is she?’
‘So I believe, but we can’t just kill her off.’ She knew her husband was trying to be reasonable, in a humorous kind of way, but she felt a surge of panic overtaking her. If only she hadn’t arranged for the couple’s photograph to be taken for the fortnightly Photo News as well.
‘Son of the late Mr Moffit then. Just because she exists doesn’t mean to say she has to be in the notice.’
‘Everyone will know there’s something fishy if we say he’s the late and there’s no mention of her.’
Nicholas looked as if he had just come across a particularly unpleasant mouthful of decay. He was a tall man with beautiful iron-grey hair. Because of his height he suffered back pain in his profession which often made him look slightly tight-lipped. She had to remember this insidious discomfort when he looked like this. ‘What is the mother’s name then?’
‘I don’t know. Well, Petra muttered something about her being a Mrs Pudney.’
‘Well then, son of the late Mr Moffit and Mrs Pudney. We’ll just have to accept that.’
‘Petra says Philip won’t hear of it. He hasn’t spoken to his mother in years.’
‘He didn’t mention this when he spoke to me about Petra. I thought, a budding young lawyer. I wish you’d told me earlier, Margaret. We’ve given our word.’
‘She’ll marry him whatever we say. We should never have let herget into the theatre.’ Margaret Ellis groped for breath. ‘She’s so radical.’
‘Oh no,’ said her husband. ‘Not that.’
In the end, the notice that went in the paper said: ‘Mr and Mrs Nicholas Ellis are delighted to announce the forthcoming marriage of their daughter Petra Jean to Philip Moffit of Wellington.’
Margaret remembered this conversation one afternoon not long afterwards. She was on the phone ordering in a meat platter for a special customer, a superior sort of person who demanded attention . Not someone she could hurry. She spotted a woman turning the Denby Chevron mugs over and pursing her lips at the prices. An older woman, a bit rough round the edges. Hair crimped in a fraying ginger perm and bulging bunions. She had a way of flicking her head backwards as if to see whether someone was watching.
‘Can I help you?’ Margaret enquired, replacing the phone in its cradle at last. ‘Something for yourself, or a gift? A wedding in the offing, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said the woman, putting a mug down harder than was necessary. ‘But I hear you’ve got one coming up, Mrs Ellis.’
‘Yes,’ said Margaret, letting the distance in her voice lengthen. ‘I imagine you’ve been reading the newspapers.’
The woman introduced herself. She was a widow. Her husband used to be in the post office but he’d passed on a few years back. They’d had hard times in the old days but she’d learnt to count her blessings. She had daughters and they’d married well enough. She went to stay with both of them for two weeks each year so that helped pass the time. Her conversation was more of a continuous monologue than an exchange. She paused when Margaret glanced at her wristwatch. ‘You reckon that boy Moffit’s from Wellington?’
Margaret steadied herself on the edge of the counter as if she’d been caught off balance. ‘Our daughter’s fiancé?’
‘I reckon I know that face. Or one pretty like it. Family came from Ohakune way, didn’t they?’
‘Philip hasn’t mentioned that. We haven’t spent a lot of time with him yet. The two young people are studying, you see. Philip’s nearly finished his law degree.’
‘The law. Young Philip’s in the law. Well, my oh my. There’s a few things I could tell you about that young man’s family that I’ll bet you don’t know.’
‘I’d love to have let her have her say,’ Margaret told Nicholas that evening. ‘Perhaps I should have.’
‘It was probably lies.’
‘She said she was the postmaster’s wife. It sounded pretty convincing.’
‘It’s too late now,’ he said
‘So I believe, but we can’t just kill her off.’ She knew her husband was trying to be reasonable, in a humorous kind of way, but she felt a surge of panic overtaking her. If only she hadn’t arranged for the couple’s photograph to be taken for the fortnightly Photo News as well.
‘Son of the late Mr Moffit then. Just because she exists doesn’t mean to say she has to be in the notice.’
‘Everyone will know there’s something fishy if we say he’s the late and there’s no mention of her.’
Nicholas looked as if he had just come across a particularly unpleasant mouthful of decay. He was a tall man with beautiful iron-grey hair. Because of his height he suffered back pain in his profession which often made him look slightly tight-lipped. She had to remember this insidious discomfort when he looked like this. ‘What is the mother’s name then?’
‘I don’t know. Well, Petra muttered something about her being a Mrs Pudney.’
‘Well then, son of the late Mr Moffit and Mrs Pudney. We’ll just have to accept that.’
‘Petra says Philip won’t hear of it. He hasn’t spoken to his mother in years.’
‘He didn’t mention this when he spoke to me about Petra. I thought, a budding young lawyer. I wish you’d told me earlier, Margaret. We’ve given our word.’
‘She’ll marry him whatever we say. We should never have let herget into the theatre.’ Margaret Ellis groped for breath. ‘She’s so radical.’
‘Oh no,’ said her husband. ‘Not that.’
In the end, the notice that went in the paper said: ‘Mr and Mrs Nicholas Ellis are delighted to announce the forthcoming marriage of their daughter Petra Jean to Philip Moffit of Wellington.’
Margaret remembered this conversation one afternoon not long afterwards. She was on the phone ordering in a meat platter for a special customer, a superior sort of person who demanded attention . Not someone she could hurry. She spotted a woman turning the Denby Chevron mugs over and pursing her lips at the prices. An older woman, a bit rough round the edges. Hair crimped in a fraying ginger perm and bulging bunions. She had a way of flicking her head backwards as if to see whether someone was watching.
‘Can I help you?’ Margaret enquired, replacing the phone in its cradle at last. ‘Something for yourself, or a gift? A wedding in the offing, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said the woman, putting a mug down harder than was necessary. ‘But I hear you’ve got one coming up, Mrs Ellis.’
‘Yes,’ said Margaret, letting the distance in her voice lengthen. ‘I imagine you’ve been reading the newspapers.’
The woman introduced herself. She was a widow. Her husband used to be in the post office but he’d passed on a few years back. They’d had hard times in the old days but she’d learnt to count her blessings. She had daughters and they’d married well enough. She went to stay with both of them for two weeks each year so that helped pass the time. Her conversation was more of a continuous monologue than an exchange. She paused when Margaret glanced at her wristwatch. ‘You reckon that boy Moffit’s from Wellington?’
Margaret steadied herself on the edge of the counter as if she’d been caught off balance. ‘Our daughter’s fiancé?’
‘I reckon I know that face. Or one pretty like it. Family came from Ohakune way, didn’t they?’
‘Philip hasn’t mentioned that. We haven’t spent a lot of time with him yet. The two young people are studying, you see. Philip’s nearly finished his law degree.’
‘The law. Young Philip’s in the law. Well, my oh my. There’s a few things I could tell you about that young man’s family that I’ll bet you don’t know.’
‘I’d love to have let her have her say,’ Margaret told Nicholas that evening. ‘Perhaps I should have.’
‘It was probably lies.’
‘She said she was the postmaster’s wife. It sounded pretty convincing.’
‘It’s too late now,’ he said
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