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Wedding Eve

The family had gathered for the last wedding. Every room of the old house was occupied, the bedrooms crammed with luggage, and the living-rooms filled with people. "Bees in the hive," said Claire to herself as she listened to the chatter. "And I feel despondent, like the queen bee going to lead out the swarm . . . or don't queen bees become despondent? I must look up Maeterlinck about that." Anyway, it was depressing to think that her marriage was the cause of the home being broken up. It was no comfort to reflect that the house would be too big for her parents on their own.

This furious talking was unnerving; she must find Eric and get him to take her to the bottom of the orchard. It would be the last time, too. She went into the drawing-room; nearly everyone was grouped round the trestle table on the far side of the room, admiring or criticising the presents. At the other side of the room her eldest nephew was lying back on the couch and smiling to himself.

"A penny, John?"

"Well, I was just thinking how different everybody is, though we all belong to the one family. No two of us alike. It reminds me of all the different jugs brought to a dairy."

"Yes, that's almost worth a penny, John, but have you seen Eric?"

She glanced into the dining-room, Eric was not there; only her youngest sister Amy holding court. "Amy is always happy in a crowd," was her reflection. She was nearly knocked down in the hall by a younger nephew, Bobbie, who came rushing through from the kitchen, with one of the girl's dolls in his hand. She said to him, "It's time your mother arrived to look after you," and remarked to herself, "Ethel never thinks how much trouble her youngsters are going to cause other people when she leaves them."

She found Eric at last, sitting on the porch steps, smoking and talking with some of the men.

An hour later they returned. The house was blazing with lights downstairs, but there was no sound of movement. "How quiet it is. . . . I wonder what everyone is doing; they are not all in bed yet," said Clare, thinking aloud. "Perhaps they have all got sore throats by now," was Eric's conjecture.

They stepped through the open French window into the drawing-room. For a few seconds Clare thought the room was empty. Then she was able to make out several people with their backs towards her, clustered round the hall doorway. She was puzzled to know what they were doing. First one and then another stood on tiptoe and tried to peer into the hall. Their silent pre-occupation was ominous. Fearfully the crossed the room.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

Everybody near the door started, but for a second or two no one answered. Then a cataract of voices, as everyone began to talk at once. Clare could understand nothing, so she pushed her way into the crowded hall. In the centre was her sister Amy, trying to hold off her father at an arm's length. She was dishevelled and her face wet with tears. With her back to the stair cupboard, it appeared that she was trying to resist her father's efforts to draw her away from it. At the sight of Clare, she rushed forward and seized her violently.

"Oh, Clare," she cried hysterically, "I've ruined your wedding, I've ruined your wedding. Forgive me, Clare, won't you?"

"What has happened?" said Clare, with unnatural deliberation.

"Bobbie's dead in the stair cupboard, Clare, and it's my fault. He was making a terrible nuisance of himself and I shut him up. Ethel will be here any minute now, and what will I do?" and her voice became choked with sobs.

Bobbie dead! Clare could not believe it. She had met him in the hall as she went out, with an impish grin on his face—the personification of mischief. She glanced round the room and saw the distraught faces. He was dead, then. Memories of his endearing ways began to flit through her mind, though she had never been really fond of him. She was aware of growing resentment towards Amy, but to comfort her, said, "I know it was an accident, Amy."

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"Do you really think so, Clare?" said Amy, vividly. "I'm glad you understand. The others don't."

"That's all right, Amy, but what really happened?"

Amy went on: "I was busy talking in the dining-room and I forgot all about him."

"Amy talks too much," said someone, bitterly.

Amy clung to Clare. "Oh, Clare, save me!" she sobbed.

It was drowned by Eric's bursting out, "The hell, can't you shut up, Barbara." Clare's whisper of "Go on, Amy," sounded stentorian in the ensuing silence.

"That was nearly an hour ago," Amy continued, "and when I remembered him I flew in here and was just going to open the door when Janet said, 'He will be suffocated to death,' and I couldn't open the door then. So I called, 'Bobbie, Bobbie,' and there was no answer. Clare, Clare, what will I do? I can't open that door and find him suffocated." and then, with an hysterical shriek, "His face will be all blue."

"And she won't let anyone else open the cupboard, either," said her father. "We were just trying to pull her away when you arrived."

Clare was silent for a minute, then said abruptly, "Will you all please leave the room. Amy and I will see to this. Yes, Eric, you too. I will call you when I want you."

When the door had shut, Amy burst out, "Oh Clare, you are wonderful. I felt as if I was going crazy. They were all so close to me. Oh Clare."

"Yes, yes, Amy, but we have got to do this now. Can you help me? I think it will be best if you open the door and I look inside."

"Very well, I will open it."

"But you need not look."

Amy turned the key; it grated and clocked. She pulled the door back slowly, as if it were very heavy. Nothing could be seen until it was wide open. The sisters stood side by side, looking in. A patch of light shone on the floor of the cupboard. In the light were Bobbie's legs, inert and strangely twisted, like dead branches of a windswept tree. The rest of his body was in the shadow, but it could be seen that his head had fallen forward on his chest. Scattered around his feet were the skins of bananas, oranges and passion fruit—empty, shapeless, lifeless, their disarray was pathetic.

"He has eaten all the wedding fruit," said Clare, petulantly.

"I am glad he did," whispered Amy, visualising that Bobby had found consolation for his imprisonment.

Clare was now wondering what the next move should be. She glanced at Amy. Perfectly motionless, Amy was leaning forward, staring into the cupboard. From her immobility Clare realised that Amy had been mesmerised by the scene. Any suggestion Clare made, on the entry of anybody else, would bring back to her the real position and shatter her morbid fascination. Any moment Clare expected to hear Eric tapping on the drawing-room door. By her short-sightedness she had extracted Amy from one situation to place her in a worse one.

Then came the noise of a car. Here was Ethel! She felt Amy clutch her arm. The car was accelerating up the drive, the engine rising to a whine. Nearer and nearer rushed the car, higher and higher whined the engine. Clare felt Amy's grip tighten. It was nearly upon them. A shattering blast from the horn. Amy screamed. Over Amy's shoulder Clare saw Bobbie stir sleepily and straighten out his legs.

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