Chapter XXIX The Wedding

 

 

Half an hour later I was at St Margaret’s Church. It was quarter to three and I had got there early. The church was nearly deserted. Obviously a lesser tourist attraction than the adjoining Westminster Abbey which dominates it, the XVIth century church was still an attractive place to visit. It had been the traditional church of the House of Commons for centuries and was Oliver Cromwell’s favourite place of worship. The place had a historic association with weddings and was richly adorned with Victorian pseudo-Gothic furnishings and the appropriate images appearing in lush wall paintings and precious stained glass windows. This was the church where Catherine of Aragon was betrothed to Prince Arthur, Henry VIII’s luckless older brother. John Milton had married here; so had Samuel Pepys; so had Winston Churchill. Why not Lord Smallbridge?

I sat in a bench, facing the main altar. Above the altar was a rich gilded iconostas including a series of saintly portraits surrounding a gaudy three-dimensional carved painting showing Jesus at a feast. I waited. I cast my eyes over the deserted pews and the mournful Elizabethan tombs. Where was everybody? I looked around apprehensively. There was a young couple in a pew a few feet behind me who were obviously waiting for something to happen.  I could also see a large distinguished looking gent with a huge bald head and an air of natural authority wandering down the side aisle looking at the stained glass windows with a certain reflective air. He was obviously not a tourist. I guessed that when he looked quizzically at his watch. In any case his face was familiar. Was he not an MP?

Then at one minute to three, the main door of the silent church burst open and in came a retinue of loud-talking irreverent and excited women in smart summer clothes and broad hats and a few quieter gentlemen. As the caravan of noise moved down the august church, the young couple and the large gent moved towards it. A chaplain appeared from nowhere and made to meet them at a side altar in the left aisle.

I recognized Smallbridge in the crowd as well as Ludmila, Olga and Polina among the bevy of beauties. I got up from my seat and moved in their direction.

A figure came running up towards me. She was dressed very simply in a sort of layered white fairy skirt and a feathered fascinator in her hair. It was Valentina of course, arms akimbo, her bouquet waving in the air, laughing happily at seeing me. She was no longer the sexy scheming little minx trying to blackmail me. She was now a happy carefree maiden thrilled at her big wedding day and greeting an old friend with a shameless hug. “Peter, I’m so thrilled,” she murmured. “We’re going to have such fun today, especially now that you’re here.”

Ludmila, looking her resplendent buxom best in a strapless lilac coloured silk dress and a silk wrap, and tall gangly Olga, came over to give me a hug of welcome too. They both wore broad brimmed straw hats to match the colour of their dresses which made them look increasingly enticing; Olga’s hat was the widest which was only fair because of her height, while Ludmila’s flowery headgear was taller which suited her rounded face. Before I could respond to their welcoming hugs Lord Smallbridge called us all to order by pointing out that the cleric was waiting. They were at a side altar with no music and no long religious ceremony. In view of the low key nature of the ceremony I was surprised that Smallbridge had bothered to hire so distinguished a place as St Margaret’s and I can only conclude that either it was some kind of family tradition or else done at the insistence of Valentina who wanted something a little better than a secular registry office. As the short ceremony got under way I took in a quick glance of the remaining witnesses.

The thickset bull-headed MP was acting as the best man and was standing at the side altar with a dapper trendy looking Timothy Smallbridge decked out in a black herringbone suit.

Standing next to Valentina and, in a sense, seeming to give her away, was an elderly gent with a white grizzly beard who was almost definitely a Russian. I wondered at first whether it was her father from Belarus who had managed to make such a last minute appearance. Yet when I saw him wink at one moment behind Valentina’s back at the other 3 Russian girls, I realized that could not be the case.

There was the fairly smart young couple whom I had seen briefly behind me at the church when we were waiting. She looked English and she wore a typical English wide straw hat. Her companion appeared to be an American. There was one other English-looking guest, a middle aged latecomer, who looked like one of those worn out roués on a Hogarth painting. There was also a Chinese lady and two serious looking characters dressed in black who were almost certainly Russian. They looked like enforcers.

