Yuletide story #2: Lawrie's Wedding
Written for lyras for the Yuletide 2007 challenge. The Trennels setting and characters belong to the estate of Antonia Forest. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from this work.
Lawrie's Wedding
Six Months Beforehand: Consult With Family About Budget
"I don't know what I said," said Lawrence Marlow hurtly as she emerged from the drawing-room.
"Now, that, I find only too plausible," said her sister Rowan detachedly. "You just open your little mouth and the words trickle out, and five minutes later you've forgotten you said it and you're arguing yourself blue in the face in the other direction. Why don't you try thinking first, for a change?"
Lawrie blinked at her. Generally she found herself insulated from Rowan's more shattering utterances, partly by virtue of being the youngest and partly through Rowan's own sense of noblesse oblige. It took her a while to work out that rather than sympathising, her sister was looking at her with something approaching distaste. "What?" she said with slightly too well-practiced indignation. "All I said was that the average wedding costs sixteen thousand pounds."
"And you thought that all of that sixteen thousand pounds could very well come out of the family coffers, did you?"
"I'm not asking you to sell the hunters," said Lawrie offendedly. "I just meant that if Mum had another fender lying around and was thinking of chipping in, it would be nice of her to say so. I didn't expect her to go weeping over Ann and waving at me to go away as if I was a leper."
"Lawrie, do the words foot and mouth mean nothing to you?"
"I don't think that's why lepers..."
"Lawrie, go away."
Three Months Beforehand: Order Stationery
"Tim did the caricatures for them," said Lawrie proudly, handing out envelopes lavishly to her family at breakfast, rather as if she were a nineteenth-century railway magnate and they were the deserving poor.
"You hauled us all down for the weekend for this?" said Nicola.
"I didn't haul you anywhere, you live here."
"Well, I had to drag HMS Northumberland all the way up from the coast and park it in the driveway, and I tell you, there's going to be trouble when that work experience woman of Nick's tries to get the horse-box past it." Peter opened his envelope and looked at the caricature. "Which one's supposed to be Selby and which one's you? No, don't tell me - I'll get there in a minute - are you the one in the naval uniform? It's a bit too flattering."
"She did one of you, too," said Lawrie obliviously. "I thought they'd make lovely presents for the Best Man and bridesmaids."
Nicola ate haddock, and told herself firmly that she was twenty-seven, and it was ridiculous that she should feel anything beyond mild amusement at the prospect of a caricature of herself as presented by Tim Keith. But no matter what she told herself, she continued to feel precisely as if she were expecting a visit from the vet, with one of the ponies' future at stake; so she kicked her chair back and went outside to exorcise her feelings with a brisk walk in the direction of the paddock.
"And what are these?" asked their mother, holding up something that looked a bit like a small shiny business card. "Please visit myweddinglist dot co dot uk slash lawrieandclement... Lawrie, no. You'll have to take all of these out. I could never look your grandmother in the eye again."
"Never mind, Ma," said Ginty, loading her knife with marmalade. "When I get married I'll have Captain and Mrs Geoffrey Marlow request the pleasure properly engraved, and an announcement in the Times."
Mrs Marlow did not look particularly comforted by this.
One Month Beforehand: Draw Up Seating Plan
"If you take all these slips of paper, Fob, and these drawing pins..."
Fob took deft possession of the shoebox full of slips of paper and led the way into the dark red dining-room. The room smelt fusty, and had that faintly affronted air of rooms that are seldom used in the daytime; but it was relatively draught-free. More to the point, the sitting-room was full of Lawrie having a final dress fitting, in a cloud of white and champagne tulle and pleasurable excitement; the estate office was full of Nicola having a coldly accurate conversation with a woman who was disputing some stud fees for one of the ponies, the drawing-room was full of presents, and the library was piled high with Fob's veterinary textbooks and a drifting sea of notes in very decided square black handwriting.
Mrs Marlow sat down gratefully and allowed Fob to arrange things around her. It was a constant mystery to her how Fob could be so sure-handed and uncompromisingly efficient about other people's business, when her own studies went on in such chaos; but her marks were consistently high, and there was no denying that everything from draught horses to illegally smuggled Eastern European birds of prey liked her, or at the very least realised the unwisdom of trying to play her up.
"It's just like Pin The Tail On The Donkey, isn't it?" said Fob, spreading out the slips of paper and looking at them with the pleasure of someone who was absolutely certain of her ability to bring order out of chaos.
"More like Pin The Bore On The Relatives," said Peter, appearing in the doorway. Mrs Marlow had assumed he'd gone out for a ride in order to flee the various feminine entanglements of the morning, but apparently not. "Let me in, let me in, as the big bad wolf said. I might recognise some of the names on Selby's side."
