BETRAYAL
by Gloria Watts
The sun floats in the afternoon’s grey-clouded sky. Snowflakes twirl like tissue wings, cling to the bare branched trees lining the pathway. The soft crunch of snow echoes in the cold still air as family and friends walk the snow filled path towards the Church. Birds sing.
The church is full, filled with an array of colour that shimmers in the pale sunlight streaming through painted windows. Flowers of every hue decorate the end of pews, occupy the large urns, and stand tall in vases on the altar. Women, some dressed in vivid coloured frocks, some in pastel frocks, wear delicate brimmed bonnets. Some wear outlandish hats. They fill the benches, accompanied by their sombre suited men folk wearing white carnations pinned to solid chests. Guests wait; a soft excited, incessant murmuring, low then rising, fills the nave, hangs in the humid air.
The organist, middle-aged and grey-haired, is prompted by the priest to play a selection of hymns that most people don’t know, or maybe can’t remember. The melodies rise high to the vaulted ceiling. The atmosphere grows steadily tenser as time passes and the bridal party fails to appear. The groom sits in the front pew, handsome, but grey-faced with hands that fidget. He looks neither to left or right but sits silent, his best man, pale-faced, sits beside him.
At the sudden blast of ‘Here Comes the Bride’ all heads turn. The bride, attended by her bridesmaid’s, all wearing lavender, and a small pageboy, in white silk, who carries her train of virginal white. She has her hand gently resting on her father’s arm and starts her slow progression down the aisle. A nervous smile trembles on her face. She moves gracefully towards the groom.
Elaine fidgets with a strand of red-gold hair let loose from the curls fashioned beneath the tiara on her head. Anxious, she stares at the girl in the mirror, a small, slender creature wearing a white silk wedding dress. She holds a large bouquet of red roses. In one hour, Elaine will be Mrs John Edward Branning . . . <i>a mistake . . . am I making a mistake?</i>
Thoughts of yesterday, of John - and a woman, dark, petite, her head tilted upward, her eyes on John’s face, her arm holding tight to his arm - crowd her mind, swirl and set the ache behind her eyes thumping again.
Elaine remembers how she’d ambled her way through the day, pleasure mounting as the clock moved towards early evening. She’d left her flat, taken a taxi to the hotel. She’d swept into the hotel foyer, a mite early, hadn’t wanted to be late, to keep her friends waiting. The foyer held just a few guests, no sign of Marge or Jill. Her eyes had searched unfamiliar faces, as she waited impatiently. She wondered if she should phone Marge or maybe Jill but had decided no, she’d sit and wait. Maybe they’d been held up – the traffic?
A half-hour later, stiff, and irritable from sitting so long in a hard, uncomfortable chair, Elaine had given in, phoned her friend Marge.
‘An accident. The bus delayed. Will be late, did she want to wait? Marge’s voice, apologetic, whispered down the phone.
A reluctant Elaine admitted, ‘It’s getting late, another time perhaps, Marge. Tell Jill for me, see her soon.’
Standing, Elaine caught sight of her face in a wall mirror, she looked tired. Her gaze shifted, followed a petite dark-haired woman . . . froze . . . her heart quickening to a rapid beat. The woman her arm clinging tight to John, upturned her face to meet his and smiled. Her low sensual laugh echoed across the foyer, as they reached, and entered the hotel’s lift.
Elaine stood at the reception desk, gave a wry smile when told the name of the guests that had just entered the lift . . . Mr and Mrs Drinkwater, nice couple.
* * *
Together they stand - bride and groom. Her hands hold a bouquet of white roses, her eyes are downcast; black lashes sweep pale cheeks. The priest intones. The congregation strains to hear every word, tears are quickly wiped with snowy handkerchiefs at solemn words half remembered.
A rustle of skirt breaks the silence. A fragile look, from bride to groom; cold desperation shows within wide blue eyes. Stumbling, the skirt of the chaste white silk dress held high she runs. White shoed feet fly fast towards the open church door.
The sun dies in the afternoon’s grey-clouded sky. The snow’s cold chill wraps around Elaine, as she runs, her feet slipping on the frozen pathway. Snowflakes twirl. Birds sing.
Gloria is a retired Further Education College Lecturer. She lives in a small Market Town in Northamptonshire, UK. Gloria is the author of several poems and short stories published online at Bewildering Stories, Apollo’s Lyre, Long Story Short and The Fiction Flyer. When not writing she likes to keep busy with her other interests – water colour painting, gardening, playing piano and Yoga. Married, she has two children and four grandchildren. Contact Gloria.