I felt a little embarrassed and exposed in this small coterie of His Lordship’s courtiers and cronies. I felt I definitely did not belong here. Every now and again the smart young American would leave his be hatted partner and venture a quick snap of the happy couple and of the congregation while the officiating clergyman was making some turgid comments about the role of trust in matrimony as being part of God’s Divine Plan. I’d rather trust the Borough Plan; I thought to myself suddenly, and sniggered. Obviously I had sniggered aloud because at that moment every head turned round to look at me and I hastily covered my indiscretion with a prolonged sneeze. It did the trick as it evinced at least three calls of “bless you”.

As the ceremony continued I ruminated on the nature of the company and the setting. I was sure that a masochistic decadence was the undercurrent that bound these characters together. In that sense I was really not such an outsider. I watched Ludmila sidle up to Valentina at one moment and bump her. Valentina then reciprocated with a prompt pinch with her free hand while the other was entwined around Tim Smallbridge’s elbow. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling in seeming disgust at this cheeky exhibition pondering on the incongruity of this historic setting. I glanced at the beautiful painted memorials around me. One in particular showed a loving Elizabethan couple staring at each over a bench in obvious mutual affection. Suddenly in my twisted mind the innocent piece of furniture reminded me of a thrashing bench. Now all of a sudden the mutual stare appeared less affectionate, more a question of them sizing each other up, “Who bends over the bench first?” I looked away in self-disgust. My eyes drifted to the stained glass windows. One depicted the victories of a Cromwellian admiral, Robert Blake. I looked in detail at the lowest painted pane nearest to me. It showed Blake, sword in hand, standing between a crowd of men and a kneeling monk. I peered more closely to decipher the gothic script below. What was that? “None but an Englishman should chastise an Englishman.” More whipping! Whatever next? Perhaps I was not in so incongruous a place after all.

As I daydreamed, I sensed some movement around me. The ceremony in the side aisle was over. Smallbridge, Valentina and the MP went into a small room on the other side of the chancel to complete the registration. The young American photographer followed them and the rest sat at a loose end for a few minutes.

A few seconds later Valentina stepped back in to the chapel and looked meaningfully at Ludmila. Ludmila appeared to shy away, and Valentina stamped her foot in anger. With obvious reluctance, Ludmila got up and followed Valentina sheepishly into the registration room.

The two remaining Russian girls, Olga and Polina, whispered to each other and to the bearded gent who had sat down next to them, while the two Russian males sat silently. I exchanged a few words with the Chinese lady who sat next to me. It transpired that she was called Wendy and she was housekeeper for the building where the four girls lived.

The young English lady, deprived of her escort, took a quick look at the other guests including the old roué, and decided that I looked the best bet for a sensible comment. She moved along the seat towards me, smiled politely and encouraged by my smiling response, held out her hand and introduced herself. “Hello, I’m Amanda, I’m Timothy’s niece.”

“I’m Peter. I’m a friend of Valentina.”

“Well at last I’ve found someone English who knows something about her. Are you one of her mathematics tutors from University?”

I shook my head. Yet what could I say? I could hardly say that I knew Valentina professionally. That I had slept with her? That she had tried to blackmail me? “Well, no,” I said. “Mainly I know her socially. I’m a Councillor and she occasionally does work for the Council.”

“Oh I say, a Counsellor? Do you work at the Clinic in Roehampton? What’s your speciality?” 

“Not quite,” was all I managed to say just as her young partner came back from the registration room.

“They’re nearly done,” he announced to Amanda and me and then looked at me expectantly.

“Yes this is Peter, he’s a Counsellor. He’s friends with Valentina. This is my husband David. He’s from Philadelphia.”

I shook hands with David, wondering to myself if he was going to be as amiable and as foolish as his partner. What a ripe crowd of whores and nobs, I thought to myself. What am I really doing here? Do I really belong? Their decadence far surpassed mine, I thought. Ah yes, of course, I remembered. I am here because I am a double agent.

The happy married couple emerged. The MP stood a little to one side, having presumably already congratulated the couple in the registration room. Ludmila rushed forward and joined the girls as they mobbed Valentina, while Wendy, the Chinese lady, stood politely to one side awaiting her turn to congratulate her. Amanda and David stepped forward towards her uncle but they were beaten in the rush by the old roué who embraced His Lordship and gave him a great slobbering kiss on his cheek. “Good old Timmykins. You landed the right girl in the end. And what a cracker, eh, you old rascal! Well done, Timmykins.”

