‘Funny,’ he said. ‘Usually starts first touch.’ He turned the ignition key again. He had been doing this for the better part of a minute.
‘This is a good start,’ his wife said. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ It was eight minutes past three. The afternoon was warm, sunny. They had been married for five hours and eight minutes.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, through the driver’s side window, which was open. He knew very well what was wrong, why the engine was turning over but wouldn’t start. ‘But if I keep on like this, I’ll drain the battery. Then we’ll be really stuck.’
‘Marooned,’ his wife’s sister said. ‘Miles from a garage.’
‘Garage workshops close on Saturdays. Usually,’ he said. He got out of the car and stood looking at it. His wife of five hours and eight minutes, and her sister – his sister-in-law now - stood close to each other, a few paces from the car; his wife in her going-away suit, two piece, canary yellow; the sister still in her matron-of-honour’s outfit. She was the elder by seven years.
‘Cars,’ he said. ‘Just when you need them most.’ The car, a modest four door saloon, white with a black roof, seven years old, was parked in an outbuilding, a property of the farm that the sister-in-law worked with her husband. The car had been in the building overnight. ‘Secure,’ his soon-to-be wife had said the previous day. ‘You know what people are like with vehicles at weddings.’ He didn’t know, but did wonder.
Sunlight beamed in through the building’s small, high, barred windows. The floor towards the rear was covered in straw, which was clean. Stacked against the back wall were straw bales. On the farmhouse courtyard a tractor, not large, was parked. It had been driven out of the building so that the car could be driven in, and the door, a substantial door, locked. His sister-in-law had followed them out to the farm the previous evening in her Land Rover, and, after securing their car, had taken them back to the village. Today she had brought them from the reception, with their going-away suitcases, to retrieve the car. She had drawn up in the Land Rover next to the tractor.
‘It started alright last evening. When we brought it here,’ his wife said.
‘Remind me why we had to do that. Rather, why you insisted we should do that.’
‘You agreed. The car would be safer if we -’
‘ - brought it to this remote and secret location, to imprison it overnight.’
‘ - because of what people do to vehicles at weddings.’ She hesitated, then, ‘I didn’t want anything to spoil my day.’ Her sister, his sister-in-law, suppressed a smile.
‘Didn’t work too well, did it?’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’ His wife, his bride, in her vivid yellow trouser suit, tightened her mouth. Her clutch handbag, shoes and gloves were very white. There were shreds of confetti on her hair and shoulders. The car not starting was a setback that had in no way dimmed her radiance.
‘Well . . .’ he said, ‘Could be that one of those malign people who do things at weddings, heard on the village grapevine that the happy couple’s . . . vehicle . . .was to be be locked away overnight. So they abandoned their plan for scrawling ‘Just Married’ in lipstick on the back windscreen. That the sort of thing that would have spoiled your day?’
‘Exactly,’ his wife said. ‘You see -’
‘ - and instead, they drove out here, to the middle of nowhere, sneaked into this . . . motor vehicle secure unit in the middle of the night . . . and sabotaged our going-away transport, which would really spoil your day. Our day, actually. For a wedding day prank?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘You’ve a culprit in mind?’
His sister-in-law said this was neither the time nor the place for sarcasm or squabbling and they should think what should be done to resolve the situation. Her husband could look at the car. He was really good with the tractors and other farm machinery.
‘But he’s not here,’ he said. ‘He’s at the reception with the families and guests in their suits and outlandish hats. Or maybe he has moved on to the ‘Blue Bell’ or the ‘Three Tuns’ and is carousing with vagrants and layabouts – you know – the delinquents who do things to vehicles at weddings, and who now – outsmarted and confused by their target disappearing into cold-storage, so to speak - are drowning their disappointment.’ His wife glared, made as if to say something, stopped. His sister-in-law made a ‘let’s cool-it’ gesture and said she would call her husband anyway. He would drive back and do what he could. But when she concluded the call, she reported that, ‘You were right. He’s in the ‘Blue Bell.’ Totally hammered. Wants me to drive back to the village to rescue him.’
His wife approached the car. She said ‘If you invested in a vehicle that started reliably -’
‘It does. Usually. You know it does.’
‘- a newer model to replace this antique . . .’ For an instant he thought she really was going to kick the tyres ‘ . . . that’s ruining my day. Our day.’
‘Not the car’s – sorry, the vehicle’s - fault. Blame whoever snuck out here last night and jinxed the electrics . . . if in fact someone did.’
‘We must phone for help,’ his sister-in-law said. ‘Are you in a roadside rescue? The AA or something?’
‘No. All they can do at the roadside, usually, is change a wheel if you’ve punctured or give you a jump-start if your battery is flat. Any problem worse than that, they’ll take you and . . .’ - he looked at his wife ‘. . . your vehicle, to your home or to a garage. You get a ride on a flatbed.’
His sister-in-law turned away, an abrupt movement. Her shoulders shook. It took him a second or two to see why, and when he did, disguised an explosive laugh as a cough. His wife looked on, straight faced. ‘What’s funny?’ she said. ‘Did I miss something?’
