The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [109]
“Here’s to a hundred years of happiness,” he said fiercely. “We won’t let anyone spoil our life together.”
“A hundred years,” I echoed.
He caught my grimace—wine still tasted bitter—and teased me about preferring Ribena. I was telling him what I remembered of Edinburgh, asking if we could visit the castle tomorrow, when we heard the first distant rumble of thunder. And then, even as we were exclaiming, came a flash and another peal much closer. A heavy-footed giant was stalking the heavens.
“It’s a celestial celebration of our nuptials,” I said. “Like in Shakespeare. Let’s go outside.”
“Gemma, the storm is almost overhead. We could be struck by lightning. When you’re as old as I am, you can go out in thunderstorms.”
I was laughing, pulling him towards the window, when the room filled with dazzling light and, almost simultaneously, a huge bang shook the house. For a few seconds the shelves of books shone on the inside of my eyelids. I couldn’t move or think. The storm was suddenly not just a brilliant spectacle but a terrifying threat. Then Hugh drew me down behind a chair.
“We’re quite safe,” he said. “It struck something, but not the house.”
The thunder growled, circling the chimney pots, but his arms were around me, and neither god nor electrical storm could separate us. Briefly I wondered if the storm had woken Nell; if so, I knew she would lie there, counting the intervals between lightning and thunder with keen satisfaction. The next peal was farther away, and the next still farther. At last we stood up and went over to the window.
“What’s that?” said Hugh.
The flames I had seen earlier, reflected in the windows of the house, were flickering high up in the garden. After a few seconds we both understood. The green beech tree, the one that had survived the gale unscathed, had been struck.
“We have to save it,” I said, heading for the door.
But Hugh stopped me. “Gemma, there’s nothing to be done. The fire is too high up. If the tree is damaged we’ll plant another. In fact, whatever happens, we should plant a tree to mark our marriage.”
“A silver birch,” I suggested, and he agreed.
The next morning I did not open the curtains on that side of my room; I preferred not to see the wounded tree, the second wounded tree, on my wedding day. I had breakfast with Nell in the kitchen, a hasty bowl of cornflakes, and then took her upstairs to braid her hair and help her dress. Once she was ready she sat cross-legged on my bed to watch my own preparations. When I pulled on the dress, she gasped and said I looked like a princess. It was true; in the mirror I barely recognised myself. The dress made me seem taller, and more graceful. I remembered how my uncle had described my mother on her wedding day: radiant. I put on my raincoat. Downstairs Vicky, in a purple tweed suit, was waiting for Nell, and Hugh, in a pinstriped suit, for me. He had a white rose in his buttonhole, and I wished I had thought to pick some flowers to carry, but it was too late now. The red sky of the previous evening had lied; rain was streaming down. Hugh held an umbrella over me as we walked to the car. Seamus’s Land Rover was, as usual, parked alongside the tractor shed.
On the way to Kirkwall, above the beat of the windscreen wipers, and the noise of the engine, I asked what would happen at the registry office. I was suddenly worried that we should have rehearsed.
“It can’t be too complicated,” said Hugh. He was driving fast, leaning forward occasionally to wipe the windscreen. “Look at all the people who are married. I thought we’d have lobster for supper. Do you like lobster? And of course champagne?”
“I’ve never tried either.”
“Oh, Gemma, there are so many things I want to introduce you to. Tonight we’ll have a bottle of the best champagne.”
The registry office was in an old building off the high street, behind a jeweller’s shop. The vestibule smelled