The Lover's Children novel Chapter 17

JAMES

Later, when it’s quiet, I talk with Richard. “I wonder if we might have a problem? Or a problem coming at least.”

“Perhaps… You’re not doubting his intentions or motives?”

“No, not at all. He genuinely wanted Mitch, the baby, the life that goes with all of that. But it's hard being a parent, even when you’re cut out for it. And Klempner’s lived a life of almost ceaseless work and activity. Even if you don’t like what he was doing, it was his work. His purpose.”

Richard smiles slightly. “I agree. You don’t want a man like that getting bored. I considered this myself, when you told me he was coming back from Brazil.”

“The devil finds work…”

“Exactly. It’s been several months now. When he first returned, he was still convalescing from imprisonment and extended starvation. James, he’s recovered. And he has far too much energy to risk him having to look for an outlet. Klempner’s… What? Mid to late fifties? He’s not ready for carpet slippers and the Labrador by the fire.”

“So, what do we do about him?”

*****

KLEMPNER

At the front of the church, Ryan, wearing his morning suit, shifts from one foot to the other. He stands by another man, enough like him that it’s obvious they’re brothers.

On the second row back, James sits by Michael, Cara sitting between them, theoretically at least. So far as I can see, she’s made a grab for Michael’s buttonhole and is pulling off the petals. Georgie, sitting to the other side of James, wears her usual starched misery expression.

Music strikes up, the organ reverberating from stone arches. Every head turns as Kirstie makes her way down the aisle, accompanied by, I assume, her father. Ryan twists around. His mouth opens and his eyes widen, then he breaks into a beaming smile.

Mitch, holding a blanket-swaddled Vicky in one arm, is teary. The other grips my fingers. “Oh, doesn't she look beautiful.”

“She does, yes. But you’ve seen her like that before. You must have fitted her for the dress a dozen times. ”

“Yes, but that was different, It was just a fitting. Oh…” She raises fingers to her lips. “Here’s Jenny coming into view behind her…”

“Shush!” From behind us, a dark-haired Mediterranean type scowls at us.

Mitch subsides, but her eyes are glassy as our elder daughter walks slowly into view, also wearing cream, a bunch of white flowers in her hand. Beth, in matching dress, walks with her. I suppose the bridesmaids are not supposed to outshine the bride, but…

… You do look beautiful…

So like your mother…

As they parade by, close too…

Ah… Mitch…

… I see the butterflies flitting through the lace…

Vicky burbles, hiccups and her eyes open. A whimper, then a wail. Mitch jiggles her up and down. “Damn, I hoped she'd sleep through…” The wail grows louder. Mitch starts to rise.

“Give her to me. You enjoy the wedding.”

Outside, holding my daughter, the air is fresh. Vicky is still crying.

Should have brought her bottle…

I try jiggling her, the way Mitch did, with no noticeable effect. I bounce her a little harder, then remember Mitch telling me she couldn’t support her own head yet, and the threats of hellfire and doom raining down on me if I forgot.

So how do you stop them crying?

Some sort of Off switch?

From indoors the sound of a second wail. After a few seconds, James appears, Cara toddling by his side, howling, red-faced, and rubbing at her eyes. The moment they step outdoors, she stops crying. Her face creases up into a smile and she breaks into a run…

… Or tries to, pulling up short against the reins she’s wearing.

James looks a little sheepish. “Weddings aren’t truly occasions for small children.”

“No…” Over Vicky’s howls, I’m losing the power of hearing. “Do you eventually go deaf to this racket?”

“Nope.” He flashes brows. “Nature carefully constructed babies so that when they start bawling, you can’t ignore the noise.”

“How do you stop them?” I jiggle Vicky again. “I came out here so Mitch could watch the wedding. I’m beginning to regret it.”

“Here…” He passes me the reins and Cara charges forward… “Let me. I’ve had more practice at this.” He takes his turn at baby-jiggling. Within seconds, Vicky falls silent, then falls asleep. “See how it’s done?”

“I’d not realised you’re a practitioner in the Black Arts, James.”

He snorts a laugh. “Won’t work on that one though.” He nods down to where Cara is straining against her harness. “She’s old enough that she wants to explore.”

“She can’t, can she.” I lift and James’ baby daughter hangs, her feet a couple of inches from the ground. Kicking and throwing her fists, such as they are, she screams. Another few seconds and she falls silent, looking up to cast the evil eye at me.

I let her down again, and again, she makes a run for it. I lift once more and let her dangle. This time, she’s quiet, so I lower her again. Bottom lip pushing out, she flops to the grass. But at least she’s being quiet.

“Seems to be a simple matter of training,” I comment.

“Hmmm. Yes…” James regards his daughter, sucking at his teeth. “I’ll remember that technique myself.” He looks between baby and toddler. “Since everyone’s quiet again, shall we go back inside?”

“I’ll join you in a minute. I’m enjoying the fresh air.”

He gives me a slow look. “How are you doing?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Because I'd like to know.”

“I’m fine.”

He inclines his head. “Larry, come inside. Join us.”

Still on her reins, Cara levers herself onto all fours, then hauls herself up my trouser-leg. I give a little help with a lift from the reins. Arms outstretched, she totters away, heading for the door. “Da Da Da Da….”

I follow her lead. Inside, a voice echoes from the front. “You may now kiss the bride.”

*****

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… “Fuck, 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 tits 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.”