‘Nothing that would make a bride blush,’ the sister-in-law said, then. ‘Well, I’ve been given my marching orders. I must away to the village to retrieve my husband; you know what husbands can be like at weddings.’ He caught his sister-in-law’s eye as she said this, registered her prim smile. She climbed into the Land Rover. ‘Be as quick as I can,’ she said. She started the engine, but stopped it after a moment or two and lowered her window. ‘The . . . um . . . How to say this? Just a suggestion, both, but . . . um . . . the house is empty. And. Well. You know. It being, well, the day it is, I sort of thought you could . . .’
‘Absolutely not,’ his wife shrieked. But he could not tell where her outrage was directed; at what her sister was suggesting or at her sister for suggesting it. ‘We’re going to Scotland. We were going to Scotland.’ Her sister made a ‘My bad’ face that overrode another smile, then, quietly through her open window as he came close to the Land Rover, ‘She’ll be alright. I think she gets she’s been silly - all that ‘what people do at weddings’ stuff.’
‘Agreed. But then . . . if her ‘no mischief at my wedding’ was a front, what was her ‘hiding the car’ nonsense all about in the first place?’
‘Your guess,’ she said. She started the engine, reversed into a turn and headed out to collect a tipsy husband who might be able to fix their car. Or not. In which case . . . how would the show get back on the road? He joined his bride close to the immobile car.
‘Who could have done it?’ he said, ‘And why?’
‘My parents are not highly regarded in the village.’
‘Do you seriously - ?’ He stopped. ‘It’s not their wedding day. You think this is a wedding prank by proxy played on your parents?’
‘Now what are you talking about?’
‘Never mind. Look at it another way. Clearly the barn, storeroom, whatever you call it - ’ He gestured to the outbuilding, ‘ - wasn’t broken into. No damage to the doors. So who had access? Who had a key? Other than your sister and her husband, who would surely be the last persons to do things to our vehicle at our wedding.’
‘Will you stop this.’
As the silence between them stretched, the space between them seemed to grow wider, until at last he said, ‘Look, love. I understand you didn’t want anything to spoil the day, but this – hiding the car - was nothing to do with protecting it from the Just Married Lipstick Brigade, was it?’
‘Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about. If the car had been left in the village last night . . . just think . . . they could have slashed the tyres. Smashed the headlights. Anything.’
‘Are your serious! That’s not a bit of wedding day fun. That’s vandalism. Criminal damage.’
‘It happens. Could happen,’ she protested.
‘And who exactly is this they who could have done it?’ When she made no answer beyond a huffed breath he went on, ‘Is there something I don’t know about? Neighbourhood feud? One of your exes looking to settle a score? Someone or ones bearing a grudge? Something you haven’t told me?’
She said nothing for several beats during which her face showed anger, then, ‘Why are you doing this?’ The hand not holding her bag was clenched, as was her voice now.
‘Doing what?’
‘Subjecting me to this third degree. I’m beginning to think you don’t believe me. All I wanted to do was to ensure our vehicle was safe so that nothing spoiled my day. Our day. Now it feels as if you’re doing just that - spoiling things with these stupid questions. No. Not stupid. Suspicious.’
He held her gaze.‘OK. OK. I take your point.’ He slapped the back of his left wrist with his right hand. ‘Bridegroom! Go stand on the naughty step.’
‘That’s better.’ Her stance softened, almost palpably.
‘Tell you what, dearest. Why don’t you go in the house and make us our first cup of something as man and wife and I’ll give Bertha here -’ He gestured at the car, ‘- another chance to prove her worth.’ He dangled the key fob, gave it a shake. ‘Maybe she was sulking just now. Letting us know she didn’t relish the idea of two hundred miles under a hot sun. Or of being locked in a shed all night where she couldn’t see the stars.’
She came two paces nearer, laid her gloved hand on his arm. ‘You’re lovely when you act silly like that.’
‘Yeah. Right. Go put the kettle on.’
As she went towards the farmhouse front door he slipped into the driver’s seat, inserted the key, turned it to unlock the steering, turned it another quarter turn. The engine started. He revved it, watching his wife turn at the door of the farmhouse and step back to the car, moving fast. She stopped, leaning down so that her face was level with his open window.
‘They never cease, do they, wonders?’ he said.
She gripped the edge of his door. ‘Come in the house with me. We’ll have coffee together. Wait for my sister to come back. Come on!’ She opened his door. ‘We mustn’t set off without saying goodbye to them.’
He sat where he was. She held the door open. He turned the engine off. ‘Come on,’ she said again.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t going to run off without you while you were making the coffee. Any more than I was planning to make my escape if the vehicle had been parked at your parents’ front gate tlast night. That might have really spoiled your day.’
‘Very funny,’ she said, voice charged with anger. She walked – no, she stalked – back to the farmhouse, went in and slammed the door.
He got out of the car and followed his wife, asking himself sotto voce if it was a good idea to marry someone you didn’t trust and, were that the case, which of them mistrusted the other most and whichever it was, what did their future now hold?