“Thank you, Ernie, thank you for coming at such short notice,” Smallbridge replied, visibly unnerved by the references to “Timmykins”.

Ernie swayed on in the direction of “the cracker”. Amanda and David got to Timothy. Then it was my turn.

“Peter, thank you so much for coming. It means so much to me. Valentina was so happy when she saw you too. The girls have really warmed to you. It’s so heartening. Now look, old chap, you are staying aren’t you? We have a little party lined up for our closest friends. Hope you’ve got the afternoon off. I know you have a lot to prepare for Tuesday but no work tonight, eh? Although I’d like a word with you. Just for a few minutes. OK? Stay close.”

On the one hand I was rather looking forward to see what the aristocracy would be up to on the quiet, on a day like this, especially if they had four Russian girls to share the experience. One way or another I felt I would get my oats before the end of the day. On the other hand the pressure was becoming almost unbearable. I could almost feel Roger Clements peering over my shoulder and spying on the wedding party.

Timothy had turned to the MP again. “Bunty, old chap, do come and meet Peter Axtell. Peter’s the key councillor at Framden who’s going to nip everything in the bud for us. You know, at Fortress Yakov. (Both he and Bunty sniggered.) He may well be a candidate to replace poor old Owen Draycott. And this,” he said to me pointing at the MP, “is my childhood friend Bunty. In fact we’re rapidly going back to that childhood, aren’t we, Bunty old boy.” The two laughed raucously at this. “Anyway Bunty and I have another thing in common. His grandparents married here in this church and so did mine”

Valentina had freed herself now from the Russian girls, who had surrounded the old gent. She had received a hug from Wendy, and suffered the horrors of one of Ernie’s drooling slobbery kisses. David was taking pictures again of everyone greeting everyone else and Amanda had gravitated back to her uncle. I was about to approach Valentina but she rushed towards me instead and clasped me as if I had just come back from prison. She held me tightly in total silence for quite a long time and I suddenly realized she was shaking. I drew her face away from my shoulder. She had been sobbing but immediately stopped. “Peter, you don’t know how happy I am to see you here. You are my one true friend in England. And I am so happy today. Especially now you are here. I have missed you.” It must be a sort of Russian happiness, I thought. Love, tears, betrayal and the knout. What a country. I hugged Valentina closely and patted and rubbed the back of her neck. She just clung to me quietly.

I sensed there was somebody behind me. I looked round and saw Amanda. “Valentina dear, someone you need to meet, I think.” Valentina detached herself from me again. “This is Timothy’s niece, Amanda.” I sensed Valentina stiffening. “I am so pleased to meet you at last, Valentina. Or do I call you Aunty Valentina?” Valentina relaxed a little. “No, Amanda, no. We must become friends. You just call me Val. I shall count on you introducing me to your friends and relatives.”

“Oh, Val, don’t worry about the relatives. They’re all dead dodos or arrogant prigs. They got very snobby over David just ‘cause he was an American. Uncle Timmykins is the only one worth knowing. After I had my drugs rehab, he’s the only who took care of me. And he was the only one ready to accept David. We got married in March.” She waved in her partner’s direction. David had stopped photographing us and was now standing by Amanda’s side anxious to be introduced to the bride. David swallowed hard at the sight of this Russian beauty and mumbled some words of congratulations and greetings. Somewhat amused by his gawkiness, Valentina thanked him politely.

“Come on everybody, chop,” Smallbridge announced, “our limousine awaits.”  

Barely had we stepped out of the church when a handful of photographers descended on us from nowhere. They surrounded Lord Smallbridge and Valentina and also concentrated on Bunty, who had spoken out critically the previous day about the Government’s hospital trust reforms and gained some headlines particularly when it had transpired that he had never been inside a state hospital in his life.