Fob made room for him. "These are his. These are ours, and these ones I don't recognise at all," she said. "I suppose they must be Lawrie's theatre people. Who's Mrs Lydia Fairbairn?"
"The woman Nick's trying to talk some sense into about the price of Trennels Endeavour's loving attentions," said Peter.
Mrs Marlow looked discomposed. Peter and Fob, who both knew this look well, one at first hand and one at first remove via Karen, hastened to put things right; the offending Mrs Fairbairn's name was discovered to be on a bit of paper from the kitchen pad, as opposed to the slips from the bureau in the drawing-room, and was summarily crumpled and disposed of.
Peace settled, like slightly dusty light, once again over the drawing-room. It was broken only by murmurs of "I don't care what Lawrie's handwriting's like, Clement can't possibly have an aunt and uncle called Colonel and Mrs Paddywhack," or "Do we have to have them?" or "Yes, the Olympic diver, apparently he coached that partner of Tim's for a part in a film once. She says he's a dreadful bore and you'd better sit him next to Ginty."
It was almost a surprise when the grandfather clock in the hall chimed the quarter, the fifth since they'd begun. A small draught fluttered the edges of the slips as the Trennels door opened, but Fob's firm hand with the drawing-pins ensured that they all stayed put.
"I'm going to the pub with Patrick," said Fob, shrugging herself into an ancient jacket that had once, long ago, been Cousin Jon's. "I want to have another talk to him about that rescue falcon. I told Karen, but if she's forgotten and she rings here, tell her I expect I'll be back before she locks up, but if not, leave the door on the latch and I'll do it."
Mrs Marlow was a more observant woman than any of her children ever believed; she noticed the brief but deep-running expression of displeasure on her second son's face, and felt a small shiver of unease in her turn, as if she had put her toe unexpectedly into cold waters.
Two Weeks Beforehand: Confirm Number of Guests
"Hello? Trennels Farm and Trennels Stud, Nicola Marlow speaking... what's the matter? Look, Lal, stop gulping at me and just tell me what it is. You know I can't understand you when you cry at me down a mobile."
"He can't... he can't... he can't..."
"Who can't?" A chill little finger stroked the top of Nicola's spine. "Has something happened to Clement?"
"Not Clement." Lawrie sounded outraged, as she always did, at the double slap of being upset in the first place and then misunderstood. "Daddy."
Nicola sat down on the hard cane-bottomed chair that stood beside the phone in the hall. There was no wind outside but it suddenly felt like a gale was roaring in her ears. Telling herself that it was just Lawrie, resisting the temptation to let the phone dangle and to hurry into the sitting room to fumble, numb-fingered, with the radio, she forced herself to speak calmly. "Lawrie, what's happened to Daddy?"
"He can't be at the wedding!" said Lawrie, outraged.
Relief broke over Nicola. It was followed by incomprehension; and then more relief; and then a resigned desire to get things sorted out. "But you couldn't have possibly thought he was coming, could you? You know he's in the Gulf. You know Giles is giving you away..."
"Yes, and I wish he'd stop making remarks about how much he'd like to give the rest of you away too, they weren't funny the first time," said Lawrie in a reviving tone of voice. "But I thought Daddy would manage it somehow. And then this friend of Tim's turned out to know some people who did the satellite linkup to the HMS Montgomery - you know, when they did part of Children in Need from there - so I thought - but the Admiralty said - "
Nicola could well imagine what the Admiralty had said. "Anyway, he wasn't at Kay's wedding either," she said in what she hoped wasn't an entirely squashing tone of voice. "And neither was Giles, so you're ahead there at least. Look, if there's nothing else, can you get off the phone now? It's two in the morning and my tiny hands are frozen."
"Oh. Sorry," said Lawrie, sounding as if she meant it, though since it was Lawrie speaking, Nicola had her reservations. "Look, I'll see you next week, all right? Clement sends his love, don't you, Clement? Wake up, Clement, I'm talking to Nick, and..."
Nicola hung the phone up.
Zero Hour
"Doesn't she look lovely?"
"Are those all her sisters?"
"Is that - you know, him, off the telly? He was in, oh, you know, not Heartbeat, the other thing..."
"I didn't think you were allowed to quote that much Shakespeare in a civil ceremony."
"Why, Ronnie Merrick! I haven't seen you since..."
"Weren't the caricatures clever?"
"Weren't the flowers lovely?"
"If Mrs Chas doesn't keep a better eye on those two of hers, I'm going to encourage them to play under Rowan's feet and see what happens then."
"More sherry, Edwin?"
"Who is that dark, very striking young woman who just told me that all birds-egg collectors ought to be put up against a wall and shot?"
"Are those - oh, yes, I will, thanks."
