The Name I Call Myself (5 page)

Least of my problems.

“Hi Marilyn. I need cake. And a baby to cuddle. Are you busy?”

“I have nine-month-old twins, I'm always busy. Yet never too busy for cake. I'll leave the door on the latch in case I'm feeding. Or just too knackered to get off the sofa.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon tickling fat tummies (Nancy and Pete's, not Marilyn's) and eating millionaire's shortbread, which Marilyn found amusingly appropriate.

Halfway through the afternoon Perry texted to say he'd booked the wedding with HCC.

That led to a wrestling match with Marilyn while she prised my phone away and started typing a reply saying I wanted to get married in Grace Chapel and have my reception at Mirabelli's on the Water.

“Marilyn!” Nancy chose that moment to throw up on her activity centre, allowing me to get the phone back. “I don't care. I just want things over with with as little fuss as possible so I can get on with being Perry's wife.”

“As little fuss as possible? And you see that happening at HCC? Have you met your future mother-in-law Larissa Upperton? Have you been to a committee meeting? Did you not used to work at HCC as events manager? Short-term pain for long-term gain, Faith. That man appears to be bonkers about you. Why do you think he would object?” She paused in her cleaning up of Nancy's sick and waggled the muslin cloth at me.

I waggled my hands back. “Hello? Have
you
met my future mother-in-law Larissa Upperton, the Achilles' heel?”

“You need to come back to the choir with me next week. Get some personal power.”

“You're going back to the choir? Hester didn't even let you sing.” I sat back, surprised.

“I don't care. I liked listening. And my sister doesn't have to know that when I ask her to babysit again. Two hours without my delightful children. Three if you count the journey there and back. And once James is gone again the chance of a breather might be the only thing keeping me from going bananas.”

James, Marilyn's husband, worked as a consultant geologist. This meant frequent long stretches away while he mined for valuable minerals in places like Antarctica or at the bottom of the ocean. Marilyn told me that before the twins had been born, she had found this lonely and frustrating, but coped with it as part of the deal. Judging from the state of the cottage of chaos while James was around, I didn't want to think how she would cope alone with two demanding, exhausting babies added to the equation.

At least she wouldn't have time to feel lonely.

The following Wednesday afternoon, we headed back to Grace Chapel. I'd put my fantasy wedding plans on hold for the week, but this seemed as good an excuse as any to meet with the minister. Assuming, of course, he showed up this time.

We arrived just as the rehearsal started. Hester gave me an unsmiling nod as I slid in beside the other altos. When Marilyn, who had lingered in the corridor to message her sister, sauntered in after me, the choir director's eyebrow twitched. Translate: gobsmacked.

“Good afternoon, Marilyn. I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Well, it's a wonderful surprise then, isn't it?” Marilyn waved at everybody.

“This is a serious choir rehearsal. Last week's open day was a one-off. We don't allow just anyone to sit in.”

“Lucky I'm not just anyone.”

“Please don't make this difficult.”

Marilyn sighed. “All right. I'll go. As long as the choir agree.”

Hester tutted. “Well, I can't think why they would object.”

Marilyn opened up the canvas bag in her hand and took out a tin. Removing the lid, she released the warm, sugary, cinnamon smell of freshly baked apple loaf. Several pairs of eyes darted to the serving hatch, where a plate of plain biscuits sat forlornly on the counter.

Hester pulled her spine even tauter, flaring her nostrils. It was high noon at the O.K. Corral, formidable personality versus homemade cake. Rowan was the first to speak up. “Let her stay, Hester. Apple cake's one of my favourites.”

“It does smell pretty good,” one of the Asian women, Uzma, said.

“I chipped a tooth on one of them biscuits a couple of weeks ago,” an older lady in the soprano section called out. “Look.” She opened her mouth wide and pointed into it. “Can you see it, Millie? There, at the back, next to the gold filling.”

“I can't see it, Janice.” Millie, who walked on two sticks and wore a bobble hat even though it was one of the hottest Septembers on record, peered in.

“There, look.” Janice's words were muffled by her finger, pointing out the hole.

“Ooh, I see it. Right in the middle of your molar. That's a biggie, Janice. You should sue for compensation.”

“No! Not there. A chocolate peanut from the Vicky Centre market did that one. You know, that stall with the man who wears the monkey T-shirt. It used to sell peanut brittle, but then that dog from the –”

“LADIES!”

Janice and Millie snapped to attention at Hester's command.

“There is no time to discuss this any further. We are already four minutes late. Put the tin in the kitchen and sit down
quietly
at the back. We shall take a vote at coffee time.”

“Probably a good idea,” Melody, whom I had sat next to last week, whispered in her lilting Jamaican accent, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We can see if it's any good before we vote.”

Hester gave another nod, at the same time making a tiny circling gesture with her hands. Everybody stood up.

“Eyes closed!” We closed our eyes, including Marilyn. Then, for the next section of the rehearsal, we did no singing at all.

Accompanied by the soft notes of a violin wafting out from a music player, Hester began to talk. She first told us to take a few deep breaths in and slowly release them, then listen to our bodies.

“What is it telling you today? What can you hear? Is it overworked, exhausted? Uptight and crunched up? Hurting? Weighed down? Sluggish? Does your body feel loved? Whole? Vibrant? Breathe in some love for yourself, ladies. Sigh out that tension. Out, out, ooouuut! Release the troubles and the to-do list. Let it go. Breathe in strength! Let go of your fear. Blow out all that anxiety and angst. Blow it out! That's it, keep blowing…”

About halfway through, as we sighed out all the things we didn't want to have, and be, and breathed in the stuff we wished we did, I felt an overwhelming urge to laugh. What was this? What on earth was I doing here, surrounded by strangers, with my eyes closed, “blowing out disappointment”? I didn't need this. Fine, my life had some issues. But I coped with them pretty well. And how could I be disappointed when I had never expected life to be anything but hard?

