The Christmas Surprise
Page 60
Her dress was plain and long, with a red bow just like Emily’s tight around her tiny waist, matching her lipstick exactly. Her hair was soft and tousled, and she wore a thin gold circlet around her head, with a little medieval-style tuft of a veil coming off the back of it. Long strands of ivy were threaded in and out of her plaits (which were thicker, Rosie thought suspiciously, than Tina’s normal hair). She had a little fake fur shrug round her shoulders, and the sleeves of the satin dress hung long, nearly to the floor. The effect was beautiful, like a carved tomb come to life. She held a bouquet of holly and mistletoe interlaced with ivy. From up and down the church there were gasps. Jake was now extremely red in the face, his mouth hanging open. Rosie beamed. It was, she knew, exactly the effect Tina had dreamed of for a long time, had worked on so hard. For her, it was all worthwhile.
The choir of children began to sing, though it wasn’t ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ or one of the more usual wedding songs. Stephen had quietly gone and taken up his place in front of them as default choirmaster. Very softly they started up the old Advent hymn, their pure voices echoing in the high vaults of the church ceiling.
O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
When Tina had told Rosie that that was what they were going to sing, she had been rather taken aback.
‘Isn’t it about the baby Jesus?’
‘It’s church, Rosie. You’re a heathen. They’re all about Jesus.’
‘Yes, I know, but it doesn’t sound very weddingy.’
But Tina had been right and Rosie wrong. The gentle beseeching tone of the hymn, with its celebratory final cadences, was cathartic and beautiful, the children’s voices joined by the congregation for ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!’
The vicar welcomed everyone and made a lame joke about broadband internet, which most of the congregation didn’t get, then invited Emily up to the front.
She stood, as white as her dress, almost hidden behind the mike stand until Stephen moved over and lowered it for her, clasping her briefly on the shoulder and smiling at her as he did so. She smiled tentatively back, her look of terror replaced by something more relaxed, and the audience relaxed too as Stephen signalled to the organist.
Quietly at first, then with growing confidence, Emily sang as sweetly as a bird:
O Little Town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight
‘Oh MAN,’ said Rosie quietly, digging in her handbag for a tissue. ‘This is totally unfair. Who can compete with that?’
The high, clear voice rang through the church, a celebration of all that was fresh and new, and there was barely an eye left dry.
As the marriage service got under way, and the old words were spoken, Rosie thought about the bundle in her bag. She would have time; nobody was looking at them, and she was right next to the loo, entirely deliberately.
‘To have, and to hold …’
She glanced up and saw with a start that Stephen was staring straight at her, with such a naked look of pain and doubt, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
‘For better, for worse …’
She blinked away the tears. It was she who had brought all these doubts; questioned Stephen’s ability to change, to do what needed to be done; blamed him for the tough times of the past, failed to trust him in the hard times coming.
‘For richer, for poorer …’
The rest of the church faded away. The music, the bride, the flowers, the fancy hats (the village boutique had been completely emptied in the preceding weeks), the fuss, the squabbles all disappeared and suddenly there was nobody there but the three of them, in the ancient space where those same words had been said for hundreds of years.
‘In sickness and in health …’
Rosie held their son tight to her chest, so tightly he looked at her enquiringly, plucking at the little silk buttons on her collar, but she did not glance down.
‘Till death us do part …’
Stephen strode across the church, leaving the children behind, barely noticed by most of the congregation, who were transfixed by Tina and Jake, equally in a world of their own. Not taking his eyes off Rosie for a second, he grabbed her, and Apostil, and her bag, and without a word pulled her into the back of the church, surrounded by flowers and a disgruntled-looking video technician, and grabbed her to him and kissed her again and again, the tears running down her face.
‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’
They held each other close, and Stephen promised his family with all his heart that he would never leave them, that he didn’t care where they were or how they lived, as long as Apostil had every chance to get better, and Rosie could only say, ‘I know, I know, I know.’
The choir started up (rather raggedly without Stephen to guide them, but the organist tipped them the wink) with a lusty and thrilling version of ‘Torches’, involving much full-hearted singing and some bellowing, as Stephen and Rosie drew apart. They hadn’t much time: the blessing was to take place after the signing of the register.
‘Quick,’ said Stephen. ‘Go on. Let’s get him changed.’
‘No way,’ said Rosie, not betraying it was in her bag.
‘Way. Come on. This one thing.’
She looked at his face, smiling at her.
‘Argh,’ she said, grinning. ‘He will NEVER FORGIVE US.’
‘He will never forgive us for a lot of things,’ said Stephen. ‘I reckon this will come pretty far down the list by the time we’re finished with him.’
