Postcards at Christmas Read online

  I always think that there is something special about a wedding at Christmas. There’s so much excitement built into December already with people preparing to let their hair down and have fun. A wedding just adds to it all. Even the ‘bah humbug’ crowd can’t help but get caught up in it.

  Of course, I’ve been here before with a wedding at Christmas but to be honest, I’m so delighted for Cara and Sim that after I’ve shed a few private tears for my own loss I push Greg and our staged nuptials out of my mind. This one is going to be completely different.

  My first job is to secure the venue. When we first started planning the wedding, before the accident, Cara had wanted low-key and quirky so I’d found a remote restaurant in the Yorkshire Dales which sits in the shadow of a ruined medieval hunting lodge and tower. It even had its own renovated chapel. As I pick up the phone, every fibre of my being is hoping that it’s available.

  The woman who answers the phone remembers us. I suppose it’s not every wedding that gets cancelled because the groom has a life-threatening accident just down the road. She sounds genuinely delighted that it’s finally going to go ahead.

  ‘When were you thinking?’ she asks me.

  ‘Christmas?’ I say, my face screwed up and my fingers tightly crossed.

  There’s a pause whilst she checks the diary. I hear the pages turning.

  ‘It’s just that it’s very short notice,’ she says doubtfully.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be Christmas Eve or anything,’ I say helpfully. ‘Although that would be wonderful,’ I chance, because it really would. I’m not expecting them to have much availability at such short notice but if anyone deserves a break it’s Cara and Simeon.

  ‘Well . . .’ she says, ‘we don’t normally open on Christmas Eve but if I can persuade the staff to work an extra shift then I could offer you the afternoon. Seeing as this is such a special case.’

  I could kiss her.

  ‘That would be perfect,’ I say. ‘It’s not going to be a big do. Less than fifty and we won’t have a complicated menu if that helps.’

  She laughs down the phone.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Leave it with me. You’ll need to contact the registrar too,’ she adds.

  Damn. Just when it was all going so swimmingly.

  ‘But, actually,’ the woman continues, ‘she’s a dear friend of mine. I’ll give her a ring and explain. When I tell her how special this wedding is, I’m sure she’ll be happy to help.’

  She rings back an hour later and we have our venue. I do a little happy dance around my kitchen and Samson joins in, barking and bouncing around my ankles.

  Next, the guests. I go to town to find some invitations. There isn’t time to get anything printed and anyway Cara and Simeon don’t want lots of fuss. I’m in the stationer’s looking at what they have ready to use when a stand of postcards catches my eye. They are all shots of Ilkley and the Yorkshire Dales. I’ve never noticed them before and to be honest, I’m surprised that they still sell them. Who sends postcards in these days of texts and WhatsApp?

  Then I have an idea. They would make perfect invitations for the wedding. I grab a selection of shots of the Cow and Calf Rocks and Ilkley Moor which I buy, together with a lovely pen that writes in metallic gold. I mean, who can resist metallic gold pens?

  When I show Cara, though, she doesn’t seem entirely sold on the idea.

  ‘I was thinking of something a little bit more traditional,’ she says doubtfully as she picks a card up and turns it over in her hand.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but don’t you think that they might be a nice nod to your past? I mean, if you hadn’t found those postcards in your dad’s attic just think how different your life would be now.’

  Cara nods slowly as she thinks about what I’m saying.

  ‘Obviously, it’s up to you,’ I continue, ‘but I just thought that for your family, who know what went on, it might make something as mundane as the invitation feel more special. And for the people that don’t know about your past, well, they’ll just think it’s a nice quirky touch.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says after another moment of consideration. ‘I think that’s a lovely idea. Thanks, Beth.’

  I feel my cheeks warm a little. Isn’t it wonderful to be appreciated?

  ‘How’s the dress coming along?’ I ask.

  I know this is something that’s been hanging over Cara since she first accepted Simeon’s proposal. I can only imagine the pressure on a wedding dress designer when it comes to designing her own dress.

  ‘It’s nearly finished,’ she says. ‘But I need to ask you something about yours. How would you feel about wearing Christmas red?’

  Her tone is cautious and I can tell by her hesitance that she’s worried about upsetting me. After all, I’d wanted a red theme for my own ill-fated Christmas wedding but was talked out of it by my domineering fiancé who thought red was tacky.

  ‘Cara,’ I say, looking straight at her. ‘My dearest friend. As you know, I totally adore red and if you said my dress was going to be any other colour I would be horribly disappointed.’

  I see relief flush over her face.

  ‘Come and see mine!’ she says and grabs my hand to drag me upstairs to her studio.

