Page 5 of A Sky Painted Gold

The ceremony is over in next to no time. More than one person cries, and Alice and Jack stand just glowing at each other the whole way through. I have never seen two people so lit up in real life; it is as if we are all in a dark theatre watching a film where two radiant actors shine out from the screen. Afterwards, we spill out of the church, flinging confetti over the happy couple and making our way to the village green for a great big party. A long makeshift table has been set up, and it groans under the weight of the feast provided by Midge and other women in the village.

As I pile a plate full of food I bump into Mrs Bastion, who is wearing a very tight-fitting floral dress and a lot of rouge.

“Oh, Lou!” she exclaims, tears in her eyes as she looks at Jack and Alice. “Don’t they look wonderful together?”

“Yes, they do,” I agree, watching Jack pull my sister’s hand to his lips and say something that makes her laugh.

“It reminds me of how I was with my second husband,” Mrs Bastion sighs. “That was before I married Mr Bastion, of course, may he rest in peace.”

I am not too sure what to say about this. It is widely believed that Mr Bastion’s heart attack may have been down to his wife’s more passionate behaviour. (The Italian blood did for him in the end, or so says the village gossip.) Luckily, before I can dwell too much on the unfortunate Mr Bastion and the finer details of his untimely demise, Mrs Bastion interrupts me. “And it will be you next, Louise!” She digs an elbow into my ribs and flutters her eyelashes coquettishly.

I try to keep myself from grimacing, although the thought of getting married and settling down, of following behind Alice as I always do, makes me feel panicky and short of breath. “Oh, I don’t know…” I say, but it turns out that she isn’t terribly interested in my opinion.

“Of course it will! You’ll be down the aisle in no time,” she exclaims. “No need to be downhearted.”

“I’m not—” I begin, but Mrs Bastion has already sailed away to talk to someone else.

I secure myself a glass of ginger wine. I don’t usually drink it as a rule, but I know that Mrs Bastion isn’t going to be the only one who wants to talk to me about my marital prospects and how I’d better be getting on with it. Besides, how often does your older sister get married? I take a furtive sip, and choke a little over its strength. Then a pleasing warmth begins to spread through my body and my limbs feel looser. I take another sip and decide that I am ready to get back to the party.

And what a party it is. The eating and drinking lasts all afternoon, and then the music begins. A group of lads from the village set up a rackety band, and someone rolls an old upright piano out into the sunshine. The music is a bit wheezy, a little out of tune, but it jangles cheerily through the air. I kick off my shoes and dance in my stockinged feet, tipsy and pink-cheeked. Alice and Jack are beside me and I am full of love for them, full of love for everyone.

Then, all of a sudden, the festivities are interrupted by a roaring sound that fills the air, humming and throbbing louder and louder. I turn to see a convoy of four sleek automobiles rumbling through the village towards us at a terrific pace. The music clatters to a halt and we all stop and stand, our mouths hanging open as we watch the cars tear along the road. Each vehicle has the roof pulled down, and men and women wearing gorgeous evening clothes seem to be spilling out of them as they holler and cheer and wave on their way past us. As the final car drives past, a girl hangs out of the back with an open champagne bottle in one hand. She is dazzling, clad in a dress of silver fringe, a jewelled headband wrapped tightly around her perfectly shingled hair. Her eyes meet mine, and her crimson mouth curves into a wicked smile. “Cheers, darling!” she calls, raising the bottle to her lips. The cars disappear as quickly as they arrived, the only clue that they were ever here a cloud of dust, and the faint roar as they make their way down to the causeway.

I feel something leap inside me.

The appearance of the convoy of automobiles is like gasoline on a flame. Gossip and speculation fill the air, and it is as if a little bit of the glitter and glamour has rubbed off on us all, adding a frenzied feeling to the festivities that only grows as the ginger wine flows faster and faster. A cry goes up – is it, possibly, my own? – that we will show those Cardews a thing or two about throwing a party. Cheers ring out, and the night will be one that Penlyn talks about for years to come.

Alice and Jack’s wedding celebrations last well into the early hours of the morning, and the sun is beginning to burn up the edges of the sky as I wind my way home, carrying my impractical shoes in one hand. Walking along the coastal path in the smudgy light of dawn, I can see the Cardew House blazing with light. A flutter of excitement dances in my stomach and I stand on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the water and straining my eyes to make out any details I can. After spending so much time imagining what the house could be, I am itching to know what is going on inside. Is it all I hoped for?

Except for the lights and the cars crammed on to the gravel drive I can see no immediate signs of life. “I know you’re there,” I whisper. Unfortunately, the silent house remains aloof, no longer quite my friend but not exactly a stranger. I stand for a moment longer, my arms wrapped around my chest, watching and listening as hard as I can.

An enormous yawn that seems to reach up from my toes takes me by surprise, interrupting my reverie and leaving me swaying on tired legs. Bright young things will have to wait – I need my bed. I stagger the rest of the way home, and to my foggy brain the walk seems to take at least three times as long as it usually does. When I reach the farm, all is still and quiet, and I drag myself upstairs before collapsing fully dressed on my bed and promptly falling into a dead sleep.

When I wake up several hours later – though how many exactly, I have no idea – I think that my head is going to explode. My mouth is dry and the bright afternoon sunlight that filters in through the window makes me hiss like an unhappy vampire. There is a knock at the door and Midge sticks her head in. My eyes are bleary, but there is no missing the grin on her face. It’s the same gleeful look that the triplets get when they think they are getting away with some mischief.

“Oho!” she exclaims with something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “I thought you might be needing this.” And she hands me a large glass of water.

Gingerly, I sit up. The room swirls a little and then rights itself. I reach out gratefully for the water, taking a long, cold draft. I feel like a dry sponge. “What happened?” I wheeze.

“Well,” Midge begins, perching on the end of the bed, “I think what happened is a good deal of Cath’s ginger wine.”

“Oooooooh,” I moan, clutching my head. “Yes, I think you’re right. I’m sorry.”

Midge gives me a long look. “I should be cross, I suppose,” she muses, “but you are almost eighteen now. Besides which, seeing the state of you, I think you’ll be staying off the ginger wine for a while.”

My stomach lurches at the mere mention of that devil brew. I whimper, burying my face in my pillow.

“When I left you were … singing,” Midge continues gleefully, and I can’t help but think that she’s enjoying this all a bit too much for a responsible parent figure.

“No!” I groan, though it is all coming back to me. Someone had been plonking away at the piano and I stood on a chair and, “Oooooh!” I moan again.

Midge starts humming then, the melody to “Building a Nest for Mary”, the song that I now realize I performed with some enthusiasm the night before. I have been singing it to Alice for weeks, teasing her with its lyrics about a man who wants to build a little bungalow and a little nursery for his sweetheart, Mary. At one point I think I tried swapping out the word “Mary” for “Alice” and the crowd cheered. My head crashes back into the pillow, and I understand, wincingly, that sudden movements are not my friend.

“What … what is in that stuff?” I ask weakly.

“It’s your aunt Cath’s secret recipe,” Midge says, and she pats my arm. “And it’s taken down stronger folk than you. Absolutely lethal.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I mutter. The pounding in my head is relentless. “I think I’m dying,” I croak, snuggling towards her.