Kynaston held out a twilight blue artificial silk handkerchief which went with the suit.
‘Be strong, Griselda,’ he said. ‘Soon we shall be alone together, and I shall be needing you.’ Lena waved to her slightly, affectionately. Kynaston had presumably not yet identified Doris. Or perhaps she was there by his invitation? Griselda could not see how else she had learned of the event; and had always understood that the bridgroom’s guests at weddings consist predominantly of his past passions. Then she realized the answer: Lotus.
‘Bride and bridegroom stand. All the rest sit,’ bawled the sacristan, his voice filled with the wind off Newmarket Heath.
Kynaston, in the hope of checking her tears, introduced Griselda to a small smooth man in a morning suit made splendid with orders and decorations.
‘Colonel Costa-Rica, darling,’ he said. ‘The Orinocan Commercial Attachй.’
Griselda transferred her handkerchief and extended the appropriate hand. The Colonel fell upon it with his lips. His movement was like that of a closing knife. His cold eyes looked straight through Griselda’s handkerchief and into her shivering soul.
‘Enchantй mademoiselle. Et trиs bonne chance.’ When he spoke, his lips scarcely moved.
‘English is the only European language the attachй doesn’t speak,’ explained Kynaston.
‘Excusez-moi?’
‘Yes, certainly. Mais oui,’ replied Griselda in reasurrance. The Colonel sat down and began to brood upon the state of trade.
‘All set,’ roared the sacristan. The bride and bridegroom were propelled forward to where the Registrar stood waiting, his book of runes in one hand, a small flask of eucalyptus in the other; there was a sound of military orders in the fog outside, and of rifle butts crashing on paving stones: and the greatest moment in Griselda’s life had begun.
For one presumably experienced in his work, the Registrar seemed strangely dependent upon his little book. That being so, moreover, it was difficult to understand why he had never acquired a larger volume with better print. As it was, the limited natural visibility and archaic lighting (by gas produced from coal) clearly caused him much distress. He peered at the minute screed, varying its distance from his eyes, and every now and then looking upwards at the burner above his head with a demeanour which in another would have passed for distaste. Sometimes he stopped for several seconds in the middle of a passage or sentence. Punctuation, indeed seemed a complete stumbling-block. In consequence of all this, however, the literal dreadful moaning of the words merged happily into a synthesis properly evocative of a half-forgotten rite. Behind the Registrar the east wall of the building was crudely painted with admonitions headed ‘Rules and Regulations Touching the State and Condition of Holy Matrimony,’ varied by long closely printed notices signed on behalf of the Home Secretary. The stained glass window above the Registrar’s head depicted a bygone Chairman of the London County Council kneeling before the goddess of fertility, represented traditionally. Doris’s intermittent sobs offered an emotional continuo. Every now and then the heating system rumbled towards animation. The Registrar forged ahead, his mind on higher things. Regarding the grave mysterious figure, all goodness and wisdom, and his richly significant background, Griselda remembered that this was something she must never forget, even though she had great-grandchildren. Again she shuddered slightly. The congregation sympathetically attributed it to the weather.
Suddenly there was an interruption. The great pitch-pine doors parted and someone entered with firm, stamping tread. Griselda could not but look over her shoulder. It was a fine figure of a man in naval uniform. Before seating himself in the back row of chairs (next to Lotus), he caught Griselda’s eye and waved breezily. Griselda stiffly inclined her head; then returned her attention to the service. Could this officer be responsible for the martial clatter outside? Possibly he was the next bridegroom, though he seemed elderly.
In the end the Registrar with a final ejaculation of disgust, decided to abbreviate the liturgy; Kynaston produced the ring in excellent order (he had been wearing it on his forefinger); Griselda made a rash and foolish promise; and all was over. The ring was much too big for Griselda’s particularly slender finger: it might have been made for a giantess, indeed probably had been.
‘Sign please,’ said the sacristan producing a mouldering book from under the front row of chairs.
‘Have your witnesses managed to get here?’ enquired the Registrar.
‘They’re all our witnesses,’ exclaimed Kynaston full of the beauty of the ceremony and gesticulating expansively. Instantly he was deflated. ‘Dad!’ he cried and looked quickly round him. The naval officer was thrusting forwards through the congratulatory crowd.
‘Bravo, my boy,’ he cried. ‘I never thought you had it in you.’ His hand was extended. He was examining Griselda closely and added ‘Indeed I never thought it.’
‘Hullo, Dad,’ said Kynaston. In his blue suit, he looked quite green.
‘Take your Father’s hand and say no more. Remember I’m waiting to kiss the bride.’ He wrenched his son’s hand.
‘You must introduce me, Geoffrey,’ said Griselda hastily.
‘My Father. Admiral Sir Collingwood Kynaston. This is Griselda, Dad.’
‘Delighted to meet my daughter.’ He kissed her overwhelmingly. ‘My boy and I have fought like tigers ever since he was born, but that’s all over and you mustn’t believe a thing he says about me.’
Griselda thought it might be discourteous to say that Kynaston had never mentioned him (as was the case); and all the witnesses were waiting to sign.
‘A good hard cudgelling on both sides hurts neither,’ affirmed the Admiral, scrawling his name ahead of the rest. ‘And the old man’s made full amends. Wait for them. Just wait.’
Freddy Fisher took the opportunity to ask for the Admiral’s autograph. ‘I only collect leaders of the services,’ he said.
‘Lucky to find one who can write,’ replied the Admiral jovially. ‘Is that one of your bridesmaids, my dear?’ he enquired of Griselda, indicating Lotus.
In the end everyone had signed and the Registrar had come forward with his account.
‘Leave it me,’ said the Admiral. ‘It’s only once in a man’s life that his boy gets himself spliced and he must expect to pay the piper. Though that reminds me,’ he continued, while the Registrar stood respectfully in the background, ‘what about you, my dear? Are you an orphan?’
‘My Father died of Spanish influenza,’ replied Griselda. ‘I never knew him. From my Mother I have long been estranged.’
‘Lone wolf, eh? See yourself in the same galley with Geoffrey. Never mind. You’ll grow. Being a widower I’m always persuasive with women of my own generation.’ He made a handsome settlement on the Registrar, who became profuse with improbable felicitations before retiring into his vestry.
‘Now then,’ said the Admiral. ‘Just you see.’
The sacristan threw back the big shining doors and Griselda saw. Outside, drawn up in the fog, were two lines of bluejackets. As the doors opened, an order rang out, and they crossed carbines.
‘I really must protest,’ said Guillaume, his face grey with inner conflict, ‘at the use of force. Surely the occasion is sacramental?’
The Admiral only beamed at him. Then he glared at Kynaston.
‘Well, my boy, get on with it. Give her your arm, like a man. If you don’t, I shall.’
The reconciliation between father and son seemed already strained.
Kynaston was white to the finger-nails. For a moment there was silence, broken by one of the bluejackets tittering.
‘No, Dad,’ cried Kynaston. ‘I refuse.’ He gathered strength. ‘Come on Griselda. Let’s find another way out of this place.’