Page 43 of A Wish For Wilma
Eh, what?Wilma had the advantage of knowing how it would all pan out, but seriously? The lass had just turned twenty, her husband-to-be thirty-two, and you didn’t need to be a relationship expert to see how ill-suited they were. When Charles said ‘Whatever “in love” means’ during their engagement interview, alarm bells had clanged across the nation.
‘Erm, how long have we been courting?’ Wilma kept her voice low as the final members of the congregation took their seats.
‘Courting?’ Reginald cocked a caterpillar-like eyebrow. ‘My dear, I asked you to stand in for my wife, Priscilla. She’s not a robust woman. Prone to the vapours, if you know what I mean.’
If Wilma had slipped back in time, old Reggie had once inhabited the Victorian era.The vapours?Still, she didn’t have to pretend they were an actual couple. Not that she’d ever be with someone with all the charisma of a cooling corpse. With Gus by her side, the whole spectacle would have taken on a different hue. She imagined holding his hand — discreetly, of course — and watching the future Princess of Wales take her faltering steps down the aisle.
‘Jeez, that dress needs a good going-over with a steam iron.’ She’d thought it then, and she thought it now. As wedding gowns went, it resembled a crumpled paper bag.
‘Ssh!’ A ferret-faced man on her right gave Wilma a stony stare. She stared back, sure she recognised him from somewhere. Minor royalty, perhaps, or a TV name. A Z-list celebrity, given that he was seated next to Wilma.
The ceremony continued. Poor Diana fluffed her vows, mucking up Charles’ names. Serve him right for having so many. Wilma believed in simplicity. A first name and a surname: anything else was pretentious bollocks. Speaking of names…
‘Do you have a business card?’ she asked Reginald.
Reginald, who probably had several middle names, puffed out an irritated sigh. ‘Not quite the time or place, but…’ He fumbled in his pocket and produced a card with a magician’s flourish.
Wilma took it and turned it over. She noted how smooth her hand was, how age spots hadn’t marred the surface. Veins not bulging and screaming ‘Getting old!’ The things you took for granted until Mother Time stepped in and gave you a wake-up call.
The card read:Reginald Swipe, Investment Banker.‘So you never abbreviate your name?’
‘Wilma, this is not the time or the place to—’
Wilma stifled a chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’
The ceremony over, Wilma wiggled her cramped toes. It seemed to have lasted for ever. Just archaic nonsense, now she was part of it. History took on a different perspective when you had a front-row seat. ‘Do we head off now for a pie and a pint, or do we have invites to the breakfast knees-up?’
As heads of state, European monarchs and a handful of celebrities filed past, Reginald’s lip curled in distaste. ‘You have a very peculiar sense of humour, which I find at odds with such an historic moment.’
Speaking of senses of humour, Wilma grinned as Spike Milligan passed. She’d loved The Goons on the radio back in the day. Her parents had creased up with laughter at the madcap sketches performed by Spike, Harry Secombe and Peter Sellers. And what twisted genius would have the words, ‘I told you I was ill’ engraved on his tombstone?
‘Wilma, I would be happy to escort you to a small gathering arranged by the partners in my firm. It is just a short walk from St Paul’s and I believe there will be canapés and champagne.’
In for a penny, in for a pound.Wilma stood up, relieved that aching joints were not an issue back in the early eighties. Reginald gallantly held out his arm and Wilma took it. Sheesh, it had all the substance of a rickety table leg. Not like Gus’s muscular biceps.Woman, clear your mind and focus on the occasion. Reggie boy might have all the charisma of a squished cockroach, but she’d try to enjoy every remaining moment of this out-of-the-world experience.
‘The Queen and Prince Philip are simply marvellous,’ enthused Reginald, stepping aside at the entrance to The Old Gits’ Club. Not itsactualname, but apt enough, judging by the bunch of braying City types in the hallway. They were probably in their late thirties or early forties, but channelling their inner codger.
‘I’m a fan of Betty but I think Philip’s a bit of a rascal. And I imagine a night with the Queen Mother and Princess Margaret would be a right hoot!’
Reggie tutted, his narrow lips puckering into an approximation of a cat’s bottom. ‘Again, Wilma, your humour goes against the grain, but perhaps they do things differently north of the border. Come to think of it, the Royal Family are particularly fond of Balmoral. Have you ever visited?’
Aye, I’m particularly fond of pointing a gun at a poor bird whilst knee-deep in Scottish mud. Or wrangling corgis. Or horses.
‘Sadly, no. I’m more of a down the pub girl. The simple pleasures: a roaring log fire and a wee dram or two to chase away the dreich Scottish weather.’ Memories of her trip with Gus threatened to derail Wilma. Suddenly, the pleasure of being at an iconic event paled beside the thought of spending time with that magical man. What was he doing right now? Cosying up to his ex, perhaps. Shirley. Wilma had no idea what she looked like. She envisaged a cantilevered bosom, scarlet lips and a way of getting exactly what she wanted. Twisting Gus around her little finger until he didn’t know his arse from his elbow.
‘Wilma, you seem a million miles away.’ Inside the club, she accepted a flute of fizzing champagne. The noise around her seemed amplified. Voices were loud and intrusive, faces swam in and out of her vision. She took a canapé from a tray of food: a tiny biscuit topped with something unrecognisable, sludge-grey with little green bits. Wilma had no idea what it was. She took a nibble before depositing the remains in the accompanying napkin.
‘Not to your taste?’ Reginald waved over another waiter carrying a platter of small pieces of toast topped with meat or paté. ‘Try these, simply delicious.’
Wilma had always been partial to jars of meat paste. She suspected this stuff hadn’t been scooped out of a jar, though. ‘What is it?’
‘Foie gras,’ declared Reggie, helping himself to two pieces. ‘The liver of a goose or duck that has been fattened by force-feeding. Some people consider it cruel, but the dear creatures perished so that we can enjoy this delightful delicacy.’
‘I’ll pass, thank you.’ Wilma looked around in vain for a good old sausage roll or vol-au-vent.
‘It was fortuitous that the Earl of Lochminish bumped into me and suggested we attend the wedding together. Bearing in mind Priscilla’s delicate constitution and your husband’s unfortunate demise — a combine harvester, how tragic — it has worked out rather well. Although, my dear, you must have been in pieces when—’ Reginald blushed beetroot-red at his faux pas. Wilma’s fake landed-gentry husband, chewed up and spat out by a piece of farming equipment.
She assumed a suitably heartbroken expression and snaffled a cheese straw, then washed down the dry pastry with a gulp of champagne. ‘Where do we go from here?’