And then, suddenly, I felt two warm hands on my shoulders, and realized the choking, hiccupping sobbing was from me. Big, fat, snotty sobs. Like the dam of tears just broke where the leak had formed a week earlier in the wedding shop. I didn't even know why, or where it came from. Melody held me, whispering words of comfort as she rocked me back and forth and stroked my hair. By the time I'd finished, wiped my face, and blown my nose a couple of times, the rest of the choir had moved on to vocal warm-ups, la-ing up and down the scale.

Melody patted my arm. “How do you feel?”

Strange question to ask a woman who had spent the last ten minutes howling. I felt self-conscious, bewildered, and worn out. But not as much as I expected. Mostly, I felt sort of clean.

“What is this place?” I muttered. This place where people see into my soul and guess my deepest feelings, and somehow I'm safe to feel them?

Melody laughed, a deep rich melody. “This is the house of grace.”

Following the warm-up, where Hester insisted we stand, breathe, and start to think and sound like singers – “
chins up, lungs open, shoulders back!
” – we moved on to the piece the choir had been working on last time. I had heard some of the alto part, but not all, and had no idea what most of the words were, my knowledge of Latin being non-existent. Hester asked Melody to coach me through it for thirty minutes, and I did all right until we moved back to singing all together. The sopranos, who sang the main tune, kept confusing my brain and knocking me off course. Hester rapped her knuckles on top of the piano.

“Faith! Stop being distracted by women you cannot compare to and were not created to be like! You are an alto – learn from other altos. Listen to them, tune in to them. Focus, focus, focus! You spend too much time worrying about the wrong things, eyes and ears wandering. Find your tune, lady, and hold on to it. From the beginning, last time!”

I tried. I tried to ignore the sopranos with their trills and piercingly beautiful dipping and soaring, focus, focus, focusing in on the depth of the rich, resonant voices around me, earth and deep water, strong and sure. And for a moment – maybe a line, a little longer – I got it. I joined these women in their song.

Wow.

Wouldja believe it?

I helped create something beautiful.

And I would not start crying about it. We'd had enough of that for one day, thank you.

Seriously, though. That was something else.

Rehearsal over, nobody mentioned my earlier “moment” during coffee time. Neither did Hester mention a vote regarding Marilyn, once she'd eaten a tiny, perfectly square piece of her scrumptious cake. Dylan appeared a couple of minutes later, and I tried to ignore the uncomfortable urge to go and check my face for blotches in the women's toilets. Many years of struggle had drummed all potential vanity out of me. I didn't want my new millionaire-fiancée lifestyle to start pumping it back in. I certainly didn't want to feel the need to impress the chapel caretaker, like a desperate housewife swooning over every handsome, rugged man who pays her attention and looks her in the eye when he asks her how she is, as if he actually means it. I fiddled with my engagement ring until the urge scuttled away back where it belonged, deep in the corner of my imagination.

After a couple of minutes of small talk, Dylan asked me about the wedding.

“Did you make any decision about using the chapel?”

“Um, no. Not yet.”

“I suppose your fiancé wants to have a look at it.”

“Mmm.”

“Do you have any more questions? I could show you around again, if that helps.”

“No, thanks. I do need to see the minister though, to see if it's okay to get married here when we don't actually come to the church. And if the date's free.”

“You've set a date?”

“Yes. August.” I still wasn't quite ready to declare the actual day.

“Next year? Not long, then. And the middle of wedding season. You might want to get in there quick.”

“Well. If the minister shows up, as Hester said he always does after choir practice, I'll ask him. Although he wasn't here last week. Unless he's so unnoticeable I didn't spot him. Not known for their charisma, generally, vicars, are they?”

Oh dear. I seemed powerless to prevent the torrent of awkward wedding-related verbal diarrhoea…

“Usually quite mousy. Sort of hunched. A bit insipid, like watery custard.” I was, in fact, merely describing the minister who showed our class round the chapel fifteen years ago. I didn't actually think all men of the cloth fit the soap opera stereotypes, but I couldn't stop. Dylan made me nervous, looking me in the eye like that. Talking about my wedding made me nervous. When I get nervous my brain gives up and my mouth takes over. “All polite and bland. Maybe he blended into the background. Like a chameleon! A watery, hunched…” I stopped as a horrible realization dawned. “Oh no. It's
you
, isn't it?”

Dylan looked at me. His eyes were a Celtic blue – bright and clear in contrast to his pirate's stubble and shaggy black hair. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he clenched it.

For a brief moment I hoped the combined heat of my hideous embarrassment and Dylan's steady gaze would cause me to melt, so I could ooze between a crack in the floorboards.

“I am so sorry. I didn't actually mean that. I mean, I know not all ministers are like custard.”
Did I really say that?
“I'm sure most aren't, even. Hardly any. None! I bet no ministers even slightly resemble custard. At all…” I petered off into a mortified squeak.

Dylan took his eyes off me and stared hard at his shoes. Navy blue Converse. Now, surely
nobody
would guess that a man in those shoes could be a minister? Aren't they supposed to be on a higher plane, above all earthly things like designer labels?

“I suppose you won't want me getting married here now. Totally understandable. You don't want to be marrying someone who's prejudiced against ministers. Ministerist. Shouldn't let them in the chapel, really. And what would God think? You're like, his man on the ground, and I've just called you insipid, in his house of worship. I'm a bit scared, actually, that I've offended God. I think I might see if Marilyn's ready to go home.”