Tales From a Hen Weekend (10 page)

‘I thought it was the other blokes coming home, ringing the bell,’ he went on, ignoring me. Once again, he looked over his shoulder, and then dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I don’t think you ought to come in, Marge. It’s the night before the wedding, isn’t it. We’re not supposed to see each other.’

‘Come on, Marge,’ said Shirley. ‘Let’s go back and get a taxi. Terry’s right. We shouldn’t have come.’

‘That’s
rubbish
!’ I exclaimed, getting annoyed. ‘It’s just stupid superstition, and anyway, I need to go to the toilet. I’ll wet myself if I have to walk back to the station now! Come on, Terry, let us in, for God’s sake. We’ll sleep in the lounge if you’re worried about stupid old wives’ tales. We can pretend we didn’t see each other! Only we can’t afford a taxi and…’

‘Who’s that, Tel?’

The girl was very tall – taller than him, I remember noticing – with long, long, straight black hair that fell over her shoulders and down to her waist. She was wearing his dressing gown. It was navy blue with his initials on the pocket. I’d bought it for him for Christmas. It would always smell of her now. She reached out to put her arms round him and the dressing gown gaped open. She was naked underneath.

‘What’s going on, Tel?’ she asked, stroking his arm as she stared at us.

I was struck dumb.

‘It’s all right, Barb,’ he said. His voice was shaking. His eyes looked wildly from me to her. It wasn’t all right at all, and he knew it.

‘Terry,’ began Shirley. ‘Terry, what the
fucking hell
are you playing at?’

‘Oi, bitch!’ said the girl, pushing past Terry to square up to Shirley on the doorstep. ‘Who you talking to? Watch yer fucking mouth! Who do you two think you are anyway, turning up ’ere in the middle of the fucking night?’

‘I’m Margie,’ I said, faintly, finding my voice at last. ‘I’m Margie,
Barb
, that’s who I am. I’m supposed to be marrying
Tel
in the morning. And I paid for that
fucking
dressing gown. So you can get out of it before I rip it off you, and then you can sling your bloody hook.’

It should have been satisfying to watch her turn on Terry and slap him round the face, shrieking at him that he should have told her he was engaged. It should have been even more satisfying to see the red welt come up on his white cheek as she stormed upstairs, stomped back down with her clothes on and tottered off down the street in her four-inch high stilettos.

But it wasn’t. I cried all the way home in the taxi. Some bloody hen night! Some bloody husband.

And that was the start of my married life. Now can you see where I’m coming from? Can you understand why I get a little bit depressed thinking about weddings and hen parties?

I’m sorry, Katie darling. But is it any wonder I like a little bit of a drink now and again?

‘Why on earth did you still marry him?’

I look round, startled. It’s Helen, her voice surprisingly gentle, reaching across the pub table to touch Mum on the hand. I didn’t realise she’d been listening.

‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ says Mum, staring into her empty glass. She’s sobered up completely. Understandably. ‘It’s harder than you think, cancelling everything, and all at the last minute like that. Can you imagine it? The embarrassment – all the family getting upset.’

‘But surely…’ I shake my head, unable to take this in. I mean – look – you
wouldn’t,
would you! You find another woman in his house, in his fucking
dressing gown
, and you still go ahead and walk down the aisle with him the next day? I think
not
! ‘Did you not even
want
to call it off?’ I suppose I could understand it if the wedding was the next year, or even the next month – time to think about it, talk it over, kick him in the bollocks a few times, whatever, but – the
next day
? ‘Mum? Just because of the family being embarrassed? It was your
life
!’

‘I know, I know!’ she says, fiercely. ‘Of course I wanted to call it off. I was shaking with rage by the time I got home that night – I’d done all my crying in the taxi, on poor Shirley’s shoulders. I poured myself a whisky from the bottle my dad kept in the sideboard for special occasions. On top of the booze I’d had during the evening, it went straight to my head, but I drank a second one straight down. I sat in the lounge, trying to decide what to do. To be honest, the thought of telling everyone – my parents, all my friends – the vicar! – was almost as bad as the thought of going ahead and marrying him. When Terry phoned, he was crying. Nice touch. Apparently he’d already tried earlier, before I got in, and woke up my dad, who thought he was drunk and wasn’t very amused. “He’s going to be a lot less amused,” I said, “When I tell him why I’m calling off the wedding!” He sobbed, begged me to give him another chance…’

‘Huh! He’d never have got another chance with
me
,’ says Helen through gritted teeth. ‘He’d have been lucky if he ever walked again.’

