Sowing The Seeds Of Love Part 25

She resented the way Martin looked at her then with disapproval in his eyes, presumably for the disrespectful way in which she had spoken of her mother. He didn't know the extent to which she'd felt let down rejected so many times. All the times she had looked to her mother for support and it had never come, when she alone had had to stand up to the vagaries of her father's temper. She herself would never live like that, in fear of the man she was supposed to love.

'Mothers are my speciality,' was all Martin said.

She remained doubtful. Her younger brother, Roger, was the only member of the family likely to be impressed by Martin's worldliness.

An invitation to tea was procured that Sat.u.r.day. They turned into the cul-de-sac where Myrtle had spent her formative years. 'Stop!' she shouted.

Martin slammed on the brakes of his new Humber Hawk. 'What?'

'I have to tell you something.'

'Jesus, Marnie. What is it?'

'Stop the car.'

'It is stopped.'

'I mean turn off the engine.'

He switched off the ignition and turned to look at her. 'You're not having second thoughts about me meeting your parents?'

'No. I mean, yes, I am. Second, third and fourth. But that's not it.'

'What, then?'

She sighed. 'You'll probably find that my family call me Myrtle.'

The corner of his mouth twitched. 'Why would they do that?'

Another sigh, deeper than the last. 'Because it's my name.'

'Then why did you tell me it was Marnie?'

'Myrtle! Wouldn't you lie if you had a name like that?'

He stared hard at her. Oh, G.o.d, what must he think? To lie about something so fundamental. Then he started to laugh, as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. He threw back his head. He even brought his hand down so hard on the steering-wheel that the horn sounded.

'Careful!' She looked around, anxious that they didn't draw attention to themselves. She imagined all the twitching curtains.

When he'd composed himself, he took her face in his two hands and kissed her firmly on the mouth. 'You're something else.' Then he restarted the engine and drove slowly down the street to number forty-eight.

'These are for you.' He handed a bunch of peach-coloured gladioli to Myrtle's mother. Myrtle could tell she was impressed, but that was irrelevant.

They were shown into the front room, where her father and brother were watching Hanc.o.c.k's Half Hour. The older man's eyes never left the TV screen. Martin advanced confidently, his hand outstretched. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr Ferguson.'

For one terrible moment, Myrtle thought her father would refuse Martin's hand. He certainly thought about it, of that she was sure she could almost hear him thinking it. But at the last second he shook it perfunctorily, glancing up briefly from the television at which he stared with fierce concentration. He didn't rise from his armchair. Myrtle knew this to be a slight. Her whole family did. If Martin recognized it as such, he didn't show it. Instead, he sat in the remaining free armchair, not waiting for an invitation to do so that would never come.

Myrtle perched uneasily on the arm of the sofa. She glanced anxiously at the rigid form of her father, then at Martin. The chair in which he sat sagged low in the middle. He looked ludicrously large in it, his knees looming up to his chin. Myrtle thought he seemed ridiculously out of place. Something about the two worlds in which she co-existed coming together and clashing discordantly.

'I love this programme,' said Martin, nodding at the TV screen, in which they could make out the figure of Tony Hanc.o.c.k through the snowy haze.

Roger grinned in agreement. Mr Ferguson remained silent as a stone.

'Do you like Double Your Money?' Martin asked Roger.

He had just opened his mouth to reply when his father interjected: 'We don't appreciate that kind of American rubbish in this house.'

The other occupants of the room shifted uncomfortably while Tony Hanc.o.c.k and his canned laughter filled the roaring silence.

'I see you drive a Simca, Mr Ferguson.' Martin had decided to change tack.

Myrtle recognized, with a sinking feeling, that he still thought he was in with a chance.

'And what do you drive?'

'A Humber Hawk.' The pride was evident in Martin's response.

Myrtle's father made an indefinable sound. It might have been a snort. But its meaning was clear. Don't think much of that.

Myrtle's unease grew. She knew they shouldn't have come.

'You're Irish.' It was an accusation.

'Yes, sir.'

Martin's easy confidence was deserting him. She could see it and it pained her, even though she had known it was inevitable.

'What's your full name?'

'Martin Prendergast.'

'What cla.s.s of a name is that?'

At this point, Roger excused himself and left the room. Myrtle longed to follow him, dragging Martin by the arm as she went.

'I don't know what '

'Are you a Catholic?'

'Yes.'

