Authors: Wendy Perriam
‘You’re an angel, Carole. Thanks.’
‘Well, happy Royal Wedding! And, for goodness’ sake, go and join the crowds in The Mall, then you can report back to your benighted country cousins.’
She had no intention of going anywhere – well, unless there was a sudden call from Felix. She must work on her painting – in fact, do it for Felix specifically, so that when she next saw him (
if
she next saw him), he’d be so impressed, he would immediately ditch any rival female angling for his attention.
Thoughts of such a woman – mistress, muse, nymphet, even another student in his class, or, worse, one of the voluptuous life models – resulted in such extremes of jealous fury, she exploded into action, sloshing paint on
the canvas with frenzied, jabbing brushstrokes. Next, she seized a
palette-knife
and applied more paint impasto, swatting at the canvas, as if poking out her rival’s eyes, or buffeting some fatuous female face. Never before had she worked so fast, or with such new, unwarranted confidence, and, as she layered crimson over cadmium orange, and violet over French ultramarine, she knew already this
would
be her best creation.
‘Bye, Mum!’ Amy followed Hugo out of the front door, frantically waving her hands about to try to dry her nail polish.
‘Goodbye,’ Maria called. ‘I hope it all goes well.’
All at once, her daughter doubled back and joined her in the hall. ‘You do understand, Mum, don’t you? We’d love you to come with us, but I couldn’t really expect Jonathan to—’
‘Don’t be silly – I wouldn’t dream of coming. Why on earth should the poor fellow have to include his friends’ ancient mothers?’
‘You’re
not
ancient and, anyway, I don’t like leaving you alone on what’s meant to be a special day.’
‘Actually, I thought I’d be useful and do some housework for you, since Sumiah won’t be coming in today.’
‘Mum, that’s absolutely forbidden! And she’s coming on Tuesday, anyway. Besides, I want you to watch the wedding on our television. It’s miles better than that tiny thing in your flat, and we should be back to join you, for some of it, at least. One good thing about a morning do is that we won’t have to hang about too long.’
‘Amy!’ Hugo shouted, already a few paces down the street. ‘We’re going to be frightfully late.’
Maria noted his querulous tone. He had just returned from Dubai, having spent the Easter break attending a pre-trial briefing, and the strain of the court case was telling on him, obviously.
As the couple turned to wave goodbye, she blew them both a kiss, but once she had closed the door she felt distinctly spare. Her painting was completed, done in record time, but it had taken so much out of her in terms of energy and concentration she felt too drained to attempt another work, even the briefest sketch. In fact, she had changed her clothes and scrubbed her paint-stained fingers, as if preparing for some outing, yet the reality was a long day on her own.
Well, best follow her daughter’s suggestion and watch the proceedings on the big wall-mounted TV in the sitting-room.
Kate’s mother, Mrs Middleton, is just leaving the Goring Hotel. Doesn’t
she look supremely elegant in that beautifully tailored coat and matching dress? And her hat is the exact same shade as
…
She fidgeted on the sofa. The plummy tones, the perfect frocks and purring cars roused only irritation. It wasn’t yet 10.30 and she dreaded the prospect of sitting here all day, watching endless replays of cutesy little bridesmaids, frothing seas of lace and tulle, and daft designer hats.
And now the Princess Royal is alighting from her state car… Her floral outfit, in lilac and pale green, is brilliantly attuned to the English
country-garden
theme of the abbey’s decoration
…
On an impulse, she sprang up from the sofa, ran upstairs to fetch her bag and jacket, then let herself out of the house. Carole was right – it
was
a tad pathetic to live so close to the abbey yet see nothing of this historic
occasion
, except second-hand, on screen.
Sutherland Street was deserted. She tried to imagine a street-party in full swing, but junketings and bun fights seemed unlikely in so exclusive and unsociable an area. And, as she trudged up Warwick Way and crossed into Rochester Row, there were still very few people in evidence and an air of almost stagnation hanging over the shuttered houses and mainly empty shops.
