Tattered Dreams

A poignant romance

The dress hanging on the wardrobe door was all that was left of Kim’s non-event of a wedding, which should have taken place almost a year ago.

In fact, in precisely one week’s time, she and Paul would have been celebrating their first anniversary.

It was an anniversary of sorts, she supposed, but not one worth celebrating.

Until she’d pulled it out a few minutes ago the dress had hung at the right end of her wardrobe, creamy-white against reds, purples, blacks, standing out, making a bit of a spectacle of itself, if truth be told.

She’d decided it was time for a clearout and while the dress was, in theory, doing no harm there, it was doing no good either.

She glanced at the clock – she had half an hour or so. These days she was amazed at what she could get done in half an hour.

“You could give it to charity, maybe?” Lorna, her erstwhile bridesmaid, had suggested tentatively. “Someone would love it. Vintage is so now.”

She couldn’t do that. It should stay in the family. Mum had worn it, and Gran before her. It wouldn’t do for a stranger to wear it.

Kim stroked the fabric of the dress, soft and smooth as a baby’s skin. Silk and lace with a satin underskirt, the skirt fell in soft folds from the waist. Sheer sleeves and a full lace neckline added to its vintage look.

She glanced at the photo on her bedside table – Mum and Dad grinning at the camera, Mum’s hair tumbling over her shoulders. When Mum suggested she wore it she’d been unsure, if flattered.

“It’s certainly going to be a big old squeeze, Mum,” Kim had said.

Her mum had spent several evenings altering it to fit.

“It’s worth it, love,” she’d said, watching Kim twirl in front of the mirror. “My lucky dress. You look beautiful.”

Sadly, the luck of the happy marriages of Mum and Dad and Gran and Grandad hadn’t been passed down with the dress.

There was so much more to it than luck, she thought. There were the choices people made. Uncomfortable choices, sometimes.

The suggestion they marry in the first instance had, she had to be honest, been more hers than his.

Not a proposal, exactly, but a suggestion which had arisen from a discussion they’d had while walking the circular path up the hill behind their house. The house they were renting while they saved up for a deposit on a home of their own.

“Stop a minute, Paul,” she’d panted. “I need a rest.” She’d plonked herself down on a rock – their rock, flat and wide, a perfect place to stop.

The hill, the rock, the climb. They all belonged to them. Not exclusively, obviously, they knew that, but they’d both always been happiest on this hill, saw it as their place.

It was where they’d first made love. Bold as anything, late one summer evening, leaving their friends behind in the pub, giggling as they started the climb, knowing what they were going to do without voicing their intentions, finding somewhere as private as they could, sheltered.

It had been passionate and sweet. Paul was a gentle lover, considerate. It wasn’t comfortable, clearly, but wonderful, the air caressing their skin.

Making love in the comfort of their bed had never quite lived up to the al fresco moments they’d shared on the hill.

Paul had sat next to her that day fourteen months ago, his arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer, kissing her. They were silent, for a while, watching people move around below them, tiny, purposeful.

“You know what we should do,” she said, pausing for breath.

“Go on,” he said, offering her a sip of coffee from his flask. She’d declined it, glugging at water instead.

A blessing ON THE HILL, then a small RECEPTION. It had SNOWBALLED a bit

“We should get married.” There’d been a pause before he answered; her stomach had dropped. Had she made one huge faux pas?

“Yeah, let’s get married,” he’d agreed, hugging her. “Let’s set a date. Here, now. Is a couple of months’ time long enough for something small, informal, just a few close friends and family? Up here?”

They would have a blessing on the hill. Then a small reception in the pub down in the village.

It had snowballed, a bit. These things do, don’t they? Weddings.

It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? Get married? After all, they were expecting a baby together.

Wasn’t it the next logical step? Her gran might have said that it should have come before the baby, but hey, times had changed since Gran wore the dress.

When, two days before the wedding, Paul had first announced he wasn’t ready to get married, there had been so much to untangle. One day, maybe, he’d told her – one day – but not this day, not now.

The dress had been the least of her problems then. Calling guests, cancelling the venue, ringing the celebrant, that all needed doing. Immediately.

They’d sat at the kitchen table together, she and Paul, strangely calm, her laptop in front of them, a “cancelled” column now in place on their wedding to-do list. She’d been too stunned to cry. “Why, Paul? Why agree in the first place? Why leave it until now?”

“I’m sorry, Kim. Truly sorry,” he’d replied. “I don’t know why. I just know I can’t. I’ll be there, though. For – you know – the birth.”

They weren’t just getting married, they were expecting a baby.

He’d offered to stay with his mum for now; they both thought it was for the best. She only lived around the corner. Things were unravelling, and she needed some space. Some thinking space. There was far more than a wedding to consider.

On the day her wedding had been scheduled to take place, she’d set her mind on doing something. On her own. People had been so kind, but tentative with her, as though she was a china doll. Fragile and breakable, likely to crumble into tiny, sharp pieces.

She’d donned her boots half an hour before the ceremony had been due to start. The hill wasn’t the place for heels. And then she’d slipped into the dress, just managing to fasten the zip on her own, before setting off. She’d mumbled to Paul, as though he were with her, her words lost on the wind, her tears drying on her cheeks as soon as they landed there, climbing up the circular path, determined to make it to the top. She found their rock and sat down, needing a breather.