Mr Ferguson pursed his lips and took up the newspaper that had been lying on the table beside him. He opened it with a snap, obliterating his face as he did so. Martin and Myrtle looked at one another, Myrtle with real dismay, Martin with evident growing anger. 'I don't see what '

'I suppose you work on a building site.'

'I have my own construction company.' He stood up. His efforts to get out of the chair would have been comical in any other circ.u.mstances.

'Marnie,' he said, his fury barely contained. 'I think it's time we left.' He held out his hand.

When Myrtle looked back on this moment, she saw it as a pivotal point in her history. Should she embrace Martin, embrace her future, become the Marnie she'd always longed to be? Or stay and be the Myrtle she'd always been, with her taciturn father, her submissive mother?

She took Martin's hand.

Martin sped out of Woodford in his Humber Hawk, skidding around the corners of Myrtle's estate.

'Slow down!' She held on to the dashboard in alarm.

Thankfully, he brought the car to a shrieking halt at an old bombsite, minutes away. It was an area upon which several houses used to stand. In summer, it was lush and pink with rosebay willowherb. Now, it was stubbly and grey. Martin got out and slammed the door. Myrtle watched him uncertainly as he kicked an innocent rock several times, then picked up a large branch and beat the rock until he'd got the rage out of his system. She was about to get out when he returned and sat beside her, his breath heavy and rasping. His normally perfect quiff was askew. She could smell the Brylcreem off him. From that day on, the scent would propel her back to that moment. She was afraid to speak. Afraid of what she'd just witnessed. But in an odd way she felt even more drawn to him. His actions spoke to her of real pa.s.sion.

'Are you all right?' she said.

He drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, not looking at her. 'I've been offered a big government contract.'

'Oh that's wonderful, Martin.'

'It's in Dublin.'

'Oh.'

She felt the fear like ice water down her spine. Had she misjudged the situation back at the house? Was he leaving her? She closed her eyes, leaned back in her seat and felt an incredible rush of hatred for her father. Why did that man have to ruin everything for her?

'Did you hear what I said?'

'I heard.'

'What do you think?'

'I'm pleased for you.'

'Marnie, you're not hearing me. I want you to come with me.'

'You mean...'

'I want us to get married.'

And there, in the back of that Humber Hawk, their marriage was consummated before it had even begun.

Martin Prendergast and Myrtle Ferguson got married in Woodford Register Office on as cold and inhospitable a day as early January could muster. Myrtle stood nervously on the pavement in her ice-pink two-piece, clutching her bouquet to her breast. Martin stood beside her, his suit crisp and black, smoking a rare cigarette, which he ground out with his heel after he had peered impatiently down the street for the umpteenth time. A girl called Gladys, to whom Myrtle referred as her friend, accompanied them. The two often went dancing together, although they had seen less of each other since Martin had arrived on the scene.

Myrtle was aware that she didn't possess a talent for friendship. There was something about her that put other girls off. She liked to tell herself that they were jealous of her success with men, her ability to make the most of herself, but, deep in her core, she knew her lack of warmth put them off. From her father, she had inherited not just a pale blondeness but a glacial coolness. She didn't know how to be any other way, although she longed to open up. She hoped that Martin could perform this miracle for her.

So Gladys was the closest thing she had to a female friend, and today she was to be her witness and her bridesmaid. The two women got on tolerably well. Gladys was a bookish girl who wore thick, black-rimmed gla.s.ses. An intellectual, it never occurred to her to be jealous of Myrtle. She appreciated an intelligent person with whom she could have a decent conversation. And, besides, it was handy having someone to go dancing with. Once on the dance-floor, Gladys had no problem attracting men, thanks to her generous bosom and a surprisingly sensual dance technique. Today her bustline was hidden by a dark winter coat made of thick serge and b.u.t.toned up to her neck. Still she shivered.

Three heads whipped around to the sound of running footsteps. It was Myrtle's brother, Roger, adjusting his tie as he ran.

'Where have you been?' Myrtle snapped at him.

'Sorry. I had to run back home to put on my suit.'

'Are they...?'

'Sorry, Myrtle. They're not coming.'

She took a deep breath and it appeared to the others that she shrank slightly. Roger looked anxiously at her. Newly eighteen, he felt a responsibility as the most senior Ferguson male present to say something, but words failed him.

'Right, then,' said Myrtle, brightly. 'Let's go in.'

