Liz Fielding: The Bride's Baby

‘Wait,’ he said as they approached the entrance. ‘I want you to get the full effect.’ He kept tight hold of her hand as he switched on the generator. The outside was lit up with white lights along every edge-along the roof ridge, cascading from the finials, circling above the drop cloths.

Inside, the lights-smaller, more decorative, a mirror image of those on the outside-were reflecting on the polished floor. The supports were topped with huge knots of brightly coloured ribbons, the same ribbons that were plaited around them to the floor. In the corners were brightly painted stalls, offering a choice of foods. The fairground seating.

Small finishing touches had been added during the afternoon. The candyfloss machine had arrived. Bunches of balloons were straining against their strings.

And then, as she looked around, she saw it.

A fairground organ. The kind that played from printed sheets. He crossed to it, threw a switch and, as if by magic, it began to play, music filling the huge space.

‘Tom! It’s wonderful! The perfect finishing touch.’

Even as Sylvie said the words, she felt her skin rise in goose-bumps. Nothing was ever perfect…

But then Tom said, ‘Would you care to dance, Miss Smith?’ And, before she could protest, he was waltzing her across the floor. And it was. Magic.

About as perfect as it was possible for something to be.

And much too brief. The music stopped. Tom held her for just a moment longer. Then he stepped away.

‘Enough.’

The word had a finality about it but, before she could say anything, he turned away. ‘Go in, Sylvie. It’ll take me a while to shut everything down. Make sure it’s all safe. I’ll leave the lights until last so that you can see your way.’ Then, ‘Take care.’

‘Yes, I will.’

For a moment neither of them moved and then, because the longer she hesitated, the longer it would be before he could join her and she could talk to him about the future, she turned and walked back to the house.

Inside, the hall was now festooned with pink ribbons in preparation for tomorrow’s Fayre. The door to the ballroom stood wide open to reveal the catwalk, the tables with gilt chairs laid out in preparation for the fashion show. Mother of the bride outfits, going-away outfits, honeymoon clothes. Formal hire wear for men, including kilts. Bridesmaids and page-boy outfits. And, finally, Geena’s bridal wear.

The florist had been busy all day putting the finishing touches to her arrangements. Pew-end nosegays that had been hung all along the edge of the catwalk. Table flowers.

In the drawing room all the stalls were laid out like an Aladdin’s cave. Everything sparkling, fresh, lovely.

Laura was right. This was worth it, she thought. Even the weather forecast was good. It was going to be warm and sunny as it had been all week.

So why was she so cold?

She pushed open the library door, eager to get to the fire she knew would be banked up behind the guard.

But the guard was down. The room was not empty. There was someone sitting in Tom’s chair. A man, who stood up as she came to an abrupt halt.

Her father.

Older, with a little less hair, a little thicker around the waist-line. Deeply tanned. Still unbelievably good-looking.

Waiting. Uncertain.

She took a step towards him. He took one towards her and then she reached out, took his hand and carried it to her waist. ‘You’re going to be a grandfather,’ she said.

‘I read about it in Celebrity. When I saw the photograph I thought for one awful moment you were back with that piece of…’ he stopped ‘…Jeremy Hillyer. I thought you were back with him.’

‘It’s not Jeremy’s baby.’ She covered his hand with her own. ‘It’s Tom’s baby.’ Then, ‘He knew you were here, didn’t he? That’s why he sent me on ahead of him.’

‘He said he thought we might need some time on our own.’ Then, ‘I’d given up hope. When I read about the baby and you still didn’t get in touch, I knew it would never happen.’

‘I’m sorry. So sorry…’

‘Hush. You’re my little girl, Sylvie. You don’t ever have to say you’re sorry.’ And he put out his arms and gathered her in.

Later-after they’d both cried as they’d talked about her mother, as they’d discovered they could laugh too-she said, ‘Did you bring Michael with you?’

‘We’re staying in Melchester. He’ll come tomorrow. Thank you for asking him.’

‘You love him. He’s part of our lives.’

‘And Tom? Is he going to be part of yours?’

‘I…I don’t know. Just when I think that maybe it’s going to be all right, I realise it isn’t.’ And she shivered again.

‘Maybe you should go and find him, Sylvie. We can talk some more tomorrow.’

‘Tom?’

She’d watched her father’s tail-lights disappear over the brow of the hill and then walked through the house looking for Tom. Not just to thank him, but determined now, as never before, to make him see reason about the baby.

Mrs Kennedy was in the kitchen making a sandwich. ‘Tom asked me to make sure you had something to eat.’

‘I had some soup.’

‘Hours ago. Did you have a visitor?’

‘My father. He’s coming for the Fayre tomorrow. He hopes to see you.’

‘I should think so.’ And she smiled. ‘I’m glad you’ve made up.’

‘Yes. Me too.’ Then, ‘Where is Tom?’

‘As to that, I couldn’t say,’ she said, wiping her hands and reaching up behind a plate on the dresser to take down an envelope. ‘But he called in to the cottage on his way out and asked me to come over in an hour or two and make sure you had something to eat. He said to tell you he left something upstairs for you. In your room.’

‘On his way out? When?’

‘A while back. Just after he turned out the lights in the marquee.’

She checked her watch. Nearer two hours. She’d thought Tom was just staying out of the way, giving them time to talk.

But she remembered the way she’d shivered. The finality in the way he’d said, ‘Enough’. That he’d left something upstairs for her. Something he hadn’t wanted her to find before he’d left…

She bolted up the stairs, flung open her bedroom door and saw the clown teddy propped up on her bed, just where Tom had been lying a few days ago. Looking for all the world as if he belonged there.

Because he had.

She picked up the bear, knowing that Tom had taken it from the trunk, carried it down to her room, placed it there. She buried her face in it, hoping to catch something of his scent. Trying to feel him, understand what had been going through his mind as he’d been putting things right for her. For her family.

Just as, all week, he’d been making things work for her fantasy wedding. Coming up with neat little ideas to part the visitors to the Wedding Fayre from their money. All little extras for the Pink Ribbon Club.

Then, as she looked up, she saw the letter that had been lying beneath the bear and she ripped open the flap, took out the single folded sheet of paper, then sat down before she opened it, knowing it wouldn’t be good.

My dearest Sylvie

Tomorrow will be your very special day and, now you have your father to support you, I know I can leave you in his safe hands.

I’m going away for a while-but not running this time. I need to find something new to do with my life. Something bigger. Something real. My first decision is not to convert the house into a conference centre. It’s a real home and I hope it will remain as such. Whatever happens, you needn’t worry about Mr and Mrs Kennedy. I’ve made arrangements to ensure they’ll never have to leave their home.

I’ve also asked Mrs Kennedy to see that all the clothes in the attic are donated to Melchester Museum. Everything else of value in the trunks is to be given to the Pink Ribbon Club for fund-raising purposes. The bear, however, is yours. Something belonging to your family that you can pass on to your own baby.