Chapter Nineteen - James
623 Words
Chapter Nineteen - James
The brand new Mr and Mrs Dougherty arrive at their home, and the venue for their wedding reception, in style, chauffeured by Ross in Richard’s Merc.
The weather has taken a turn which, depending on your point of view, could be better, could be worse. Snow falls steadily, settling to cover the wasteland of mud and construction works. Despite everything still going on, the smooth white blanket makes equals of the beauties of the river, the ugliness of pallets and crates swaddle-wrapped in plastic, the skeleton-treed woodland across the water, and the stashed machinery, timber, piping and ducting.
Someone has run ahead, clearing the boardwalk for Kirstie. She picks her way over the boards, Beth holding an umbrella, keeping the snow from the bride. Charlotte lifts the edge of her dress from the side, Mitch to the rear, keeping the lovely thing clear of the ground.”
“It shouldn’t be too bad,” comments Ryan. “It’s only snow.”
Mitch’s reply is acerbic. “Have you noticed, Ryan, that if you wear a dark suit, all the dust around you is white. But put on a white shirt, and the dirt miraculously turns black. Believe me, if the dress trails in the snow, it’ll be filthy.”
The wind gusts, and Kirstie’s dress lifts in all-the-way style, tugging free from Mitch and Charlotte, and we all get a brief taste of what her ‘something blue’ is…
Nice garter…
… before it is hastily tugged back down where it belongs…
Another gust: snowflakes swirl, nature’s own confetti. Then, Beth shrieks as the umbrella is whisked from her hand and carried away, bobbing up high like some orphan of Mary Poppins, until the breeze drops again and it plops down into the river.
The remainder of the short journey to the entrance goes without mishap, but a few yards short, Ryan cups under Kirstie’s elbow. “I have to carry you over the threshold.”
Kirstie’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times. “Um… you sure about this, Ryan?”
He straightens his tie, adjusts his cuffs. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s been made very clear to me that I take second place today, but this qualifies as Groom’s Prerogative.”
Behind the pair, glances are exchanged all around. Kirstie is a tall girl and while by no means overweight…
With a theatrical bow, Ryan scoops up under his bride, sweeping her up into his arms…
… and staggers… “f**k, Kirstie. You weigh a ton.”
“I do not. I lost weight for this dress.”
“Don’t be rude,” says Mitch. “That girl hasn’t a spare ounce on her. I know. I fitted her. If you choose a wife nearly the same size you are, you have to expect to make a bit of effort.”
Ryan’s effort is making a beetroot of his face. Tottering, he takes a step toward the door, then another.
Klempner, beside me, murmurs, “Should we offer to help?”
“Absolutely not,” hisses Michael.
Richard strides past us. “Let me open that door ahead of you.”
From somewhere behind us, an Irish accent lilts past. “Ry, yer daft fecker. Get the girl inside ‘fore she freezes her t**s off.”
“No, not yet.” A small figure staggers by, a stepladder under one arm, a bag under the other. “We’ll have a photo here, I think.”
I saw her in the church, up in the pulpit with her camera aimed down, catching both service and highlights from the congregation. With her elevated position, I’d not realised that she’s somewhere under five feet high.
“Who's the photographer?” murmurs Michael as she sets up her stepladders, climbs up to the third step and starts madly snapping at the purple-faced Ryan.
“Belle. She runs a small studio in the City. Just round the corner from Luigi's.”
The diminutive woman changes angle, now catching the guests arriving the gathering.
“The photographer?” huffs Klempner. “I thought she’d dropped off the top of the cake.”
*****
- Writer
