily as Natalie and Molly sat beside the range in Natalie’s parents’ farmhouse.

Natalie was waiting for her stepmother’s porridge, which was slowly cooking on the range and tasted very different from anything she ever heated in a microwave in her flat.

Molly was foolishly having toasted home-made bread: foolish because a trio of dogs sat at her feet, making hungry, abandoned expressions and drooling.

‘I did tell you,’ Natalie said. ‘They think it’s their toast, not yours.’

‘They’re sweet,’ said Molly, who was a sucker for big brown eyes.

The back door opened and both girls could feel icy cold rush into the kitchen.

It was Des, Natalie’s dad, and even he was rubbing his hands together with cold.

‘This cold would take the balls off a brass monkey. I hope Lizzie’s wearing a blanket today,’ he said, going to the range and holding his hands over it.

‘Dad, you know how stubborn Lizzie is,’ Natalie said. ‘This is her Valentine’s fairytale and she’s refused all suggestions about wraps and fake-fur throws. She’s going to look like a princess, no matter how cold.’

‘Being covered in goosepimples isn’t going to look very nice in the photos,’ pointed out Molly mildly. She was wearing a vintage woollen dress, a coat and a pashmina to the church, and was already wondering if that was enough.

‘You try telling Lizzie that,’ Natalie said.

‘A bit of a mule, is our Lizzie,’ grinned Des, winking at Molly to show he agreed with her.

Molly loved Natalie’s dad, and she loved going to visit Natalie’s home.

Part of the charm was that it was so very different from her parents’ elegant house with its perfectly designed garden maintained by a gardener who came once a week.

Any grass around Woodenbridge Farm was nibbled low by a pet ram called Sydney who maintained decent lawn standards and ran to greet visitors when they got out of their cars. Sydney had been hand-reared indoors with milk from a bottle with a baby’s teat on it, until he got too big. As a result he thought he was a dog.

The house itself was a small and sturdy stone farmhouse, Natalie’s father’s family home for generations. It was heated solely by open fires and the giant range in the kitchen, with a few gas heaters here and there for people prone to cold.

Staying overnight in winter had made Molly finally realise why Natalie never turned the gas heating on in their flat. Natalie was used to the cold.

‘Here, you put clothes on to go to bed,’ explained Natalie cheerfully. ‘When it’s really cold, you have to bring two hot-water bottles with you, or else let the dogs lie on the bed. I always feel that people who don’t like dogs on the bed have never lived somewhere without central heating.’

All the floors were stone or wood and nobody minded when the three dogs, four cats and the odd chicken wandered in and out, leaving fur or feathers in their wake. The two old couches and faded threadbare rug in the snug living room were originals and not expensive copies trying to give off a country vibe. This was a working farm, with a small herd of beef cattle grown for the Italian market, and no money for any luxuries.

The family ate their own vegetables and the eggs that their hens laid.

The relaxed atmosphere was very beguiling. Bess, Natalie’s stepmum, presided over the house with the easygoing charm of a den mother minding a campful of scouts. She even looked like a den mother: a trim figure always dressed in jeans and long hand-knitted sweaters, her greying hair cut sensibly short as if any messing around with hairdryers or curling tongs was a nuisance she didn’t have time for.

There was always home-made soup or some cold pie in the fridge for hungry people. Bess made scones first thing every morning, and yet she never pushed her food on anyone. She prepared it, then she went off doing things; if people wanted food, they could help themselves to it. As long as they tidied up afterwards, all was well. There was no money for a housekeeper here: Bess did most of the housework and she worked part-time too as a seamstress.

Natalie’s brothers, Ted and Joe–a strapping pair of ‘Irish twins’, so called because they were born less than a year apart–clearly thrived in this atmosphere. Unlike most lads of eighteen and nineteen, they could both cook and were good at ironing. Molly knew her mother would approve. Ingrid hated men who looked helplessly at saucepans when they could reach level ten on Temple of Doom.