Yet only minutes later, as she turned into Great Smith Street – now a mere 200 yards from the abbey – she suddenly found her way completely blocked by a huge, seething crowd, marshalled by police. She craned her neck to try to see over the mass of serried heads what, if anything, was happening, but the only view was of backs, and backs of heads. Although she waited behind the mass of people for a good ten or fifteen minutes, there was no sign of any movement, so she decided to change her plan. Best take a different route and cut through the side streets to Buckingham Gate, then at least she would see the royals arrive at the palace once the service was over.
She retraced her steps along Great Peter Street, stopping at a stall to buy a Union Jack baseball cap – not exactly flattering headgear but a way of getting into party mood. She also bought a flag, since they were clearly
de rigueur
judging by the crowd she’d just seen, where they seemed to flutter from every hand.
Then, continuing on, she crossed Victoria Street, into Broadway, pleased at her unhampered progress and pausing only for two seconds when a girl in Tetley Tea rig, distributing samples of ‘KATE-TEA’, gave her a couple, free, which she pocketed for
her
Kate. However, at the junction of Broadway and Ermin Street, she was forced to halt once more, her way blocked this time by an even greater throng. The road had been closed off
with two lines of metal barricades and huge numbers of police were patrolling the whole area. Again, she stood stationary behind a mass of jostling bodies; again her only view that of people’s backs and assorted festive headgear. Her feet began to ache and someone’s rucksack was digging into her shoulder but, suddenly, there was the sound of horses’ hoofs, accompanied by rousing cheers from the crowd.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked the woman beside her, who, despite her ample girth, was attired in a pink princess-dress and a gold cardboard crown, studded with fake gems.
‘No idea,’ the woman replied, no hint of warmth in her tone.
‘It’s the Household Cavalry,’ the man with the rucksack remarked, his voice all but drowned by the still-enthusiastic cheers and the still-clattering horses’ hoofs.
By standing right on tiptoe, she managed to see the very top of one of the rider’s plumes – and tried to be grateful for small mercies.
A larger mercy ensued, however, because, once the cavalcade had passed, the police removed the barricades, freeing the crowd to move. She joined the eager scrum as it swarmed along Buckingham Gate in the direction of the palace; some younger folk streaking past her, running at full pelt. Opting for a slower pace, she tried to take in the scene, so she could report the details to Carole: flowered, beribboned hats; feather boas in red, white and blue; children in fancy dress; two near-naked teenagers, attired in skimpy, matching bras and briefs, made from Union Jacks.
Almost no one was on their own, she noticed – most in pairs or family groups, and not a soul had spoken to her, as yet. Back home, any crowd of people would naturally start conversing, or even strike up friendships, and certainly wouldn’t regard each other as ‘strangers’ who had first to be
introduced
before they could exchange the briefest greeting.
Still, she was now within a stone’s throw of the palace, which must be one of the best vantage points in London. So she approached the end of Buckingham Gate with definite new hope – until, all at once, she
encountered
another blockage. The movement forward had stopped, trapping her between two crowds: one in front and another one building up behind, the latter pressing her uncomfortably against the first. She was sweltering in her clammy rainproof jacket. A cool, showery day had been forecast so she had dressed appropriately but, in the centre of so large a mob, she would have done better to wear a sleeveless cotton top.
Time ticked slowly on as she stood hot and claustrophobic. The service would have started long ago, yet she had seen nothing of the slightest interest. And, when the royal procession finally arrived here, there would be
no chance of spotting even the top of a top hat, or the jewels on a tiara. The view would be the same as now: a swarm and huddle of anonymous bodies, and the tallest branches of the trees. Perhaps all these people were incomers and tourists, because surely genuine Londoners would know a better route, rather than spend the morning stalled in three separate bottlenecks?
Maybe wiser to cut her losses and return to the house in time to see the procession as it wended its way down The Mall. At least, then, she could watch it in close-up and from the comfort of Amy’s sitting-room.
But trying to squeeze her way out of the crush was easier in theory than in fact, and she received angry looks and muttered curses as she struggled to extricate herself from the huge, congested mass. Even when she’d succeeded, she had to duck and dive between new groups of hopefuls still streaming towards her in the direction of the palace. Should she warn them that all they faced was a large, frustrating blockage? No, best keep quiet and simply smile her apologies as she bumped into pushchairs or collided with wailing toddlers.