"Imagine Ann catching the bouquet!"
"May I have this dance, Fob?"
"Yes, I think you may."
Lawrie's Wedding
Six Months Beforehand: Consult With Family About Budget
"I don't know what I said," said Lawrence Marlow hurtly as she emerged from the drawing-room.
"Now, that, I find only too plausible," said her sister Rowan detachedly. "You just open your little mouth and the words trickle out, and five minutes later you've forgotten you said it and you're arguing yourself blue in the face in the other direction. Why don't you try thinking first, for a change?"
Lawrie blinked at her. Generally she found herself insulated from Rowan's more shattering utterances, partly by virtue of being the youngest and partly through Rowan's own sense of noblesse oblige. It took her a while to work out that rather than sympathising, her sister was looking at her with something approaching distaste. "What?" she said with slightly too well-practiced indignation. "All I said was that the average wedding costs sixteen thousand pounds."
"And you thought that all of that sixteen thousand pounds could very well come out of the family coffers, did you?"
"I'm not asking you to sell the hunters," said Lawrie offendedly. "I just meant that if Mum had another fender lying around and was thinking of chipping in, it would be nice of her to say so. I didn't expect her to go weeping over Ann and waving at me to go away as if I was a leper."
"Lawrie, do the words foot and mouth mean nothing to you?"
"I don't think that's why lepers..."
"Lawrie, go away."
Three Months Beforehand: Order Stationery
"Tim did the caricatures for them," said Lawrie proudly, handing out envelopes lavishly to her family at breakfast, rather as if she were a nineteenth-century railway magnate and they were the deserving poor.
"You hauled us all down for the weekend for this?" said Nicola.
"I didn't haul you anywhere, you live here."
"Well, I had to drag HMS Northumberland all the way up from the coast and park it in the driveway, and I tell you, there's going to be trouble when that work experience woman of Nick's tries to get the horse-box past it." Peter opened his envelope and looked at the caricature. "Which one's supposed to be Selby and which one's you? No, don't tell me - I'll get there in a minute - are you the one in the naval uniform? It's a bit too flattering."
"She did one of you, too," said Lawrie obliviously. "I thought they'd make lovely presents for the Best Man and bridesmaids."
Nicola ate haddock, and told herself firmly that she was twenty-seven, and it was ridiculous that she should feel anything beyond mild amusement at the prospect of a caricature of herself as presented by Tim Keith. But no matter what she told herself, she continued to feel precisely as if she were expecting a visit from the vet, with one of the ponies' future at stake; so she kicked her chair back and went outside to exorcise her feelings with a brisk walk in the direction of the paddock.
"And what are these?" asked their mother, holding up something that looked a bit like a small shiny business card. "Please visit myweddinglist dot co dot uk slash lawrieandclement... Lawrie, no. You'll have to take all of these out. I could never look your grandmother in the eye again."
"Never mind, Ma," said Ginty, loading her knife with marmalade. "When I get married I'll have Captain and Mrs Geoffrey Marlow request the pleasure properly engraved, and an announcement in the Times."
Mrs Marlow did not look particularly comforted by this.
One Month Beforehand: Draw Up Seating Plan
"If you take all these slips of paper, Fob, and these drawing pins..."
Fob took deft possession of the shoebox full of slips of paper and led the way into the dark red dining-room. The room smelt fusty, and had that faintly affronted air of rooms that are seldom used in the daytime; but it was relatively draught-free. More to the point, the sitting-room was full of Lawrie having a final dress fitting, in a cloud of white and champagne tulle and pleasurable excitement; the estate office was full of Nicola having a coldly accurate conversation with a woman who was disputing some stud fees for one of the ponies, the drawing-room was full of presents, and the library was piled high with Fob's veterinary textbooks and a drifting sea of notes in very decided square black handwriting.
Mrs Marlow sat down gratefully and allowed Fob to arrange things around her. It was a constant mystery to her how Fob could be so sure-handed and uncompromisingly efficient about other people's business, when her own studies went on in such chaos; but her marks were consistently high, and there was no denying that everything from draught horses to illegally smuggled Eastern European birds of prey liked her, or at the very least realised the unwisdom of trying to play her up.
"It's just like Pin The Tail On The Donkey, isn't it?" said Fob, spreading out the slips of paper and looking at them with the pleasure of someone who was absolutely certain of her ability to bring order out of chaos.
"More like Pin The Bore On The Relatives," said Peter, appearing in the doorway. Mrs Marlow had assumed he'd gone out for a ride in order to flee the various feminine entanglements of the morning, but apparently not. "Let me in, let me in, as the big bad wolf said. I might recognise some of the names on Selby's side."
Fob made room for him. "These are his. These are ours, and these ones I don't recognise at all," she said. "I suppose they must be Lawrie's theatre people. Who's Mrs Lydia Fairbairn?"
