Mark Haddon - A Spot Of Bother

He had to do it now. “I’m afraid-”

But David interrupted, saying, “How’s the rest of life?” and George’s head was starting to spin a little and David sounded so earnest and so caring that George had to fight back the urge to confess to David that he had cut himself with a pair of scissors and ended up in hospital after finding his wife having sexual intercourse with another man.

He realized that he was not going to ask David to leave. He did not have the strength. Morally or physically. If he tried to eject David he would probably cause a commotion and embarrass Katie. Maybe doing nothing was for the best. And surely today, of all days, was one during which he should put his own feelings to one side.

“George?” asked David.

“Sorry?”

“I was asking how things were going,” said David.

“Fine,” said George. “They’re fine.”

Katie pushed the salmonout of picking range.

She quite liked the idea of ending her wedding day not feeling bloated, and she wanted to leave a bit of space for the tiramisu.

Ray was idly fondling her leg under the table. To his left Mum and Alan were talking about hellebores and ornamental brassicas. To her right Barbara was telling Dad about the joys of caravanning. Dad looked very happy indeed, so he was presumably thinking about something else at the same time.

They were sitting about six inches higher than everyone else. It was like something off the telly. The waitresses in their white jackets. The clink of posh cutlery. The little rumble of canvas.

It was weird seeing David Symmonds seated on the far side of the marquee, chatting to Mona and dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. She’d pointed him out to Ray and now she was going to ignore him, like she was ignoring the barking from Eileen and Ronnie’s dog which had been relocated to a nearby garden and was mightily pissed off about the fact.

She licked her fingers and cleaned the bread crumbs from her side plate.

Tony and Jamie were still holding hands very publicly at the table. Which was sweet. Even Mum thought so. Ray’s parents seemed oblivious. Maybe their eyesight wasn’t up to scratch. Or maybe all men held hands in Hartlepool.

Dad touched her arm. “How’s tricks?”

“Tricks is good,” said Katie. “Tricks is very good.”

The tiramisu arrived and it was a bit of an anticlimax, frankly. But the chocolates that were served with the coffee were fantastic. And when Jacob came to snuggle in her lap he was more than a little disappointed to find that she’d already eaten hers (Barbara valiantly surrendered her own to keep the peace).

Then there was a loud rap on the table, the chatter subsided and Ed got to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is traditional at weddings for the best man to stand up and tell crude stories and offensive jokes and make everyone feel really uncomfortable.”

“Quite right,” shouted Uncle Douglas.

Nervous laughter ran round the marquee.

“But this is a modern wedding,” said Ed. “So I’m going to say some nice things about Katie and some nice things about Ray. I’m going to read a few telegrams and say a few thank-yous. Then Sarah, Katie’s best woman, is going to stand up and tell crude stories and offensive jokes and make everyone feel really uncomfortable.”

More nervous laughter ran round the marquee.

Jacob sucked his thumb and fiddled with her wedding ring, and Ray put his arm round her and said, quietly, “I love you, wife.”

George sipped athis dessert wine.

“Anyway, she dropped the earlobe,” said Sarah. “So this policeman has to poke around in the footwell. And I don’t know how many of you ever sat in that Fiat Panda, but you could lose, like, a whole dog on the floor of that car. Apple cores. Cigarette packets. Biscuit crumbs.”

Judy was holding a napkin over her mouth. George was unsure whether she was trying to suppress laughter or preparing to vomit.

Katie’s friend was surprisingly good at public speaking. Though George found it hard to believe the Paul Harding story. Was it really possible that a young man could climb out of Katie’s bedroom window, fall from the kitchen roof and break his ankle without George knowing? Perhaps it was. So many things seemed to have been kept from him or simply escaped his notice.

He took another sip of the dessert wine.

Jamie and Tony were still holding hands. He had absolutely no idea how he was meant to react to this. Only a few months ago he would have stopped it happening to prevent other people being offended. But he was less sure of his opinions now, and less sure of his ability to stop anything happening.

His grip on the world was loosening. It belonged to the young people now. Katie, Ray, Jamie, Tony, Sarah, Ed. As it should do.

He did not mind growing old. It was foolish to mind growing old. It happened to everyone. But that did not make it painless.

He wished only that he commanded a little more respect. Perhaps it was his own fault. He recalled spending some time that morning lying in a ditch. It did not seem like a terribly dignified activity. And if one did not act with dignity, how could one command respect?

He leant over and took hold of Jacob’s hand and squeezed it gently, thinking how alike they were, both of them circling in some outer orbit, thousands of miles away from the bright center where the decisions were made and the future was shaped. Though they were moving in opposite directions, of course, Jacob toward the light and himself away from it.

Jacob’s hand did not respond. It remained limp and lifeless. George realized that his grandson was asleep.

He let go of Jacob’s hand and emptied his wineglass.

The blunt truth was that he had failed. At pretty much everything. Marriage. Parenthood. Work.

He never did start painting again.

Then Sarah said, “…a few words from the father of the bride,” which took him completely by surprise.

Luckily there was some introductory applause, during which he was able to gather his thoughts. As he did so he recalled the conversation he had had with Jamie before lunch.

He got to his feet and looked around at the guests. He felt rather emotional. Precisely which emotions he felt it was difficult to say. There were a number of different ones, and this in itself was confusing.

He raised a glass. “I would like to propose a toast. To my wonderful daughter, Katie. And to her fine husband, Ray.”

The words, “To Katie and Ray,” were echoed back at him.

He went to sit down again, then paused. It struck him that he was making a kind of farewell performance, that he would never again have sixty or seventy people hanging on his every word. And not to seize this opportunity seemed an admission of defeat.

He straightened up again.

“We spend most of our time on the planet thinking we are going to live forever…”

Jean gripped the edgeof the table.

If she’d been any nearer she could have reached across to grab George’s sleeve and force him back into his seat, but Katie and Ray were in the way and everyone was watching them and she could see no way of intervening without making matters worse.

“As some of you may know, I have not been well recently…”

God in heaven, he was going to talk about harming himself and going to hospital and seeing a psychiatrist, wasn’t he. And he was going to do it in front of pretty much every person they knew. It was going to make Jamie kissing Tony seem like very small beer indeed.

“We all look forward to retiring. Doing the garden properly. Reading those birthday and Christmas books we never got round to reading.” A couple of people laughed. Jean had no idea why. “Shortly after I retired I discovered a small tumor on my hip.”