Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,145
stunned members. Shortly after this, we were told that the vicar had been placed on indefinite leave by the bishop and sent off to recuperate in a rest home in Whitby. For a few days, this seemed to leave the entire wedding in jeopardy, sending my mother into a terrifying conniption and the house into complete anarchy, until Reverend Mullins stepped in and agreed to take the vicar of Midham’s place.
On the Tuesday evening before the wedding, my mother made me do a final fitting of my bridesmaid’s dress. I stood in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of boxes, stacks of folding chairs, and teetering mountains of plates, cups, glasses, and dishes on almost every surface.
“For God’s sake, Jesse, breathe in, can’t you?” she said as she tugged at the zip in the back of the dress and I felt it press against my sides.
“I am breathing in,” I protested.
“Well, breathe in more.” She tugged again, but the zip got stuck at my waist.
“I can’t.”
“You’ve gone and bloody grown again, haven’t you?” she said, looking over my shoulder to peer at me in the full-length mirror she’d placed in the corner by the door.
“I don’t know,” I said glumly, staring at my grotesque reflection. The dress, hideous under even the best of circumstances, looked absolutely awful on me. Next to the wan pink satin, my face looked sallow, and my hair seemed completely without shine. My mother was right—I must have grown, since she’d made the dress for me almost three months ago; my body seemed about to burst the seams. I reminded myself of one of the raw pink Tuggles sausages that Frank continued to bring over on a regular basis, all unruly mottled flesh pressing against its tight skin.
“Well, I haven’t got time to take the dress out,” my mother declared. “And, to be honest with you, I don’t know that there’s enough give for that in the seams. But I think if we can get rid of that flab on your stomach, that should do the trick.” She slapped a hand against my abdomen and I looked down at my belly, the sheeny fabric wrinkled and misshapen over its bulge.
“I’ll have to phone our Mabel and tell her to go and buy you a girdle,” my mother said.
I turned on her, pulling myself out of her grip. “I am not wearing a girdle!” I felt close to tears. Having to wear this dress was humiliating enough. I was not going to wear one of those ridiculous items of under-wear—that was more than I could bear.
“Yes, you are, young lady!” she screamed. “You’ll do as I bloody well say! I’ve worked my sodding socks off for this wedding. And, come hell or high water, it’s going to be our Mabel’s perfect day. If you or anybody else ruins it, there’ll be hell to pay. I’ve put my lifeblood into it, do you hear?” She held her arms out toward me, her palms turned upward, as she looked down at her wrists. The scars were healed over and far fainter now but still vivid against her pale and veiny skin.
AT SCHOOL THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Tracey was in a horrible mood after hearing that Greg Loomis had been observed sharing a cigarette with a fourth-year girl, Margery Pearson, in the bike sheds during break. Margery was known throughout the school for her willingness to flash her extraordinarily large breasts in return for a couple of bites of a Mars Bar or a few drags on a cigarette, so Tracey considered herself justifiably irked. She was frustrated, too, because Margery was one of the most ruthless girl fighters in the school, leaving anyone foolish enough to challenge her with black eyes, missing teeth, and noticeable bald spots where she’d yanked out whole handfuls of hair. So while Tracey wasn’t about to get into a confrontation with Margery, she stomped around the school corridors, barked angrily at the Debbies and me in response to any question, and seemed quite determined to take out her anger on someone before the day was out. It was Malcolm Clements who ended up getting the brunt of it.
We were in our English lesson and Dizzy, Malcolm, and a few other students had been engaged in an animated discussion about the most recent book Ms. Hastings had assigned us: To Kill a Mockingbird. I’d enjoyed the book and I was interested in the discussion, listening attentively as Malcolm talked about how he thought Atticus Finch was a