"The woman Nick's trying to talk some sense into about the price of Trennels Endeavour's loving attentions," said Peter.
Mrs Marlow looked discomposed. Peter and Fob, who both knew this look well, one at first hand and one at first remove via Karen, hastened to put things right; the offending Mrs Fairbairn's name was discovered to be on a bit of paper from the kitchen pad, as opposed to the slips from the bureau in the drawing-room, and was summarily crumpled and disposed of.
Peace settled, like slightly dusty light, once again over the drawing-room. It was broken only by murmurs of "I don't care what Lawrie's handwriting's like, Clement can't possibly have an aunt and uncle called Colonel and Mrs Paddywhack," or "Do we have to have them?" or "Yes, the Olympic diver, apparently he coached that partner of Tim's for a part in a film once. She says he's a dreadful bore and you'd better sit him next to Ginty."
It was almost a surprise when the grandfather clock in the hall chimed the quarter, the fifth since they'd begun. A small draught fluttered the edges of the slips as the Trennels door opened, but Fob's firm hand with the drawing-pins ensured that they all stayed put.
"I'm going to the pub with Patrick," said Fob, shrugging herself into an ancient jacket that had once, long ago, been Cousin Jon's. "I want to have another talk to him about that rescue falcon. I told Karen, but if she's forgotten and she rings here, tell her I expect I'll be back before she locks up, but if not, leave the door on the latch and I'll do it."
Mrs Marlow was a more observant woman than any of her children ever believed; she noticed the brief but deep-running expression of displeasure on her second son's face, and felt a small shiver of unease in her turn, as if she had put her toe unexpectedly into cold waters.
Two Weeks Beforehand: Confirm Number of Guests
"Hello? Trennels Farm and Trennels Stud, Nicola Marlow speaking... what's the matter? Look, Lal, stop gulping at me and just tell me what it is. You know I can't understand you when you cry at me down a mobile."
"He can't... he can't... he can't..."
"Who can't?" A chill little finger stroked the top of Nicola's spine. "Has something happened to Clement?"
"Not Clement." Lawrie sounded outraged, as she always did, at the double slap of being upset in the first place and then misunderstood. "Daddy."
Nicola sat down on the hard cane-bottomed chair that stood beside the phone in the hall. There was no wind outside but it suddenly felt like a gale was roaring in her ears. Telling herself that it was just Lawrie, resisting the temptation to let the phone dangle and to hurry into the sitting room to fumble, numb-fingered, with the radio, she forced herself to speak calmly. "Lawrie, what's happened to Daddy?"
"He can't be at the wedding!" said Lawrie, outraged.
Relief broke over Nicola. It was followed by incomprehension; and then more relief; and then a resigned desire to get things sorted out. "But you couldn't have possibly thought he was coming, could you? You know he's in the Gulf. You know Giles is giving you away..."
"Yes, and I wish he'd stop making remarks about how much he'd like to give the rest of you away too, they weren't funny the first time," said Lawrie in a reviving tone of voice. "But I thought Daddy would manage it somehow. And then this friend of Tim's turned out to know some people who did the satellite linkup to the HMS Montgomery - you know, when they did part of Children in Need from there - so I thought - but the Admiralty said - "
Nicola could well imagine what the Admiralty had said. "Anyway, he wasn't at Kay's wedding either," she said in what she hoped wasn't an entirely squashing tone of voice. "And neither was Giles, so you're ahead there at least. Look, if there's nothing else, can you get off the phone now? It's two in the morning and my tiny hands are frozen."
"Oh. Sorry," said Lawrie, sounding as if she meant it, though since it was Lawrie speaking, Nicola had her reservations. "Look, I'll see you next week, all right? Clement sends his love, don't you, Clement? Wake up, Clement, I'm talking to Nick, and..."
Nicola hung the phone up.
Zero Hour
"Doesn't she look lovely?"
"Are those all her sisters?"
"Is that - you know, him, off the telly? He was in, oh, you know, not Heartbeat, the other thing..."
"I didn't think you were allowed to quote that much Shakespeare in a civil ceremony."
"Why, Ronnie Merrick! I haven't seen you since..."
"Weren't the caricatures clever?"
"Weren't the flowers lovely?"
"If Mrs Chas doesn't keep a better eye on those two of hers, I'm going to encourage them to play under Rowan's feet and see what happens then."
"More sherry, Edwin?"
"Who is that dark, very striking young woman who just told me that all birds-egg collectors ought to be put up against a wall and shot?"
"Are those - oh, yes, I will, thanks."
"Imagine Ann catching the bouquet!"
"May I have this dance, Fob?"
"Yes, I think you may."