Once back in Victoria Street, the crowds had thinned considerably, apart from a few odd clusters of revellers, decidedly the worse for drink. All the pubs had put on a good show and were strung with bunting and draped with flags. The Greencoat Boy, in particular, was so bulbous with great bunches of balloons it looked as if it had changed its shape. She was tempted to pop in for a glass of wine, but, as a single woman in a crowded bar, she would feel even more alone. So she carried on towards home, only stopping at the sight of a poor homeless chap huddled in a doorway on Vauxhall Bridge Road.
‘God bless you,’ he droned, as she gave him a handful of coins, then called after her in a husky croak: ‘Which day is the Royal Wedding?’
‘Today,’ she said. ‘It’s happening now.’
‘No.’ He grimaced, displaying blackened teeth. ‘I think it’s next week. But God bless you anyway.’
Reflecting on his plight – dentist-less and homeless, with no access to the news – she wondered what, if anything, the Westminster Cathedral Protest had actually achieved. It was now six weeks since she and scores of others had lain prostrate on the piazza pavement, but had the soup-runs been
reinstated
; were the sandwich shops permitted to give away their unsold food? She was guiltily aware that she should have joined the campaigners’ Easter vigil, instead of spending Easter helping Amy part with huge amounts of money buying state-of-the-art baby gear. The cost of the pram alone would have kept a brace of pavement-sleepers in food and drink for a month.
Yet those four days with Amy on her own had been a precious treat,
notwithstanding their worry over Hugo, forced to spend his rare time off work closeted with lawyers in Dubai, their main aim to ensure that everyone involved in the case was as well prepared as possible and could agree on a general strategy. Knowing how overwrought her daughter was about the whole alarming mess, she had deliberately put her first, despite Felix’s enticing suggestions of various Easter outings. However, she could understand his annoyance, now that she had turned down Brighton as well.
Once back at the house, she went straight into the sitting-room. She should be just in time to view the succession of landaus clip-clopping down The Mall, escorted by the Household Cavalry and, with any luck, should see rather more than one horseman’s fluttering plume.
But, no – again she was thwarted. It appeared she had missed the entire procession by a matter of mere minutes, and that nothing of particular note was due to happen until the royal kiss on the balcony, almost an hour from now. Slumping on the sofa, she shrugged off her heavy jacket, first removing the two teabags from the pocket. Those flimsy little objects, badly creased and flattened, seemed to symbolize her day. And all she could hear, in place of triumphant wedding marches or jubilant church bells, was sirens screaming down the street and police helicopters complaining overhead.
It was hard not to feel dejected as she resigned herself to fifty-seven minutes on the sofa before she caught a glimpse of the much-heralded wedding dress. It struck her that this whole occasion was little more than an attempt to swathe grim reality in a carapace of ostentatious pageantry. Kate was joining herself to a prince who must surely be affected by his sadly dysfunctional childhood, and to a family whose marital failure rate exceeded the national average. And, in the midst of a major recession, with widespread unemployment and savage welfare cuts, today’s extravaganza had troubling echoes of Marie Antoinette.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so pompous!’ she muttered to herself, still listening with half an ear to the television presenter. He was doing his valiant best to fill in time; burbling on about the royal reception currently in progress: the Pol Roger champagne; the wild mushroom-and-celeriac
chausson
; the eight-tier wedding cake and the second, McVitie’s-biscuit cake, specially requested by the bridegroom, as one of his childhood favourites.
A sudden idea propelled her to her feet: why not make a replica of that second chocolate-and-biscuit cake, which happened to be Amy’s favourite, too? And she would be following Hanna’s example, because her mother had made an exact, although miniature, replica of Princess Diana’s wedding cake, much to Amy’s delight. If she went out right away, to purchase the
ingredients, she could have it ready in time for Amy and Hugo’s return, two or three hours from now.
Relieved to have a plan, she left the presenter talking to himself and headed off to Sainsbury’s, pausing for a moment at the corner of the street to watch the sun struggle through the clouds and fling a golden finger across the drab grey pavement.