Breathe, breathe. Old Clover had my head for a second there, but the new one rapidly reasserts herself. Of course, I know why Maz kept schtum. I wish I’d done the same, it would have made things a lot easier. It is an issue, but I have bigger things in play today, and will not be sidetracked.
‘Congratulations!’ I say, catching my sister’s eye and raising my glass. ‘To Mrs Fraser!’
Maz clinks her glass with mine and we both open our gullets for considerably more than a sip. Rose remains stock-still in her seat, staring at her youngest daughter like she’s just grown a second head. Which, I suppose, in a way, she has.
‘Who is . . . it?’ she manages. ‘This . . . this person you’ve married?’
‘He’s called Calum, and he’s a vet.’
‘How did you two lovebirds meet?’ I’m starting to enjoy myself again, and see how this new situation can be used to my advantage.
‘He came to treat Dorcas’s meningeal worm.’
‘How romantic. Was it orgling at first sight?’ I was once unlucky enough to be around the barns when Maz had a guest alpaca called Barney, who attempted to mate with one of her girls – I don’t know which one, and don’t want to. The sound he made was extraordinary and could not be unheard.
‘Do you live together? At the farm?’ Rose is repeatedly smoothing her napkin along her lap and seems to have developed a tic, her right eyelid flickering. If I play this right, I won’t need to do much at all.
‘Cal has a flat above his practice in Crediton, but yes, he mostly lives with me.’ Now she’s unburdened herself, something seems to relax in Maz, and she looks rather beatific. She seems . . . content. At peace. I envy her. But I’m also pleased for her. Maz deserves this. God, she deserves it.
‘Nice one,’ I say softly, and she smiles at me.
‘But . . . but . . .’ Rose is struggling to reconcile all the unhappy news. ‘Married?’
‘We didn’t want a fuss,’ says Maz, which makes me chortle, because it’s so perfect. ‘It was just a registry office thing.’ Also perfect, because to Rose’s mind registry offices are only for one kind of marriage: a sham one.
‘But that’s just so . . . downmarket,’ she complains. ‘So cloak and dagger. Was it a shotgun wedding? Are you in the family way?’
‘No one says that any more,’ I say. ‘We’re not in a Jane Austen novel. Though you do bring Mrs Bennet vibes to the table.’
Maz shakes her head. ‘I don’t want children. I’ve got my girls.’
It’s going from bad to worse for Rose – better and better for me. To think I’d worried the only wedding we were going to talk about was my mother’s impending nuptials – which, to be fair, could still be on the cards. But now she’s been upstaged by her daughter’s covert union, the impact of any announcement will be drastically dampened. Maz has taken the wind out of my mother’s floral sails.
‘Think of this as Maz’s wedding,’ I say, raising my glass again. ‘After all, you’ve dressed for it.’
‘Clover, stop being facetious. I don’t know what’s got into you, but it’s not remotely funny that your sister has eloped with a stranger.’
‘He’s not a stranger,’ says Maz. ‘Not to me.’
‘But we haven’t been introduced! What kind of unnatural daughter marries a man none of her family have even met?’
It’s time to get out the big guns.
‘Perhaps one with an unnatural mother?’
The silence that follows my statement is extremely awkward, or would be if I hadn’t meant to create it. But Maz, insulated by her new status, looks untroubled, and I’m cushioned by the bouncy Zorb of the New Me, who’s immune to embarrassment or shame. It’s like Cinderella’s carriage – it might not last, but it’s magnificent.
‘Why, you—’
‘Dinner is served.’
Alan saves the day, for now, appearing loaded with dishes. Immediately, we all paste on appreciative smiles, as he presents our dinner with a courtly flourish. The smiles fade to puzzlement as each of us contemplates our . . . plates. Something is very off.
My shepherd’s pie sits on an upturned metal bin lid that lists to one side on the table. The pie itself looks fairly normal, but nothing else about the meal is. Glancing across, I see that Maz’s lasagne is presented in an open toolbox, with garlic bread tucked into the top tier. And Rose’s cod and chips are carefully laid out on a . . . toilet seat lid. Smothering a laugh, I eye our host quizzically. He’s beaming.
‘Intriguing plating, Alan,’ I say. ‘Novel.’
‘We at The Brycgstow are proud of our sustainable credentials,’ he replies. ‘All our presentation platters and cocktail jars are sourced from the bed of the Avon.’
‘You mean . . . plucked out of the river?’
‘Indeed.’
Rose gives a little moan.
‘Dredgewood.’ I snigger as, with another of his bows, he leaves us to enjoy our meal.
‘I can’t eat this,’ says Rose, pushing her toilet seat away from her, which isn’t far, because there’s very little room. ‘It’s disgusting.’
‘I’m sure they cleaned it when they pulled it out,’ I say, through my first mouthful. It’s bloody good pie, rich and filling, although I do have to chase it as the lid rolls around on the table.
‘The very idea,’ sniffs Rose. ‘Of eating off a lavatory seat.’
‘We could ask them to put it on an ordinary plate.’
‘I would still know where it’s been.’
Surely no trace of the riverbed remains on these unorthodox vessels? I remember what David Lyon-James said about grape skins leaving their mark. What has my bin lid rubbed up against? I suddenly feel a bit sick, but the pie is very good, I’m hungry and need to soak up the booze. Maz is attempting to close her toolbox as an experiment, and we all watch in fascination as it slowly glides shut.
