Angela Sherlock's touching story of the effect conflict abroad has on the lives of a newly-wed couple.
The cheerful gaggle of guests moved out into the sunshine. Dublin in May, and the threatened rain had retreated. St Stephen’s Green was awash with sunshine and picnicking families.
Two of the aunts leading the way, the guests crossed into the Green. People turned to watch as they always do for weddings and funerals. The aunts were dressed in their wedding best, their skirts swirling, earrings dangling, and for two middle-aged women they looked good. They wouldn’t have been taken for sisters, though. One was tall, blue eyed, with a tiny waist and magnificent, surgically enhanced breasts which distracted everyone who talked to her. The other, shorter, plumper, red haired and brown eyed, did not draw so many eyes, but she would do. Yes, she would do.
Conscious of the spectators, the wedding guests moved across the green, laughing a little louder to show how much they were enjoying themselves. Behind the aunt came the waiters carrying great floral displays from the church to add to the hotel’s splendours. Children stopped their games to watch and picnics were temporarily abandoned. Then the bride appeared. She had outraged her mother by ordering the wedding dress on line, but since she was in Sudan at the time there had been little option. And she looked beautiful, just as a bride ought to. Slender, willowy even, her dark eyes dancing with laughter.
Guests moved around the bride and her groom, the aunts unconsciously clearing a path for them. But they had no confetti. No one had thought of it and it was probably illegal to litter the Green anyway. The red haired aunt solved it. Stepping over the low rail that kept the lawns in check, she began to gather the daisies that speckled the grass.
When the others understood her purpose they joined in, four or five of them plucking daisies to throw at the bride. So when she came there was a brief whirl of white flowers to greet her and they caught in her hair and her veil, and sprinkled over her new husband. The spectators applauded and someone caught it on camera and then they went on to the hotel for drinks and lunch. One of the waiters confided enthusiastically to the mother of the bride that the speeches were just like ‘The Constant Gardener’. He thought it romantic that they were both aid workers in Africa and getting rid of mines was a glamorous and daring profession for a man. The mother was very proud.
That night, when the bride undressed in the hotel bedroom, she found a tiny crushed flower in her dress.
Dublin again, and everyone’s journey was delayed. The aunts waited out the fog at Bristol airport and were only one hour behind schedule. They walked through St Stephen’s Green again to resurrect memories of the previous year and much of their conversation was “D’you remember. . .?” and “It was there that. . .” But it was a different church this time so they had to get a cab out off the city. The ancient church was already full when they arrived. Some faces were vaguely familiar from last year, but the names were gone. The immediate family were seated at the front, of course – hers on the left, and his on the right. The aunts tucked themselves into a pew right up against a pillar and with only one hassock between the two of them.
The blonde aunt’s breasts were discreetly draped in black silk but her jet beads nestled in their warm cleavage. Soft organ music drifted in the high wooden beams and the congregation talked in whispers. Then the church door opened and the aunts slid their handbags to the ground as everyone stood up.
The coffin was at a slight angle because one of the bearers was shorter. They moved as smoothly as they could but the lilies and greenery resting on the lid twitched each time the rhythm was broken. She walked behind the coffin, still beautiful and slender, but her eyes were downcast and they held no laughter. A solemn train of family mourners followed and they parted around the coffin to slide into their seats. The knowledge that it was him in the coffin – or at least the bits that could be found after the land mine shredded him– made both aunts weep.
She had preserved that crushed daisy and at the last minute wanted to put it in the coffin with him. But it couldn’t be found.