With a few squawks from the normally obliging Apostil, they wrestled him into the ridiculous lacy white christening gown, which he promptly dribbled down. Rosie cleaned him up as best she could with a wipe, which he did not enjoy, and there was a clearing of throats from the altar.
‘And now,’ said the vicar, ‘we are pleased to be welcoming a baby into the family of our church.’
‘I don’t want to give the vicar my baby,’ squeaked Rosie, her face turning pink.
‘Ssssh,’ said Stephen, squeezing her tight. ‘You can cross your fingers.’
The choir of children began to sing, though it wasn’t ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ or one of the more usual wedding songs. Stephen had quietly gone and taken up his place in front of them as default choirmaster. Very softly they started up the old Advent hymn, their pure voices echoing in the high vaults of the church ceiling.
O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
When Tina had told Rosie that that was what they were going to sing, she had been rather taken aback.
‘Isn’t it about the baby Jesus?’
‘It’s church, Rosie. You’re a heathen. They’re all about Jesus.’
‘Yes, I know, but it doesn’t sound very weddingy.’
But Tina had been right and Rosie wrong. The gentle beseeching tone of the hymn, with its celebratory final cadences, was cathartic and beautiful, the children’s voices joined by the congregation for ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!’
The vicar welcomed everyone and made a lame joke about broadband internet, which most of the congregation didn’t get, then invited Emily up to the front.
She stood, as white as her dress, almost hidden behind the mike stand until Stephen moved over and lowered it for her, clasping her briefly on the shoulder and smiling at her as he did so. She smiled tentatively back, her look of terror replaced by something more relaxed, and the audience relaxed too as Stephen signalled to the organist.
Quietly at first, then with growing confidence, Emily sang as sweetly as a bird:
O Little Town of Bethlehem
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight
‘Oh MAN,’ said Rosie quietly, digging in her handbag for a tissue. ‘This is totally unfair. Who can compete with that?’
The high, clear voice rang through the church, a celebration of all that was fresh and new, and there was barely an eye left dry.
As the marriage service got under way, and the old words were spoken, Rosie thought about the bundle in her bag. She would have time; nobody was looking at them, and she was right next to the loo, entirely deliberately.
‘To have, and to hold …’
She glanced up and saw with a start that Stephen was staring straight at her, with such a naked look of pain and doubt, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
‘For better, for worse …’
She blinked away the tears. It was she who had brought all these doubts; questioned Stephen’s ability to change, to do what needed to be done; blamed him for the tough times of the past, failed to trust him in the hard times coming.
‘For richer, for poorer …’
The rest of the church faded away. The music, the bride, the flowers, the fancy hats (the village boutique had been completely emptied in the preceding weeks), the fuss, the squabbles all disappeared and suddenly there was nobody there but the three of them, in the ancient space where those same words had been said for hundreds of years.
‘In sickness and in health …’
Rosie held their son tight to her chest, so tightly he looked at her enquiringly, plucking at the little silk buttons on her collar, but she did not glance down.
‘Till death us do part …’
Stephen strode across the church, leaving the children behind, barely noticed by most of the congregation, who were transfixed by Tina and Jake, equally in a world of their own. Not taking his eyes off Rosie for a second, he grabbed her, and Apostil, and her bag, and without a word pulled her into the back of the church, surrounded by flowers and a disgruntled-looking video technician, and grabbed her to him and kissed her again and again, the tears running down her face.
‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’
They held each other close, and Stephen promised his family with all his heart that he would never leave them, that he didn’t care where they were or how they lived, as long as Apostil had every chance to get better, and Rosie could only say, ‘I know, I know, I know.’
The choir started up (rather raggedly without Stephen to guide them, but the organist tipped them the wink) with a lusty and thrilling version of ‘Torches’, involving much full-hearted singing and some bellowing, as Stephen and Rosie drew apart. They hadn’t much time: the blessing was to take place after the signing of the register.
‘Quick,’ said Stephen. ‘Go on. Let’s get him changed.’
‘No way,’ said Rosie, not betraying it was in her bag.
‘Way. Come on. This one thing.’
She looked at his face, smiling at her.
‘Argh,’ she said, grinning. ‘He will NEVER FORGIVE US.’
‘He will never forgive us for a lot of things,’ said Stephen. ‘I reckon this will come pretty far down the list by the time we’re finished with him.’
With a few squawks from the normally obliging Apostil, they wrestled him into the ridiculous lacy white christening gown, which he promptly dribbled down. Rosie cleaned him up as best she could with a wipe, which he did not enjoy, and there was a clearing of throats from the altar.
‘And now,’ said the vicar, ‘we are pleased to be welcoming a baby into the family of our church.’
‘I don’t want to give the vicar my baby,’ squeaked Rosie, her face turning pink.
‘Ssssh,’ said Stephen, squeezing her tight. ‘You can cross your fingers.’
