Page 4 of A Sky Painted Gold

“Alice! Alice!” Voices are calling now from downstairs and, after giving me a gentle hug, being careful not to squash any of her finery, Alice begins to make her stately way down to show herself off, leaving me to change quickly into my bridesmaid’s outfit.

I feel a shiver of excitement as my fingers stroke the dusty pink chiffon. It is my first real, grown-up dress made just for me. It’s a simple design, with soft pleats in the skirt and a V-shaped neckline (although nothing too scandalously plunging, more’s the pity). Midge has made me a long, narrow scarf in the same material that I knot carefully around my neck, the ends trailing at the front. I pin my unruly curls up as neatly as possible and slip my feet into the little shoes that we have dyed pink to match the dress. I look in the mirror and see none of Alice’s splendour. Despite my attempts at neatening up, I still look ruffled, unpolished. I try again to smooth my hair, but the curls spring out at disobedient angles.

“Lou.” Pa’s gentle voice reaches my ears, and I turn and scamper downstairs to meet him on the landing. He looks smart in his suit, with his father’s old watch hanging from a well-polished chain in his pocket – a far cry from his usual overalls. Pa returns my look of admiration and I can’t help but feel pleased. “Very nice,” he says as I do a little twirl, trying not to trip over my own heels.

“Not exactly a fashion plate,” I say ruefully.

“You’ll do,” Pa replies.

People always say that Pa is a man of few words, but the funny thing is that they couldn’t be more wrong. I inherited my own love of language from him. He may not be a big talker, but my father loves words. He reads anything he can lay his hands on and he saves up words that he knows I will like, words like “incarnadine” and “mellifluous”, leaving them for me around the house, written on scraps of paper in his slightly shaky handwriting. He still keeps the first short story I ever wrote for him in a box with all his treasures. It is about a cat who learns how to sing.

Pa is a writer too. He writes poetry in small blue notebooks that he buys in bulk and he shares his writing with no one any more – not even me. I have dim memories of him making up funny poems for me when I was three or four, poems about zoo animals, and about me and my sisters, that would make us howl with laughter. I even have faded, fragile copies of a couple that Pa sent to us just after he left to fight … but by the time the war had ended, so had the poems. Pa came back the same but different, a bit faded and fragile, just like the letters – quieter, and somehow further away.

“Midge is waiting,” he says now. “Don’t want to be late. You’re to walk down with the others, and Alice and I will be behind.” I briefly press him into a hug, surprised as always by how thin he feels, shocked that someone so strong can feel so breakable. Midge is constantly trying to feed him up, but no matter how many generously buttered scones he puts away, Pa remains spare and angular. “All elbows and knees,” Midge says.

Midge stands outside now, tapping her foot and trying to restrain the triplets from flinging themselves on to the ground and tussling like puppies. She looks pretty in a lilac suit that she made for our cousin Arla’s wedding last year. Freya, as usual, looks a million miles away, staring short-sightedly into the distance, oblivious to the racket issuing from our noisy brothers. She is squeezed into a floral dress that is too tight for her, one of Alice’s cast-offs, I think, and her pale blonde hair has been braided and pinned into a crown. Tom scuffs his shoes, looking uncomfortable and running a finger around his shirt collar as though it is trying to strangle him. He is leaning on the handlebar of the oversized pram in which the baby seems, thankfully, to be asleep.

“Here she is!” Midge exclaims. Her face softens. “And looking pretty as a picture too.” I bask in her admiration for a moment, but Midge’s appreciation is swiftly put to one side. “Now, we’ve got to take the flowers over, but the lads will be coming back later for the food,” she says, and once again I find my arms full of delicious-smelling blooms as we begin to make our way along the path towards the village. The church bells are already ringing in the distance, filling the air with their joyful peals, and I turn my face towards the sky, feeling the sun spreading in golden waves across my skin.

“Alice looks like something in a story.” Freya’s voice is muffled as it drifts towards me from behind the bundle of honeysuckle she is carrying.

“Alice always looks like something from a story,” I say.