‘Yes, I’m sure!’ retorts Mum. ‘But you’re a strong, confident woman, Helen – I was stupid, and young, and naïve. And I believed everything he said.’

‘What
did
he say?’ I ask her quietly.

I feel light-headed with the shock of all this. I can’t believe Mum’s kept it to herself all these years. Why hasn’t she told Lisa or me about it? If my dad was still around I think I’d kill him. Kind of difficult as we haven’t seen or heard of him for about fifteen years. The bastard.

‘Oh, you can imagine. That it was a one-off. She came on to him, he was drunk, he didn’t know what he was doing. It didn’t mean anything; he was sorry, ashamed, disgusted with himself. It’d never happen again, he’d make it up to me, he’d never look at another woman as long as he lived…’

‘Yeah, right,’ says Helen, angrily. ‘Typical.’

‘And did he?’ I ask. My voice comes out a bit croaky. I’m not sure I really want to hear the answer. ‘Did he ever do it again?’

‘Of course he did it again,’ she says without looking at us. ‘All the bloody time. Every year a different girl. Every time a different excuse. Always the same old song – please forgive me, never again, blah de blah de blah. It took me eight years to realise I was being made a bloody fool of. He was still crying and protesting that he loved me and he’d never do it again when the divorce came through.’

‘You always told us you got divorced because you just argued too much.’

‘What did you expect me to do?’ she retorted. ‘How could I tell two little girls that their daddy was a lying, heartless, adulterous pig?’

This is a lovely thing to find out about on your hen party.

I feel sorry for Mum, of course I do, but at the same time, I can’t believe she’s chosen now, of all times, to tell me about this shit. How the bloody hell is
this
supposed to cheer me and encourage me on my way to wedded bliss?
Your father was a lying pig who cheated on me the whole time we were together. Can’t wait to see you married, darling.

‘Sorry, love,’ she says, a bit shakily, blinking at me as if there are a million tears in her eyes that are never going to be shed. ‘Me and my big mouth. Take no notice. Forget I spoke.’

‘Oh – just like that?! That’s great, that is.’

‘What’s the matter, Katie?’ calls Lisa, hearing me raising my voice.

I hesitate. I think this’d be one home truth too many for Lisa at the moment, after all her own outpourings last night. We’ll have to talk about it another time. I catch Mum’s eye and shake my head.

‘Nothing!’ I tell Lisa, trying to sound cheery. ‘Just having a laugh about something down this end of the table.’ Yeah, a laugh a minute, we are.

‘And what’s all this about you liking a drink?’ I ask Mum a bit crossly when everyone else is chatting again. ‘Should I be worried about this, Mum? What are you trying to tell me?’

‘Nothing. Don’t be silly; of course you shouldn’t be worried, dear. For goodness’ sake! Anyone would think I was an alcoholic!’ She gives a silly peel of laughter. Lisa looks up again and frowns at me.

I don’t want to start anything while we’re all intent on tipping as much alcohol as possible down our throats this weekend. It’s hardly appropriate.

‘As long as you’re all right, Mum,’ I tell her, quietly. ‘Only – for God’s sake! You’ve worried the life out of me now, with all this. Are you depressed? Do you think you should be seeing someone?’

‘No, Katie, I’m not depressed. This all happened a long time ago. I’m over it. All I’m saying is that I like a little drink occasionally when I get fed up with myself. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

‘I suppose not. I just wish you hadn’t chosen today to tell me this stuff.’

‘It’s your hen party!’ she says, looking at me with alarm as if she’s only just realised. ‘I’ve ruined it.’

‘No, you haven’t. But can we
please
talk about something else now? Something more cheerful?’

‘Your wedding?’ She smiles.

‘No. Not that, at the minute. Let’s talk about Dublin. Or music. Or books. Or the political situation in the Middle East.’

