Page 2 of Lean On Me
‘No. She never got married.’
‘Will it fit an Upperton wedding?’ Perry’s family, the Uppertons, would be planning an extravagant guest list.
‘Well, given that this is my fantasy wedding, in which the sum total of guests equals five, including your family, I think we’ll manage it.’
She nodded her head. ‘Excellent. I need plenty of room since my body seems to have forgotten that it no longer requires the space for two extra people inside it. Let’s have a butcher’s.’
Marilyn must have been curious about my lack of fantasy wedding guests, and why four-fifths of them were made up of afamily I had only known for a few weeks. But she didn’t ask. And I loved her for it.
I tried the front door, which was locked. We could see lights on, however, in the adjacent hall, so after knocking and waiting for a couple of minutes, we walked round and rang the bell by the side door. A moment later, it opened, and an older woman with hair like a shiny, black helmet, a black pencil skirt and a starchy, cream blouse stood in the doorway. She looked us up and down, then at the path behind me.
‘Is it just you?’
‘Um. Yes.’
‘There isn’t anyone else?’
‘I don’t think so.’ We checked behind us, to be sure.
‘No one at all?’ She sounded incredulous now, her face stiff, lips barely moving. ‘Well, you’d better come in. The others are waiting.’ She turned around and marched off. Slightly at a loss, we followed her up the steps, through a dark porch and into the church side hall. It had been redecorated since I had visited as a young girl. The cracking plaster had gone, exposing soft-pink brickwork covered in bright paintings of outdoor scenes. Instead of the tired carpet, the floor now gleamed with light oak boards, and the rows of chairs lined up in the front half of the room were no longer cheap plastic but a combination of wood and red-cushioned seats. The woman strode to the front of the room, coming to a stop next to an upright piano. About a dozen other people sat dotted along the first three rows.
‘Well, come along then. You’ve already missed the warm-up. Find a seat, please.’
‘Excuse me?’ I asked, as Marilyn plonked herself down on one of the chairs, shuffling about to get comfortable as she winked at the person beside her.
The helmet woman ignored me, addressing the wooden beams above our heads. ‘Everybody back in positions. From the beginning, Rowan.’
An older teenager, presumably Rowan, cleared her throat. As the rest of the room stood up, Marilyn gestured for me to move next to her before opening her bag and pulling out a packet of toffees.
Helmet woman blew out a large puff of air. ‘When you’re ready, Rowan!’
Rowan, five foot two inches of scrawny nothing, jerked her head at Marilyn, who offered her a toffee. ‘Who’s that, then? I don’t wanna do it with them gawpin’ at me.’
Helmet closed her eyes, momentarily. ‘You know this is our open afternoon. Would it make you feel better if our new recruits came to the front and introduced themselves? Then perhaps we can start. Seven minutes late.’
I answered from where I was. ‘Um, sorry, but we’re not here for this. We wanted to look at the church. I’m getting married.’
She stared at me for a good long moment, eyes hovering on the massive chunk of rock I wore on my ring finger before seeking out Marilyn. ‘You – put that disgusting bag away. No food until we’re finished. None of that fake food ever. Now, repeat after me.’ She let out a long, high, clear note that bounced off the stained-glass window and rattled our eardrums.
Marilyn stood up. About half a semitone lower – in other words, painfully flat – she sang, ‘I’ll eat fake food if I want to, thank you very muuuuuch!’
Helmet waited for her to finish, and turned to me. ‘Aaaahhhhhh,’ she sang, low like sweet, dark treacle.
I looked back at her. Really?
‘Come on. Put that pre-wedding stress into it. Aaaaahhhhhhh.’
She marched up to me as she sang the note, eyes piercing beneath beetling brows.
I shifted about and glanced over at Marilyn, who smiled at me and stuck another toffee in her mouth. ‘Aahh.’
‘Louder! Come on. You’ve got more to give than that!’
‘Aaahhh.’ I upped my volume, minutely.
Helmet stood about four inches in front of me, and thrust her face forwards. ‘Let go of your tension!’ she sang. All on the same deep note. ‘From here, here and here.’ She pointed to my shoulders, the centre of my chest, and my stomach. ‘La, la, la, la, let it goooooo!’
Having a stranger stick her finger in my face and sing accusations about my stress levels (however true) did stoke my inner furnace. I had learned how to be tough. To be a survivor. I could happily have kicked my mother-in-law to the kerb weeks ago. Gone back to a life of grot and grime and struggling to keep my head above water rather than compromise my independence. But it wasn’t about me. I would shut my mouth, swallow my anger, scoop up all my doubts, and carry them down the aisle dressed in a dishrag if it kept my brother alive.
