office now.’
‘All right, son?’ Wilfred’s da said as the guests moved forward.
Wilfred and Grace were alone in the wood-panelled auditorium. Wilfred stood as if all the hope in the world had deserted him. A strange sound came from his stomach. Grace smiled apologetically but Wilfred looked thunderous. She unclipped her bracelet, dropping it in her bag; she felt overdressed as if she was making too much of the occasion by wearing it. Wilfred was perspiring and looked as if there was a violent struggle taking place within him, something unspoken and unformed fighting for consciousness and voice. She smoothed the pleats of her dress and noticed that the thin laces of Wilfred shoes were knotted very tightly.
‘It won’t take long,’ she said brightly. She wondered if she might vomit everywhere, all down his suit and splatter his shoes. She swallowed hard. From behind the door, some music played.
‘It’s hot for a suit,’ she said, feeling stupid the moment she said it.
‘The groom, please, in you come!’ said the registrar chirpily, popping her head round the door.
The room, when she entered, was small, crowded with chairs and a table, but there was still an emptiness within it. Her father turned back and smiled formally to see her come in. Wilfred was standing by the table, waiting for Grace. Grace walked towards him with as little aplomb as possible, passing her parents, her father standing with his hands behind his back, like a sentinel of righteous living. Wilfred looked enraged in his top hat and tails, and like a Greek god with a hidden thunderbolt who wanted to destroy the world. Grace smiled appeasingly and breathed in.
‘Move in a little,’ the registrar told Grace, who stepped sideways lightly, almost skipping, her dress flaring as she moved. Wilfred looked down at his hands while Grace waited politely for the registrar to speak. She had her answers ready.
‘Do you take this man, Wilfred Aubrey Price …’ The registrar began reciting, finishing with ‘… until death us do part?’ Grace agreed, said yes; it was easy to promise, she liked Wilfred. This would do. Wilfred said his vows gruffly. Though she stood next to him she did not feel close to him: he had – she could tell – armoured himself with rage and hate and unwillingness.
‘You may kiss the bride!’ said the registrar with a levity. The clerk looked up, watching everything, her eyes glittering with excitement. Grace’s pearls clacked as she removed her veil. Wilfred kissed her dryly with a stern face, as one might kiss the dead, as if kissing her was against life and possibly dangerous to one’s health.
‘Just a few papers to sign and it’s all written in stone,’ said the clerk, and she lifted the needle of the gramophone arm and placed it on the disc. ‘Shall I play the gramophone music?’ she mouthed to Mrs Reece.
‘That’s enough,’ said Mrs Reece, putting her hand to her diaphragm.
To Grace the wedding ceremony felt like a stiff ballet, a slow dance without music, in which their fates were sealed. She gave Wilfred a relieved smile and breathed out. She was a married woman. It was done.
‘Mr Price, if you would like to come back to the house to join us, we have some refreshments,’ offered Dr Reece.
‘Oh, that would be lovely,’ Wilfred’s da replied, his voice catching with feeling.
Grace smiled encouragingly at Wilfred, but doubted he would feel encouraged. She knew him to be hurt. Wilfred was like a stone monument who wouldn’t dance in this pas de deux, wouldn’t move but stood lifeless, like a prop. But at least some of it was all right now. And some violence, something dark she had once experienced, that she would never let herself think of again, would soon be glossed over, forgotten and ignored for ever. Relief flooded and opened her face.
The wedding breakfast that afternoon was the first time in a week her mother hadn’t slammed the crockery on the table; propriety in front of guests wouldn’t let her, and the welcome confusion of tea and cake had conferred a certain decency on the day.
During the wedding breakfast, Grace was complimented by Wilfred’s father on the quality of the honey.
‘Is this the honey from your bees? It’s very sweet, now. And rich.’ He was wearing what was clearly his best suit. ‘Do you have a lot of lavender in your garden?’ he asked. ‘Is that the reason why?’
Grace replied that they had, that they were mature plants now.
‘Bees like lavender, can’t