All According To Plan

Family and friends pull together in this light-hearted short story by Meg Hudson.

and glassware (the local Oxfam), and I noticed they were doing a Valentine’s fund-raiser.

For 50p you could write a message to your love on a paper heart and stick it on the window.

So I wrote a message to “Sky Man”. Tom always gravitates upwards – hills and mountains, tall buildings, trees. He likes to see the big picture.

I rang him at work and told him to look at Oxfam’s window on his way home.

“You’re to stand there till you know why you’re standing there.”

He thought I’d given away something of his, or seen something I thought we needed, so it was a while before he stopped looking through the window, and looked at what was actually on the window.

He came home with a big grin on his face.

The next day was Valentine’s Day, and we set off on the noon train for Bert and Susie’s wedding.

It was a blue-sky February day, spring was round the corner and it was fun to be out on the town in our glad rags.

Tom slowed his pace as we passed the Oxfam shop on the way to the station. Amongst the hearts on the window was one with a loving message to “Cave Woman”.

That’s me.

So we laughed and hugged, then had to run for the train.

The ride was glorious. Low sunshine lit the rolling hills and cast long shadows on the fields of sheep and early lambs.

We reminisced about youthful ridge walks and held hands across the table.

Much later, with Bert and Susie happily wed and the two of us homeward bound on the train in the darkness, high on dancing and mellow with champagne, I heard myself say, “Let’s do it. A proper wedding. September.”

What was I saying? Take it back, quick! But it was too late.

Tom’s smile almost met round the back.

So that was it. I’d sneaked up on myself. Now I’m committed to this blooming great hullabaloo.

Why did I open my mouth?

With only months to go till the wedding, I had no idea how we’d pull it off!

****

It’s April 19.

Panic has set in. It’ll be a fiasco.

Neither of us is organised enough to put a wedding together. There are more urgent things to do with our money than blow the lot on an old fogies’ wedding gala. It’s our children’s inheritance.

How far can I backtrack without making Tom unhappy? How cheap and cheerful can we make it and still have a day to remember?

For a start, it will have to be informal. It mustn’t cost an arm and a leg. Or even a leg.

I won’t be wearing a meringue. I’ll have turned sixty, for heaven’s sake; I think it’s a trouser suit for me and comfy shoes.

Will I get away with trainers? Doc Martens?

There’ll be a lot of people, there’s no avoiding that.

Our first list ran to 150, but there’s nowhere local big enough to hold them all, and I’m blowed if we’re going down the marquee route.

So we’ve trimmed our sails. It’s 75 now, including nine children.

Thank goodness we hadn’t told any of the people we had to prune. You’d never speak again to a neighbour you’d been pruned by.

There are still things to sort out sharpish. My less-than-svelteness. My dislike of crowds.

That’s in addition to the usual – venue, registrar, flowers, food, music, drink.

I told Lauren the most fun wedding I’ve attended was Hindu, and there was no alcohol, so ours was going to be alcohol-free, too. The first bit was true.

She looked aghast till I grinned and she realised I was joking!

I need to sort a wedding outfit, undergarments, invitations, something to entertain the youngsters.

I lost five pounds in the first fortnight after I succumbed, but that was anxiety. It’s gone back on with comfort eating.

No more buttery crumpets with maple syrup! Five months to go and a stone to shed, so I’ve come up with a weight loss and fitness strategy.

I realise I’m chewing a handful of salted cashews as I plan. I will have to rethink my snacking.

Tom’s doing better than me at healthy eating, and he’s doubled the length of the dog’s walkies.

Danny keeps coming up with venues.

“Grandma, my mate lives on a farm and they have a barn we could use. It has electricity.

“It’s the one where we go to jam. We could party all weekend outdoors.”

I’d like that better than some of the alternatives, but I can’t imagine my mother picking her way through straw bales in her high heels.

How come my eightyyear-old mother can still walk in heels and I can’t?

Would it be bad of me to get assessed for a hip replacement? With a bit of luck, I’d be having my operation on the big day.

I could appoint a proxy bride for the ceremony and catch up on my reading while they had a knees-up.

I’ve dragged my bike up from the cellar. I wonder if I can ride without falling off.

****

It’s April 20.

