Eva Ibbotson - A Song For Summer

But now it was beginning. Leon was sitting beside the old lady who played the organ; he had insisted on helping her turn the pages, ignoring her plea that she knew the music by heart. He was shuffling the music, still playing for time. She saw him look directly at Sophie, who half shook her head.

“He might still come,” said Sophie obstinately. “Marek’s just the sort of person to burst into the church and if he does I’ll tug at Ellen’s dress or tell her to faint or something.”

From upstairs they heard the rustle of silk, a sharp intake of breath-then Ellen came down the stairs towards them.

“Marek is here?”’ she said very quietly. “He’s in England?”’

All three turned to her, consternation in their faces.

“Yes,” said Leon, “I was with him in the internment camp.”

“And he knows that I’m getting married today?”’ Silently they nodded.

“I see.”

Anguished, waiting, they looked at her. But she did not crumple up, nor weep. She straightened her shoulders and they saw pride cover her face like a film of ice.

“I’ll have my flowers, please, Sophie.” And then: “It’s time to go.”

Kendrick was waiting at the altar beside his best man, a Cambridge acquaintance whom no one had met before. Pausing inside the church, Ellen surveyed the guests as they turned their heads. The Crowthorpe retainers in their dark heavy overcoats fared best, accustomed as they were to the hardship of the Frobisher regime and the freezing church. Margaret Sinclair was there, giving her a heartening smile, but not Bennet, who was still breaking his codes… Janey beside Frank, in the uniform of a private… a whole bevy of gallant aunts, real ones and honorary ones, in hats they had dusted out specially-and, sitting a little apart and looking not at all like Beryl Smith but entirely like Tamara Tatriatova, (and wearing-Ellen had time to notice-a pilfered geranium from the conservatory in her turban), the Russian ballerina. Yet it was the detestable Tamara who had made the previous night endurable, taking Kendrick into his study to listen to Stravinsky and leaving Ellen free to help the maids with preparations for the wedding lunch.

But now it was beginning. Leon was sitting beside the old lady who played the organ; he had insisted on helping her turn the pages, ignoring her plea that she knew the music by heart. He was shuffling the music, still playing for time. She saw him look directly at Sophie, who half shook her head.

There was nothing more to be done. The first strains of Widor’s Toccata rang out over the church, Sophie and Ursula arranged the folds of Ellen’s dress, and she began to walk slowly towards her bridegroom.

She was halfway up the aisle when they heard it-Sophie and Ursula, Leon with his keen hearing… and Ellen too, even above the sound of the music. The creaking of the heavy oaken door on its rusty hinges; and the gust of wind as it blew open. Sophie tugged once at Ellen’s dress and Leon’s hand came down on the organist’s arm so that she faltered…

What they saw then was a strange reversal of what had happened to Aniella in the pageant. For Ellen turned and as she saw the tall, broad-shouldered figure outlined in the lintel of the door, her face became transfigured. The pride and endurance which had made her look almost old, vanished in an instant, and she became so beautiful, so radiant, that those who watched her held their breath in wonder.

Then the latecomer, a neighbouring landowner who was Kendrick’s godfather, removed his hat and hurried, embarrassed, to his pew.

And the wedding went on.

In allowing the two ancient maids to prepare the master bedroom for their use, Ellen realised she had made a mistake. But she had not wanted to stop them having the chimney swept and doing what they could to air the bedclothes. Shut for years in their basement kitchen, chilblained and deprived of light, the Frobisher maids did not often use their initiative, and Ellen had no wish to deprive them of their traditional expectations.

But she had not examined the room in detail, having expected little from her wedding night except to endure it, and she had not realised that there was quite so much furniture: tables both round and square, brass pots, palms and fenders, bellows and tallboys and a stuffed osprey in a case. A picture of the The Released Garrison of Lucknow Crossing the Ganges hung above the bed which was high and, considering its nuptial purpose, surprisingly narrow, and on the opposite wall was a painting of a pale, dead shepherd in the snow, guarded by two collies who did not seem to have gathered that he was no longer in a position to tell them what to do.

The farm manager had sent up a basket of logs, but the vast size of the chimneypiece made the small fire seem even smaller, and Kendrick, in an unexpected attack of masculinity, had earlier hit the logs with a poker and almost destroyed it. On the chest in the dressing room were photographs of Roland and William in various manly situations-playing cricket, decimating tigers or passing out on parade at Sandhurst-and none as usual of Kendrick-who now came nervously into the bedroom in his striped pyjamas, fell over a padded stool and said: “Oh Ellen!”

His tone was reverent rather than passionate and he looked cold.

“Come and get warm,” said Ellen, who was already in bed, her hair brushed out, looking, as Kendrick stammeringly began to tell her, like Danae or Cleopatra, or perhaps Goya’s Maya on her satin couch.

But even he realised that the time for conversation was past, andwitha gulp he got into bed beside her where, considering how thin he was, he seemed to take up a surprising amount of room, especially his feet, which were icy and very large.

Once in bed, he found himself staring straight at the dead shepherd being guarded by dogs and Ellen saw a flicker of alarm pass over his face.

“What is it, Kendrick?”’

“I always used to look at that picture when Mummy was telling me what I’d done wrong. She used to send for me while she answered letters at that desk. That was where she read me my school reports too.” His gaze turned inwards to the terrors of the past.

“We’ll change the pictures tomorrow,” promised Ellen-but the idea that anything connected with his mother could be changed seemed to frighten Kendrick even more.

She lay back on the pillow, stifling a yawn, and waited to see if Kendrick had any idea of how to proceed-he might after all have read a book. When this did not seem to be the case, she stretched out her arms and drew her trembling husband towards her, letting his head rest on her breast, where he continued, though short of air, to proclaim his worship and to liken her to various people whose names she did not catch.

“I think we should get undressed properly,” said Ellen, trying to repress the school-mistressy note in her voice.

She slipped off her night-dress, but the sight of her naked, fire-lit body affected him so strongly that he became hopelessly entangled in his pyjama cord.

Ellen freed him, glad that her time at Cambridge had given her some experience. “Don’t worry, darling,” she said.

“We’ve lots of time.” And: “Everything’s all right,” she said at intervals during the long night, wondering what exactly she meant by this, while Kendrick shivered and stuttered out his admiration and said he was no good to anyone and never had been but he loved her more than anyone had ever loved before.

“Do you think you would be better in another room, Kendrick?”’ she asked towards dawn. “Somewhere that doesn’t have these associations?”’

For a moment, Kendrick brightened. “There’s the old nursery at the top of the house. I slept there when I was little with my nanny.” Kendrick’s face had relaxed; clearly he was remembering a golden age. “It’s quite a big room and it clears the trees so you can see the river.”