And so they were married. Myrtle resented the silent a.s.sumption in the registrar's eyes that theirs was a shotgun wedding. On second thoughts, maybe it was.

They adjourned to a nearby pub to celebrate. It was hardly the wedding that Myrtle, with her flawless taste and eye for detail, had meticulously planned since girlhood. But, she told herself repeatedly, she was Martin's wife now and that was what really mattered.

All day long she ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Some might have called it a gut instinct.

That night they boarded the ferry to Dun Laoghaire. They were to have a honeymoon of sorts in the west of Ireland, during which Myrtle was to be shown off to an a.s.sortment of Martin's relatives. She was under strict instructions to maintain the deception that they'd got married in a Catholic church. Myrtle didn't know what she'd say if someone asked her straight out if she was a Catholic.

It was a rough winter crossing and Myrtle was as sick as a dog. As she groaned in their cabin, Martin repaired to the bar where he commenced drinking with a motley crew of Irishmen who were returning to the Emerald Isle, the majority only on a temporary basis, to wives they scarcely knew any more and children who'd grown up so much since their last visit that they barely recognized them. The drinking was serious and heavy. Songs were sung, increasingly maudlin, as the night wore on.

Myrtle lay tossing disconsolately in the top bunk, retching her guts up into a tin bucket. Her discontent was added to considerably by Martin's long unexplained absence. Some wedding night this was turning out to be. Finally, the key turned clumsily and noisily in the lock and the groom materialized. Martin staggered into the cabin. At first Myrtle put down his unsteady gait to the rocking and rolling of the ship. She'd seen him with drink on him many times before and he was generally able to carry it well.

'Where the h.e.l.l have you been?' She raised herself up on her elbow and addressed him angrily.

Martin stood looking at her, swaying slightly. He appeared to be having difficulty focusing. It was then that she realized he was very drunk. His lip curled into a kind of snarl. Nothing like Elvis's. 'Shut up, you stupid b.i.t.c.h.' He fell on to the lower bunk and began to snore almost instantly.

That was the day Sputnik fell to earth, having spent exactly three months in orbit.

32.

There was something so precious about late summer. The knowledge that the flowers would soon be gone made their beauty all the more intense in the eyes of their beholders. The sensory garden that Emily had planted now came into its own. It was as if the b.u.t.terflies were having a farewell party. Every time Harriet gambolled past the buddleia, a host of tortoisesh.e.l.ls and painted ladies rose into the air as if the petals themselves had come to life and taken flight. The bees were in overdrive too, collecting the last of the pollen for their winter pantry. As for developments among the garden's human inhabitants, they, too, proceeded at quite a pace.

Following the ill-fated dinner party, Aoife had convinced Mrs Prendergast to create a range of pies to sell in the Good Food Store first, the older woman was such a sublime cook, but also she wanted to take her mind off her errant son. Emily's aunt jumped at the idea, as did the punters, who couldn't get enough of 'Mrs Prendergast's Gourmet Pies'. Their major selling point, apart from their succulence, was the guaranteed fresh, local produce that went into them. Spinach and goat's cheese was Aoife's favourite.

As for Aoife, she was going through a weird time. Changes were taking place at a faster rate than she could handle. Liam was starting 'big school' the following month and the prospect flooded her with a gamut of emotions most of them negative. She'd made two attempts so far to purchase his uniform and each time had had to leave the store in tears. It pained her immeasurably that Michael wasn't there to see his son take his first real steps into boyhood. And because Katie was no longer coming up behind him, this might be the only time she'd experience such a monumental step, which added to its poignancy.

She was also in a quandary over Seth. Since the night she had rejected him on her doorstep, a polite but cool distance had opened between them. She didn't know how to bridge the gap or even if she wanted to. As for Seth, she couldn't work out if he had lost interest or was just biding his time. She hoped it was the latter but that might have been vanity speaking.

Plans were under way for the harvest festival. The idea was to open the garden gate and let the public flow in. They would be given guided tours and there'd be stalls selling fruit and veg and homemade soup. Aoife was in quite a flap about it. Mrs Prendergast watched her with some amus.e.m.e.nt. 'If you like,' she said, 'I could ask some of the women from the Mothers' Union to help out.'

'Really? Do you think they'd be useful?'

'Well, they're forever making jams and chutneys and doing unspeakable things with doilies. I'd imagine that this type of thing would be right up their street.'