There is a silence then as Freya thinks this over. “Yes,” she replies. “But today she looks like something else too.” Her eyes take on a misty, faraway quality and her lips are pursed as she weighs the words she wants to use. “She looks exactly like a bride,” she says finally.

I suppose it’s not the most profound statement to make about someone on their wedding day, but I know just what Freya means, and she’s absolutely right. Alice looks more like a bride than any bride has ever looked before.

Tom, who is slightly ahead of us, pushing the rattling pram with much vim and vigour, gives a whoop then as he spots several of his friends running up from the church to meet us. There is no more time for reflection as we descend into the village and are bundled into the pretty church with roses around the door. Here we are caught up, shaking hands and sharing hugs with people and distributing the flowers that Alice has collected, although our neighbours have arrived before us and the place is already positively bursting with blooms.

Jack is there in a dark grey three-piece suit, looking lean and handsome. He doesn’t look nervous at all, and a smile splits his face as he wraps me in his long arms. I take a deep sniff of his lovely clean smell and allow myself one last pretend that I really am in love with him and that my heart is breaking as I have to watch him marry my very own sister.

(If you live in a sleepy little village, I have found that you have to be adept at creating your own drama, and I had a good run on the unrequited love scenario, developing a short-lived but hulking great crush on Jack when I was around fourteen. After Alice and Jack announced their engagement, this crush was briefly reignited and I drifted sadly about the house for a couple of days, draping myself in black scarves and sighing forlornly, while writing searingly tragic love poems about doomed lovers and beautiful but lonely young spinsters – but I kept forgetting all about Jack in my efforts to keep my face interestingly pale with Alice’s face powder, so ultimately I gave up the enterprise. Alice, very politely, ignored the whole thing.)

“Ready?” I ask Jack now.

“Can’t wait,” he answers with a wink.

And then we both realize that he doesn’t have to, as the unmistakable roar and splutter of Pa’s car can be heard approaching the church.

“Here they are,” Jack says, and he puffs his cheeks out before releasing a long, slow breath. Perhaps he is a little nervous, after all. I grin up at him in what I hope is a reassuring manner.

“See you in a minute, then,” I say, already tottering back up the aisle on my unfamiliar heels. The pews are filling up as I reach the back of the church and a low hum of chatter fills the air. I burst out into the sunshine.

Pa is helping Alice out of the car. Pa drives an old ABC, a small grey two-seater with a folding canvas hood and a dickie seat – an extra seat for two (very slim) passengers that folds out from the boot. The car is called Gerald and it is next to useless, but Pa loves it despite the fact it is temperamental and has to be dealt with very soothingly. Gerald is actually looking rather jaunty today, having been festooned in ribbons and flowers by a resourceful Freya. The sound of Mrs Bastion hammering enthusiastically on the church’s wheezy old organ drifts through the open door, and just like that it hits me. This is really happening. I think it hits Alice too.

“Oh!” She exhales the sound. I fling my arms around her and both of us show very little regard for our lovely frocks as we squeeze each other tightly. Finally, I break away, dabbing at my eyes and making a noise that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Alice is doing the same, and she carefully smooths the front of her dress and then adjusts her sash. Pa looks on with an air of befuddled pride.

I pick up my little bouquet of roses from Gerald’s back seat and stand in front of Alice.

“Well, go on, then!” she says, and her voice is still a bit wobbly. “What are you waiting for?”

“Oh, right!” I have forgotten that I am going to have to kick this shindig off by drifting gracefully down the aisle. That is what bridesmaids do, after all, though I am not sure that the unfamiliar high heels are going to lend themselves too readily to much graceful drifting. Suddenly I feel nervous about it, but Alice gives me a nudge in the back.

“Go on,” she repeats quietly, laughter rippling through her words. “Before Mrs Bastion pulls a muscle.” In fact, the music is reaching a rather vigorous crescendo and the organist has been known to overdo it in the past. (Mrs Bastion claims to have Italian blood and that it is impossible for her to live without great passion. I admire that in a woman.) The time has come. I take a deep breath and step through the door.

CHAPTER

THREE