Anything but marriage, at the moment! Anything!

It’s late in the afternoon by the time we get back to the hotel.

‘If I never have meself another comfort in this life,’ says Jude as we go up to our room, ‘Sure I swear to God I won’t complain, if I can just have a nice cup of tea and a hot bath.’

‘Me too. And an hour’s kip under the duvet. Jesus, I can’t believe I actually brought
Love in the Afternoon
with me, and expected to read any of it. I’m too tired to even focus my eyes properly.’

‘
Love in the Afternoon
? Would you look at the lot of us? We look more like Death in the Afternoon.’

We’re giggling together as we stumble into the room, fighting over running the bath and making a cup of tea.

Thank God for friends, I think to myself, watching Jude padding about the room getting her oils and potions ready for her bath. Within less than twenty-four hours I’ve found out my sister’s having an affair and my father was a cheating bastard who ruined my mum’s life. Times like this, friends seem like a very good option indeed.

An hour or so later, I feel a lot better. It’s amazing what a bath, a couple of cups of tea and a nap can do; and I’ve even managed to read the first page of
Love In The Afternoon
, although so far (and experience has taught me it isn’t fair to judge a book on its first page any more than its cover), I have to say that it doesn’t seem to have much to do with either love, or afternoons, but presumably that’s all to come. The reason I haven’t got any further than the first page is that every time I try to concentrate, I find my mind drifting and I start remembering things.

Lisa’s wedding, for instance. She had a lovely wedding to Rick The Prick – by all accounts the only really nice day they’ve had together. I remember thinking at the time how nice Mum looked in her sea-green mother-of-the-bride suit, matching hat and shoes, and fixed smile. Now I come to think about it in more detail, was her smile just a little
too
fixed? Certainly she put away a lot of champagne while she was waxing lyrical to everyone about her lovely new son-in-law. She was completely drunk by the end of the reception. She tripped, and almost fell, on her way out to the car when it was time to go home, and blamed it on the new shoes. But then again – come on! Every mother gets a little bit tipsy at their own daughter’s wedding. We were all pretty drunk that day, as far as I can remember.

And look what happened when Charlie was born. Her first grandchild! She was ecstatic when Rick phoned from the hospital with the news. She got out the wine glasses and said we should all drink a toast to the new baby. It seemed like a good idea. That’s what people do: wet the baby’s head. Except in her case, she nearly bloody drowned it. We all laughed about it at the time – Joyce and Ron and I, and even Rick when he called in later on his way home from the maternity ward, to find the new grandma virtually passed out in the chair. We’d all stopped at one drink, but she’d just gone on … and on…. Fair enough, we thought – it’s not every day someone becomes a grandmother. Let her enjoy her little drink.

She did the same thing when Matt and I got engaged. It was low-key. We didn’t want a party or anything like that – bad enough with all the fuss of the wedding. But we called round to show Mum the ring and her instant response was: ‘Let’s get the bottle out! This calls for a celebration!’ And of course by the time we left, she’d celebrated so hard we couldn’t even wake her up to say goodbye.

I’m not worried about any of this. After all, everyone has a few drinks on these occasions, don’t they – I’m hardly one to talk. I was drunk on and off pretty well the whole way through university. I suppose I just assumed that Mum got drunk quickly because she wasn’t used to it.

But now I’m thinking about it – doesn’t she seem to have a glass of wine to hand most of the time when I call round to see her? Doesn’t she always have ‘a little pre-dinner drink’ while she’s cooking the evening meal? As well as the frequent top-ups during and after dinner?

But I’m not at all concerned about that. As she admitted today – she might like a couple of little drinks to cheer her up – doesn’t everyone? But she’s obviously only drinking in moderation, because I can’t remember ever seeing her drunk before, apart from those special family occasions. Everyone gets drunk at those. I’ve never even thought about it before.

So I’m not going to start now.

For God’s sake! As if there wasn’t enough to worry about! This is
not
a problem. OK? Just keep reminding me, if I seem to be reading too much into it. I’ve got enough problems of my own without taking on those of the whole family right now.

Or maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe worrying about everyone else’s problems is stopping me thinking too much about Matt.