Читать книгу Weaveworld - Клайв Баркер - Страница 26

eraldine had spent many long hours giving Cal a working knowledge of her family tree, so that come Teresa’s wedding he’d know who was who. It was a difficult business. The Kellaway family was heroically fecund, and Cal had a poor memory for names, so it wasn’t surprising that many of the hundred and thirty guests who packed the reception hall this balmy Saturday evening were unknown to him. He didn’t much mind. He felt safe amongst such numbers, even if he didn’t know who they were; and the drink, which had flowed freely since four in the afternoon, further allayed his anxieties. He didn’t even object when Geraldine presented him before a parade of admiring aunts and uncles, every one of whom asked him when he was going to make an honest woman of her. He played the game; smiled; charmed; did his best to seem sane.

Not that a little lunacy would have been noticeable in such a heady atmosphere. Norman Kellaway’s ambition for his daughter’s wedding day seemed to have been upped a notch for every inch her waist-line had swelled. The ceremony had been grand, but necessarily decorous; the reception, however, was a triumph of excess over good taste. The hall had been decorated from floor to ceiling with streamers and paper lanterns; ropes of coloured lights were looped along the walls and in the trees out at the back of the hall. The bar was supplied with beer, spirits and liqueurs sufficient to intoxicate a modest army; food was in endless supply, carried to the tables of those content to sit and gorge by a dozen harassed waitresses.

Even with all the doors and windows open, the hall soon grew hot as Hell, the heat in part generated by those guests who’d thrown inhibitions to the wind and were dancing to a deafening mixture of country and western and rock and roll, the latter bringing comical exhibitions from several of the older guests, applauded ferociously from all sides.

At the edge of the crowd, lingering by the door that led out behind the hall, the groom’s younger brother, accompanied by two young bucks who’d both at some point courted Teresa, and a fourth youth whose presence was only countenanced because he had cigarettes, stood in a litter of beer cans and surveyed the talent available. The pickings were poor; those few girls who were of beddable age were either spoken for or judged so unattractive that any approach would have been evidence of desperation.

Only Elroy. Teresa’s penultimate boy-friend, could lay claim to any hint of success tonight. Since the ceremony he’d had his eyes on one of the bridesmaids, whose name he’d yet to establish but who’d twice chanced to be at the bar while he was there: a significant statistic. Now he leaned against the door and watched the object of his lust across the smoky room.

The lights had been dimmed inside the hall, and the mood of the dancing had changed from cavortings to slow, smoochy embraces.

This was the moment, he judged, to make his approach. He’d invite the woman onto the dance floor, then, after a song or two, take her out for a breath of fresh air. Several couples had already retired to the privacy of the bushes, there to do what weddings were made to celebrate. Beneath the pretty vows and the flowers they were here in the name of fucking, and he was damned if he was going to be left out.

He’d caught sight of Cal chatting with the girl earlier on; it’d be simplest, he thought, to have Cal to introduce them. He pressed through the crush of dancers to where Cal was standing.

‘How you doin’, mate?’

Cal looked at Elroy blearily. The face before him was flushed with alcohol.

‘I’m doing fine.’

‘Didn’t much like the ceremony,’ Elroy said. ‘I think I’m allergic to churches. Do us a favour, will yer?’

‘What is it?’

‘I’m in lust.’

‘Who with?’

‘One of the bridesmaids. She was over by the bar. Long blonde hair.’

‘You mean Loretta?’ Cal said. ‘She’s a cousin of Geraldine’s.’

It was odd, but the drunker he got the more of his lessons on the Kellaway family he remembered.

‘She’s a fucking cracker. And she’s been giving me the eye all night.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I was wondering … will you introduce us?’

Cal looked at Elroy’s panting eyes. ‘I think you’re too late,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘She went outside –’

Before Elroy could voice his irritation Cal felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was Norman, the father of the bride.

‘A word, Cal, m’boy?’ he said, glancing across at Elroy.

‘I’ll catch you later,’ Elroy said, retreating in case Norman nabbed him too.

‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Yes, Mr Kellaway.’

‘Less of this Mr Kellaway shit, Cal. Call me Norm.’

He poured a generous measure of whisky from the bottle he was armed with into Cal’s lager glass, then drew on his cigar.

‘So tell me,’ he said. ‘How long before I have to give my other little girl away? Don’t think I’m pushing, son. I’m not. But one bride in labour’s enough.’

Cal swilled the whisky around the bottom of his glass, hoping for a prompt from the poet. None came.

‘I’ve got a job for you at the works,’ Norm went on, unfazed by Cal’s silence. ‘I want to see my baby live in a little style. You’re a good lad, Cal. Her mother likes you a lot, and I always trust her judgment. So you think on it …’

He transferred the bottle to his cigar-wielding right hand, and reached into his jacket.

The gesture, innocent as it was, brought a chill of recognition. For an instant Cal was back in Rue Street, gazing into the enchanted cave of Shadwell’s jacket. But Kellaway had simpler gifts to give.

‘Have a cigar,’ he said, and went off to his duties as host.