I would have liked to tell my stepdaughter how
beautiful she looked, in her wedding gown, no surface gloss beauty: the real
glow. I think she knew, anyway: Little Grandson had run to the unfenced edge of
the high church wall to wave at Mum in the wedding charabanc. And his shirt was
untucked, so there were two Granma jobs to keep my mind from crying. People do
cry at weddings, I know, but I might not be able to stop. This confident,
quirky boy stands on a grave and smiles. Life prevails. Celebration prevails.
Love is worth the risk of loss.
Bunting aplenty at the marquee: handmade, yards and yards of candy prints,
hours and hours of fine work. Cupcakes, homemade, iced and glittered, place
names, all hand written. It all comes down to love.
The groom stole the speech show. He floored us all: no showboating: only how he
misses his father, how he loves his wife. He proposed to her in a gondola: he's
that sort of chap. Every napkin holds a mascara blot. Little Granddaughter
appears to save me this time, demanding a cuddle and a cake.
I am feeling better, for being here, even if my napkin is blotched.
Mr, the Father of the Bride, is feeling deeply
emotional, and also the effects of liberal wine pouring. As the evening
commences I have dog-minding duties, so Mr is swept along in the car.
Bouncy Beagle and Dog make use of the garden
facilities. Medicinal strength espresso bubbles on the stove. The hounds are
bribed back inside. Mr smiles. He says he's fine now. We get back in the car.
'I don't have the sat-nav, so can you give me directions?'
'Yeah, no problem.' Mr has a confident, caffeinated
air.
First junction, I look for guidance.
He says: 'Do you want to go right or left?'
'I don't know, honey, I was hoping you could give me
directions?'
'You can go any way you want.'
'Any way?'
'Yes, you'll get there, you can go any way you want.'
'Er, left?'
'Yes, that's fine. You can go any way you want.'
Every junction: variations on the same. Eventually I
look for a patch of unlit sky (over the ocean) so I can locate the seafront and
the marquee.
'See?' He says. 'Any way you want. All roads lead to
here.'
I don't think they do. I think our roads lead to here
though, and while we're here we should dance.
The next morning I drive me, Mr, Boy, two dogs to the beach. Mr says 'Take the
next left.' I say: 'I can go any way I want.'
Laughter in the car, a
light breeze in a bright sky.
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