When the two girls had arrived the night before, the family had shared a lively dinner. This morning, Natalie had to head off to Lizzie’s house for bridesmaid’s duties. Molly was looking forward to spending the morning going for a long walk around the farm, and perhaps up into the surrounding hills, with some of the Flynns’ tribe of dogs. Sparkles, a wire-haired skinny dog with a limp, had taken a shine to Molly and had been following her around the house adoringly. Despite not being the prettiest dog ever, Sparkles had the most beautiful eyes: soft toffee orbs that stared up at Molly beseechingly until she hauled him on to her lap for a cuddle.

They were all due at the church at three and although Molly wasn’t generally a fan of weddings–they seemed to go on for ever–she didn’t mind this one because she was going to be sitting with the rest of Natalie’s family.

‘Right, I’m off,’ said Natalie, hugging her father goodbye. ‘Off to the O’Sheas’ to see if they’ve all killed each other yet.’

‘Is that one of the rituals of modern weddings?’ her father teased.

‘It will be in Lizzie’s house,’ Natalie said.

She found a parking space in the cul-de-sac where Lizzie’s family lived, and by the time she’d been let into the semi-detached house, she knew she’d been on the money about the fight. As predicted, the O’Shea household was in crisis. There were no teabags or milk, and none of the neighbours squashed into the tiny kitchen for a pre-wedding party seemed inclined to leave the cosiness to buy any. The hairdresser had started work an hour ago and was still only putting the finishing touches to Lizzie’s mother’s hair, which meant she was seriously behind schedule. And the make-up artist hadn’t arrived yet.

‘Will you phone her?’ gasped Lizzie when Natalie came in. Still wearing her fluffy dressing gown, with her hair wet and her face bare, she looked very unlike a fairytale bride.

The make-up lady’s phone went unanswered and Natalie left a polite message.

Half an hour late, not good but not fatal yet.

‘I’ll nip down to the shop to get milk and tea,’ Natalie said.

‘Jesus, no!’ shrieked Lizzie. ‘Get the hairdresser away from my mother. She’s hogging her. It’s my day, not hers. I need to be done now. They can do without bloody tea. There’s a giant bottle of Bailey’s in the kitchen, they can have that in coffee and feck the milk.’

Nearly an hour later, the hairdresser was nailing giant heated rollers into Lizzie’s hair to moans of ‘Ouch, that hurt!’

Anna, who was bridesmaid number two, had turned up and she and Natalie had been tag-phoning the make-up lady every ten minutes. The woman hadn’t replied to either messages or texts.

‘She’s obviously not coming,’ Anna said. ‘We’ll never get anyone at such short notice. What’ll we do?’

‘Don ‘t look at me. You know I’m hopeless with make-up,’ Natalie said.

‘I can do mine, but I’ve never done anyone else’s,’ said Anna.

‘Baileys and coffee anyone?’ roared the mother of the bride from downstairs.

Natalie had a brainwave.

‘Charlie from Kenny’s–she runs the Organic Belle department–she might be able to lend us someone for an hour. She’s lovely, she’d help out, I know.’

Charlie recognised an emergency when she heard one.

‘It’s quiet enough this morning,’ she said. ‘I can’t lend you anyone, but if I take an early lunch, I’ll pop round and do it myself. Will an hour and a half be long enough?’

‘You’re an angel!’ said Natalie gratefully. An hour and a half would get Lizzie and her mother done. Everyone else could fend for themselves.

She went into the bedroom to tell Lizzie the good news and was waylaid by bridesmaid number three, Steve’s sister, Shazza, who’d insisted on being a bridesmaid, and having got her wish had been doing her level best to take over. ‘I think we should all put our hair up,’ she said.

‘What?’ Natalie asked, bewildered.

‘Up, it’s more flattering,’ said Shazza, holding her own blonde hair up to demonstrate.

Shazza had gone against Lizzie’s dictat that spray tans would look ridiculous at a February wedding and was the rich brown colour of an Italian handbag. Everyone else’s skin was pure Irish blue.