The two dour looking Russians pushed away the paparazzies as Lord and Lady Smallbridge ploughed their way forward through them to one of those gaudy white stretch limos that you see so often now in the streets of London, carrying either American tourists, or a children’s party or a group of prostitutes on a day trip out complete with their pimps. Wendy said goodbye to us but the rest of the party of 10 clambered inside and the two Russians sat up front, one presumably as coach driver and one riding shot gun (I had actually spotted the outline of a shoulder holster on one of them in the church). Valentina still managed a wave to Wendy and the photographers on the pavement as we moved off.

“Right, let’s get the champagne out,” roared Lord Smallbridge. It did not take long for the company to get tipsy. At least we were still sufficiently sober on the outward journey to face all the necessary introductions. The decadent middle aged gent was called Ernest Milestone, a former County cricket player and an old Winchester school-friend of Timothy and Bunty. He was now a publisher. And the old bearded Russian who was so popular with the Russian girls was Professor Denisov, the one who had introduced that extraordinary course which the Russian girls had completed in Lefortovo. He had been brought to London by Sheremovsky a few days ago to hold a fictitious Annual General Meeting for the Volga Education Trust, which was a British registered charity. Denisov was delighted to have the opportunity to attend the wedding of his former star pupil.

Sheremovsky had been invited but he was in Kazakhstan at the moment, as the Professor explained to me in his broken English, and sent his best wishes to the young couple. He spoke to me quietly as he did not want to upset Valentina and the other girls. They had a morbid fear of “The Boss” ever since he had had apparently sodomized each one in turn on their last day in Russia, indeed the same last day that they had seen their beloved Professor.

As we relaxed and exchanged confidences, I found myself next to Amanda again. “What do you think of your new Aunt, then, Amanda?”

Amanda had already imbibed more champagne than was good for her and she had no inhibition in saying “Aunty Val is a bloody gold digger. But she’s a lovely gold digger. I hope to dig some gold with her. I’d like to be her friend. Uncle Tim has been so good to me and the rest of the family are shits. Didn’t even bother to come to the wedding, though frankly only a couple of them were invited. Couldn’t break off their summer vacation in Mustique, ha-fucking-ha! I had the same excuse for my wedding”

Looking out of the window I noticed we were on the A40 passing Northolt Airport. Now I saw Ludmila next to me. “Hello Big Boy,” she giggled. “Are you happy for Valentina?”

“Of course I’m happy. I’m ecstatic for her. She’s a lucky girl. And he’s a lucky boy.”

“Yes,” she added ruefully. “Now she is Lady Smallbridge she can stay in this country and work here. She does not even need her mathematics course.”

“You’re a little envious, I see.” It was a tactless comment but ‘in vino veritas’. “I’m sure she won’t leave you behind. Is she moving out of your flat?”

“She moved out two days ago. Now I have to do all sorts of things myself. Difficult things. I like Olga and Polina but they do not understand me and what we were doing the way Valentina does. She has promised we meet every other day,” she smiled.

“But Peter, I will feel lonely and sad tonight, Valentina was very cruel. She insisted that I sign as a witness. Is that fair? It’s like she shits on my doorstep and then asks me for paper to wipe her arse.”

I ignored the vulgarity and assured her. “You’re wrong, Ludmila. She asked you because you are her best friend and she wanted you to share her best moment as a friend.”

“Peter, you are always saying nice things. Will you be nice to me tonight? Especially nice. Pleeease?”

“Yes, Ludmila. Of course, Ludmila.”

They were opening the wedding presents now. Mine was fairly modest, a ‘his and hers’ set of aprons showing the naked front silhouette of each gender transposed to their opposite. It raised a lot of ribald amusement. Ernie’s was the most disgusting present. It was an electrical penis stimulator attached to two small metal rings placed at each end of the penis and it was accompanied by a pair of electrical butt plugs. “Hey, where do I fit it in?” said Valentina, half laughing and half offended. “The rings are connected to a patch that you can wear,” Ernie explained to her, “so when he has the stimulator on you will feel the electronic pulse to the same rhythm.” “Say what you like, Ernie, I think it’s a wife substitute, not a wife stimulator. I prefer different stimulation, without getting electrocuted.”

 “I think we are all getting rat arsed,” Timothy summed up the situation very aptly an hour later. “We’ve arrived. Let’s get out of the limo.”