I rode eight miles along the towpath. I felt great till I got off and my legs had turned to water!

I’d forgotten how good it feels, hurtling along with the breeze on my skin. The bike was a good idea.

I’ve been browsing websites, looking at venues, cakes, musicians, florists and photographers. The prices!

We might end up in Danny’s mate’s barn after all, with a bulk delivery of Bargain Buckets from

Fancy Fried Chicken.

Given that I’m living on lettuce and radishes, a bucket of fried chicken might be very attractive by September.

I’m off to the pool again. I’m starting to enjoy this swimming malarkey. I might be ready to stop doing terrified breadths and risk a length to the deep end soon.

****

It’s May 3.

I’ve just done five brisk miles up the hill and back with those walking poles I bought from Oxfam years ago. I knew they’d come in handy.

Amazing things have happened. I told Milly to keep September 19 free and she offered to make the cake! Milly’s baking is legendary.

I said we’d buy the ingredients, but she said it was her wedding gift to us.

Not only will it be the best wedding cake anyone’s ever tasted, but it will save us a small fortune.

Tom’s daughter-in-law rang to ask if we’d let her be official photographer. She’s doing a course and needs the practice.

Ellie has a good eye, state-of-the-art cameras, and a nice way of bullying people into position.

She thinks we’re doing her a favour!

Lauren’s my bridesmaid, obviously, but Tom is much bothered by the best man question.

He’s close to both his brothers, but they don’t get on with each other, so it’s a minefield.

It’s making him wish we hadn’t started this.

****

It’s May 23.

I had a brainwave. Realising it was impossible for Tom to choose between his brothers, I suggested he might ask Kay.

She’s his oldest, closest friend: a woman who puts her heart and soul into any task she takes on. Highly organised and great fun.

I saw the anxiety drop from his shoulders. Neither brother could be offended if he asked Kay, so he got straight on the phone.

Kay was delighted. Ten minutes later her partner Jen called back and offered to be our driver on the day. Jen takes great pride in her cars and they’re always immaculate.

What could we say? Yes, please!

I do believe it’s starting to come together. What was I so scared of?

I’m going for a swim now. I might risk the deep end.

****

It’s August 9.

We’ve both lost a stone and are looking and feeling trim and fit.

We’re nearly there. Almost everything booked, bought or organised. Friends will decorate the reception room while the family is in the registry office.

Lauren and I have been making and freezing pastries and dainties for the buffet.

I found a gorgeous vintage dress and it skims my newly trim outline like magic.

I treated myself to silver sandals with a pretty heel. Not as high as Mum’s, but high enough.

The only thing we haven’t sorted is music. We don’t want a disco or a classical quartet.

It’s a dilemma. We need something everyone will enjoy that doesn’t cost a packet.

Less than six weeks to go and still no music booked.

****

It’s August 19. Everything is up and running. People are so happy to be involved. There’s always someone popping in or phoning, full of ideas.

Bert and Susie are bringing a trunkful of dressing-up costumes for all the children. It’s going to be fun.

It’ll be quiet fun, though, if we don’t book some music post-haste.

****

It’s August 20.

Tom returned from walking the dog, covered in wet leaves and sycamore twisters.

“We were passing Mike

Now I’m committed to this blooming great hullabaloo

Burton’s barn and I could hear music,” he said.

“There was a bunch of youngsters in there – guitars, amps, drums, the lot. They were playing Buddy Holly, would you believe! Mighty good, too.”

“Isn’t that the barn where Danny’s band practises?” I asked.

“It is. The boy plays a mean rhythm guitar. He spotted me and came over. They’ve got a wide repertoire.

“They do up-to-date stuff, but they like Eddie Cochran and early Elvis. They played me a bit of the Kinks!”

I read his mind.

“Have we found our wedding music?” I asked.

****

It’s September 19.

Ah, how good it feels to slip off my shoes on the train.

We’re on our way to Barcelona and we couldn’t be happier.

It’s been a wonderful day, and because it was such a team effort it felt incredibly warm and loving.

Kay was the best best man ever and the band went down a storm. An hour ago, when we nipped off, everyone was still dancing, including my mother. I bet she still is.

And she’ll still have her stilettos on!

The End.