White Wedding by Milly Johnson Page B

felt duty-bound to ask though she knew that Joy would sooner gouge out her own eyeballs than have
anyone help her in her kingdom. Unless it was after the meal when Norman had the customary duty of drying the washed plates.
    ‘No, dear, it’s all under control.’
    Joy stirred the gravy with one hand and tipped the teapot over her china cups with the other. It looked a struggle and Violet watched her awkwardly. It was uncomfortable to be so redundant. Both
here and at home.
    ‘We’ve brought you some of that non-alcoholic wine,’ said Glyn.
    ‘Oh lovely. We’ll have that with pudding,’ replied Norman.
    ‘It’s ready,’ trilled Joy as a choir of buzzers all went off at the same time. ‘Daddy, would you carve?’
    ‘Certainly, Mum,’ saluted Norman, and he picked up the meat and the electric knife and then carried them into the dining room.
    ‘Go and sit down, dear,’ Joy instructed, juggling pans with the panache of a top-of-the-bill circus act.
    Violet followed Norman and Glyn into the wood-panelled dining room. The decor of the house was immaculate but dreadfully dated. She was sure the Leachs had injected all the furniture with
formaldehyde because it was all so fabulously preserved.
    The table was set with frilly doily place mats and beige cloth napkins and an ancient silver cruet stood in the middle of the table, sharing space on a wooden trivet with a milk jug and sugar
bowl. In one corner of the room was the old hostess trolley that Joy still occasionally used when they had visitors; in another corner stood an upright piano polished to a dazzling shine. Neither
of them could play it. It was a relic from the music lessons Glyn had taken between the ages of seven and fifteen.
    ‘Dad has asked us if we want to borrow the caravan for our honeymoon,’ said Glyn, with the excitement of someone who had just found a Rolex in the street.
    Violet gulped. ‘Oh. A honeymoon? I didn’t even think about that. I presumed you wouldn’t be able to manage one.’
    ‘We should at least consider it. And quickly,’ said Glyn. ‘The wedding will be here before we know it.’
    ‘Seventy-six days and counting,’ chuckled Joy, ferrying in dishes of vegetables. ‘You might as well have a nice holiday, just the pair of you, before the babies come
along.’
    ‘Babies?’ Violet nearly choked.
    ‘You don’t want to be hanging about at your age,’ said Joy. ‘The younger you are when you have children, the more energy you have – trust me on that one. If
you’re thirty-three now, even if you caught on straight away, you’re going to be halfway to thirty-five by the time the first one comes along. Then you’ll need a rest before
number two . . .’
    Violet didn’t say anything; she just let Joy prattle on about grandchildren and kept schtum. She and Glyn had talked about having children in the heady rush of feelings at the beginning,
but it hadn’t been mentioned since. He wasn’t in any fit state to be a father with his agoraphobia and anxieties. And it wasn’t on Violet’s agenda any more.
    ‘I need to get my new business up and running,’ Violet excused.
    ‘And I’m quite happy for you to do that,’ smiled Glyn. ‘I’m looking forward to being a house-daddy as well as a house-husband.’
    Blimey, he’d got all this worked out in advance, thought Violet. It was like watching John Noakes on Blue Peter saying, ‘Here’s one I made earlier.’ She had an
awful feeling that if she looked in Joy’s knitting bag she would find a stockpile of little blue and pink cardigans.
    ‘Glyn says you haven’t got your wedding dress yet,’ said Joy, passing the sprouts.
    ‘Not yet,’ said Violet as she speared some pork. It was cooked to perfection, as always.
    ‘You’re leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?’ Norman put in.
    ‘Well, it’s not a big wedding, is it? I’m sure I’ll find something in time.’
    ‘I don’t mind coming shopping with you, if you want,’ Joy volunteered.
    ‘No,