She must look bonkers, she’d thought, a kind of living, breathing Miss Havisham in boots. So be it. Bonkers, today, was good.

She glanced down to the village, watching the ant-like people carry on with their lives. She wondered what Paul was doing. What he was thinking. If he looked up at their hill, would he be able to see her? Resplendent in silk, lace and walking boots?

She’d texted him since. They’d had whole conversations that way. Why? was the question that kept coming up.

Fear, was one of his replies. You’re afraid of me? she’d replied. Not you, the thing, the institution. She knew his parent’s marriage had been devastatingly unhappy, and that must have had an impact. But they’d discussed that. Maybe it was worth repeating. She’d reassured him, things would be better for them.

I come from good marriage stock, she’d said. Remember? But what if I fail you? There’s so much to lose. He had not changed his mind.

Now she hung the dress on the wardrobe door, tearing the plastic sheet from it, fluffing out the skirt.

The hem still showed signs of the mud that had splattered on it on what should have been her wedding day, despite her attempts to scrub it clean. It was still beautiful. It always would be.

Another glance at the clock. If she was going to call, it needed to be now. She was on borrowed time. Lucy would begin to stir in a few minutes. Seven months old, now, she woke from a nap as regular as clockwork.

“Mum, are you free to pop over for half an hour?”

She just caught her mum’s reply as Lucy began to call from her cot.

They snuggled together, Kim and Lucy, in mutual comfort, for a few minutes. She was a joy, her baby, their baby. Although they were no longer together, Paul was a good dad, devoted.

He took Lucy out, had climbed the hill with her on his back. Kim had watched them trail their way up. She hadn’t joined them, not that time.

“Hi, love.” Kim’s mum let herself in. Kim had given her a key when Lucy was born. It made sense. Her mum had helped her heal, find forgiveness. She’d been there to listen, not pass judgement. Her mum had been a rock.

“Where’s my gorgeous granddaughter?” she called.

“Up here, Mum. Lucy and I, we’re up here. In my room.”

Her mum leaned to kiss first Lucy on the nose, then Kim on the cheek.

“I need your help with something, Mum.” Kim nodded in the direction of the dress, the heirloom dress, taking a deep breath, and then just saying it.

“It needs a few alterations, Mum, if what I suggest is OK with you.”

She explained her idea. Her mum was silent for a few moments, as Paul had been at the suggestion of a wedding, and Kim’s stomach flipped again.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea, Kim. The perfect use for a family heirloom.”

Aweek later, and the first anniversary of the non-wedding arrived. It could have passed quietly, without anyone noticing. But, instead, there was a flurry of activity in Kim’s house.

You’d think, maybe, a wedding was taking place, if you didn’t know otherwise. There were lots of flowers, platters of food on the table covered in a crisp cotton cloth, bottles of champagne cooling in the fridge, guests on their way.

“Nearly ready, Mum?” Kim called. Her mum was in the upstairs front bedroom, Lucy’s room.

“Almost done,” she called out, though what sounded like a mouthful of pins.

The celebrant arrived. The one who had been scheduled to perform the wedding blessing.

“Can I just run through the wording with you?” she asked Kim. Lucy was sleeping in Kim’s arms.

The wording was perfect, exactly right. As it had been for the wedding. “Here you are, Kim, love.” Her mum handed her a dress. A beautiful dress. Tiny this time. Silk and lace with a satin underskirt, fashioned from her own wedding dress, the one not worn by Kim.

“It’s skipped a generation, I guess,” she said as Kim slipped the dress over her daughter’s head. Lucy was awake now, looking puzzled at all the activity.

Kim glanced at the clock. It was time.

They made their way up the hill – Kim, Lucy, friends and family. Kim wore her walking boots and a kneelength red dress. The celebrant was at the head of the trail of guests, and arrived at the rock first. “Here?” she asked. Kim nodded her reply. The celebrant was about to start when Kim said, “Wait.”

A figure was making his way up the hill, quickly, almost running. Kim watched Lucy watching the figure – reaching out to him. Paul. Kim had invited him, by text, and he’d sent a reply, saying that he’d be there. He’d ended the text with three x’s.

She’d wondered if he would turn up, of course she had.

This time he had. This time. He stood at the edge of the group, giving Kim a nod and a smile.

“Our rock,” he mouthed. “Lucy’s rock too,” she mouthed back. “We are gathered here today,” the celebrant began, “for Lucy’s naming ceremony, and to welcome Lucy to the world.”

The celebrant’s voice was clear, not caught on the wind. Kim allowed the words to flow over her. She and Paul caught each other’s gaze again.

If she ever married, she thought, it would be in this dress, this red dress. If she ever married. But she wouldn’t think about that today. Today was about her daughter, their daughter. And a dress. A beautiful, tiny dress. But their daughter mattered so much more. She was the true family heirloom.

She beckoned Paul closer. He edged through the crown towards Lucy and her.

Tomorrow she could think about the future. About whether she could ask her mum to babysit, and she would ask Paul out on a date. Back to basics, maybe. They had to start somewhere. Maybe she’d suggest they walk up to their rock.