The Lover's Children

Chapter 19 - Winter Wedding #18

JAMES

The hall looks stunning.

Well done, Mitch…

Flowers on every table. The place settings beautifully hand made. The log-stacked fire (Thank you,

Michael) roars. The hearth is swagged with holly and mistletoe which I know Charlotte spent hours

picking and arranging. Fairy-lights twinkle and glimmer, framing the tree and the vast picture window.

I’m rather proud of that window. It’s always good to have an idea, but seeing it become reality is even

better. I’ll admit it, at least to myself. I’m feeling smug.

For now, the room is mainly taken up with the dining tables. Later, they’ll be cleared and the band will

set up for an evening of music and dancing.

From the side-door, the caterer raises his hand, catching my eye.

Good to go?

I give him a thumbs-up, then raise another thumb to Kyle, Ryan’s brother and Best Man.

He stands, tapping his glass with a spoon. “Excuse me, everyone. May I have your attention, please. I

believe our meal is ready, so if you’d all like to take your seats…”

I don’t sit. Kyle may be Best Man, but I’m here as well, to ensure things run smoothly. Michael and

Richard too. One old aunty gets herself lost. I guide her to her place. Then I reunite a small boy with his

mother.

I see Michael, clearing the way for a young woman with a toddler in a buggy, pulling out her chair at the

table by the window. Richard, at the far end of the same table, is showing a couple with their boy to

their seats opposite Klempner and Mitch.

Charlotte and Beth are at the head table with the Bride and Groom of course. Charlotte gives me a

wave and a grin.

Yes, it is going rather well…

Ranks of waiters file out from either side of the hall, loaded with platters and dishes.

Very professional…

A good practice run for Ryan and Kirstie if they really want to open it as a restaurant…

More waiters enter, now with the wine…

What was it they chose?

Oh, yes. Riesling and Merlot...

Not my own first choice, but then, it’s not my wedding; two wines that make for easy drinking and suit

most palates.

Everyone found their place?

Yup…

Satisfied that everything is as it should be, I take my seat, just down from the head table, unfolding the

napkin. A waiter sets my starter in front of me. Cold weather: I opted for the soup: broccoli.

A cheese crust bubbles on the top. Savoury steam rises from the bowl.

Smells good…

Other fragrances drift deliciously in, dill from the salmon, ginger and herbs from the mushroom

wellington chosen as the veggie option, garlic from the chicken kiev that was my own choice…

… At the front, by the main window, the door bangs open, bringing the wind with it, along with dust and

snow and whatever other crap it’s carrying. Georgie barges into the hall, yelling and waving her arms.

What the Hell?

I can’t hear what she’s saying, but snow swirls through behind her, the draught whisking up tablecloths

and making the tree ornaments bob and glitter and jingle.

What’s she playing at?

Always the fucking centre of attention…

Faces turn. At the head table, Ryan stands, consternation written large. He glances my way, brows

raising in question. Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

My temper snaps and I shout over the hall. “Georgie, close the damn door and sit down!”

She ignores me, bawling out at the top of her voice. “Back! Everybody get back!”

What?

Michael’s eyes meet mine and he shrugs. But there’s anger there. My self-centred daughter has

thoroughly overstepped the mark this time. Slapping my napkin at the side of my plate, I rise, picking

my way between tables, trying to be discreet about making my way across the room. “Georgie!”

She’s still shouting. Charging across to the tables near the great window, she glances my way, but only

just. “Get away from the window. Move!”

I shout again. “Georgie, what the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

She spins, widening her eyes at me, pointing out through the window. “The tower! The scaffolding!

Dad, get them back. Tell them!” Then, ignoring me again, she bolts along the table aisle. “Get away.

Get back.”

Guests are standing, murmuring among themselves, but no-one moves. The old lady I seated, Georgie

all but lifts from her chair. “Move! Get away from here. Get to the back of the room.”

And now, as I follow where her finger pointed, I see it; the tarpaulin, ragged in the billowing gale,

whiplashing freely with the force of the sails that once took galleons around the world…

Christ!

The scaffolding tower is rocking, the movement growing moment by moment, the swing of the top

larger with every pass.

Michael follows my gaze and his mouth drops open, frozen for a splintered second. Then he too, yells.

“Move! Away from the window. Everyone. Right now.”

Heads turn, looking out, and the screams start. Panicking people push and shove, fighting to get up

from the seats, legs caught between tables and chairs, scrambling to get away from the window.

The wind gusts, the tower rocks again, and from beyond the hall, something slaps at the glass…

The tarp…

… then clatters as ropes, trailing metal pegs, sweep an arc through the air like some lunatic bola,

blunted blades impacting the glass.

Michael clears a tabletop with a single sweep of his arm, then hurls it to one side, opening a

passageway.

Young and old alike stampede through, charging for the back of the hall. I see Klempner, clutching

Vicky’s carrycot in one hand, shoving another table away, creating a second exit for the milling,

panicking crowd. Pushing the cot into Mitch’s arms, he thrusts her through the gap, ahead of himself

and away.

Cara…

Where’s Cara?

Mitch had her…

I’m barging forward now, but I’m fighting against the flow and people stream past me

But outside…

Time’s up…

The tower shudders then rises, the wind-borne tarp lifting tons of metal bodily. Only by an inch or so,

but enough to all but clear the feet from the semi-frozen ground…

As though in some movie slow-motion action scene, the tower pivots on a single support, holds for a

brief-endless moment, apparently motionless, then spins in toward the window. Even over the wind, the

screech of tortured metal screams. Almost gracefully, it tilts, topples and falls, three-inch wide steel

tubing impacting, head-on against the great arch,

… punching through…

… and the window explodes into the hall…

Time speeds up again.

Glass shatters inwards, the corner of the tower driving through, twisting as it tumbles. Tangling with a

string of fairy lights, as the tower crashes down, the tree comes with it, smashing onto the tables.

Plates and serving dishes spin and smash. Cutlery spins away in all directions.

People shriek and scatter, their voices mixing with the whistle of the wind that wails through the

shattered window.

Georgie has some toddler in her arms. I don’t know who the kiddie is, but…

Cara…

I’m pushing forward, fighting against the crowd. And I’m not alone. Charlotte dashes from the high table

at the far side of the hall, creamy gauze skirts lifted to her knees, shrieking. “Cara! Cara!”

Dodging between the wreckage of tables and flowers and food, plunging through any gap she finds,

she forces her way toward me.

Another woman I don't recognise scrabbles by her. “Paulie! Paulie! Where is he?” Tears stream down

her face, streaking mascara. A man is with her, his previously white shirt splashed with food. The pair

run one way and another, calling, scrambling amidst the wreckage of tables and metal and pine

branches. Glass crunches underfoot, shards like knife-blades lodged amid needles and branches.

Abruptly, the lights go out and we’re plunged into gloom. Charlotte goes berserk. “Cara! Cara!”