5. Dikkerby Ties the Knot
It was a rainy day. Rain
always made Dikkerby nervous. He had already been to the toilet five times this
morning. In his bedroom he donned the smart new suit and tied the silver tie.
He went downstairs.
“Eee,
lad, ye looook reet smart!” cackled his mother.
“Is there a funeral on today, lad?”
quipped his father from his vantage point behind “The Racing Pigeon News”.
“Very funny, father,” replied Dikkerby as he checked his
appearance in the grubby mirror over the mantelpiece.
“Can we not come?” pleaded his mother. Dikkerby shot his
cuffs and stared at her in his most haughty manner.
“I think not, mother. I think not”
A car horn sounded from the street. Dikkerby emerged into
the drizzle.
“Won’t be a minute,” he called to the driver as he nipped
back to the toilet upstairs for one last nervous tinkle.
His mother was standing at the window as they drove away,
pressing a soiled handkerchief to her weeping eyes.
“Ower sun! Getting wed!”
“She
must be a reet barm pot” cracked his Dad.
The church was deserted. Tuesday at nine in the morning
in the rain was not a great time for a wedding. Dikkerby had few acquaintances
and fewer friends. He was marrying because he had been tipped the wink that a
married man was much more likely to succeed in the pursuit of a Headship in a
private school, rather than a bachelor.
The vicar, clearly a lesbian with sandals poking out from
beneath her cassock and roughly applied make-up stood at the front. Next to her
stood a cassette player.
Within seconds Madge arrived and was escorted into the
church by her father. She looked like a bride should. Gone were the unshaved
legs and the mousy brown hair and the crooked teeth. She had been groomed to
within an inch of her life for this special day. You could hardly see her mouth
working ceaselessly like someone chewing a wasp. She was just right for
Dikkerby.
The ceremony went off without a hitch, apart from the
tape cassette snagging and unravelling all over the floor during the
recessional hymn.
They climbed into the waiting limousine outside, ducking
to avoid the rain.
“Where to lad?” asked the driver.
“Midland Hotel, Manchester if you would,” said Dikkerby.
“Oh and congratulations, you two. Well done. Off for a
bit of a shag now, is it?”
“So coarse,” whispered Madge as she stared out the
rain-spattered window.
The journey proceeded without incident and in silence.
The hotel room was lovely. Bridal suite. Second floor
with a view of St Peter’s Square (just).
The couple changed into more comfortable clothes and had
a fine meal for their wedding celebration.
“This time tomorrow we’ll be in France,” remarked
Dikkerby.
“Je
sais. C’est mon rêve!” replied Madge, smiling coyly.
“Jolly
good, old girl.” Dikkerby wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.
They
had a large brandy at the bar, probably for courage, before going up to the
room. There they undressed in silence, brushed their teeth and got in to bed.
Dikkerby extinguished the lights. He allowed a curious hand to move in the
direction of Madge’s body.
“I think not, Dikkerby. There’ll be none of that sort of
thing.”
“Very
well, old girl”. Dikkerby turned on his side and dropped into a deep sleep.
Madge cried herself gently to sleep. “What have I done?
What have I done?”
*
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