  She has clearly been working like a demon. The basis of the dress is already on her tailor’s dummy and it’s stunning. It’s so elegant, fashioned in a buttery ivory silk and constructed of eight simple panels each trailing down from a boned corset with a sweetheart neckline. It is sleeveless and the edge of the neckline and the hem of the dress are both finished with a band of crimson satin. I walk round to view the back and I draw my breath in in delight. The lacing panel of the corset and two of the panels that run down the back of the dress are also made of the red fabric. The whole thing is absolutely stunning and totally perfect for a Christmas wedding.

  ‘What do you think?’ Cara asks me anxiously. ‘It’s not too much, is it?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I reply simply.

  ‘I’m going to do beadwork on the bodice and down the red panels. Time is very short but I’ll do what I can. And then I thought I’d put you and Lily in the red too. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s perfect,’ I say. ‘Truly perfect.’

  She blushes.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says quietly.

  ‘Now, isn’t this the part when I check that you’re doing the right thing and suggest that your intended might not be quite the right man for you?’ I say.

  She stretches her mouth into a grimace, no doubt remembering when she asked me that very question.

  ‘I’ve always felt bad about doing that,’ she says. ‘But I had to ask. Sorry.’

  ‘No need to be sorry,’ I reply. ‘You were right. Marrying Greg was a mistake. I should have read the signs as well as you did. I’m pretty certain that you’re not falling into the same trap.’

  ‘Me too,’ she says. ‘Sim is perfect.’

  I pull a face.

  ‘Not perfect,’ I say. ‘But not far off.’

  CHRISTMAS

  26

  CARA

  It’s our wedding day. Unsurprisingly, we have decided to abandon tradition and both stayed here last night. I’ve stopped believing in luck, good or bad. I reckon you make your own.

  I open the curtains and it isn’t snowing so that’s good. It isn’t sunny either. A heavy mantle of cloud sits above us, gunmetal grey, like a protective shield against the sky above, but for once I don’t mind. You can’t expect much more from Yorkshire in winter.

  My dress hangs on the bedroom door and as I slip into it I feel myself transforming into the bride of my dreams. So many of my clients have described this moment to me and I’ve always thought there was a whiff of poetic licence about it but now, when it’s my turn, I discover that it’s true. Wedding dresses really do have magical powers.

  I wish Dad were here to see me. For all the heartache that he caused, I still miss him. It would have been lovely to have him walk me d
own the aisle. But then again, if he had been here then Mum probably wouldn’t have come and maybe not Michael either. I decide that we are where we are and that it’s probably for the best.

  When I’m ready, I go downstairs to find Simeon pacing in the kitchen. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is that he can pace. There were times when we thought he might never do that again. He turns to look at me when I come in, my dress trailing behind me. My stomach is full of butterflies.

  ‘Do I look all right?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll do,’ he says with a wink.

  He looks so handsome in his suit with the red bow tie and a single red rose in his lapel. Beth said it should be a white one for a Yorkshire wedding but as neither of us is from Yorkshire originally, I ignore her.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he says. ‘I love you so much, Cara Ferensby.’ He looks serious for a moment. ‘You’ve been magnificent over this last year, you know. I could never have got through it without you.’

  A part of me flinches when I think how badly I dealt with the accident and the aftermath but I have to let it go. It’s all forgotten now.

  ‘I’m so proud of you too, Sim,’ I say and he raises his eyebrows in a shucks kind of way.

  ‘Then it’s official,’ he replies. ‘We are an amazing couple and we are going to continue being amazing together until the day we die.’

  And he’s right. If this last year has taught me nothing else, I now know how much I love him and how I couldn’t survive without him. I almost had to and I never, ever want to go there again.

  He reaches out to gather me into his arms but I pull away sharply and for a second he looks worried.

  ‘That is completely true and I feel exactly the same way,’ I say, ‘but if you hug me now, you’ll crease the dress!’

  Simeon, Lily and I are flaunting yet more traditions by travelling to the venue together, with Beth and Mark following behind in Mark’s car. Lily is beside herself with excitement and keeps staring at her reflection in the mirror and lifting up the layers of tulle under her dress to show us the frilly knickers that cover her nappy. I’m not sure how well she will manage with her flower girl duties. I suspect that all the petals will be delivered in one little pile somewhere but I know Beth will do her best to help.

  And so we are married in the beautiful chapel of a twelfth-century hunting lodge on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales in front of all the people that love us. Mrs P is in the front row wearing a very smart but rather incongruous navy-blue hat. My brother Michael and his family bring our mother who now lives not far from them in London. I feel a twinge of guilt when I see my nieces Zara and Esmé, who would have made perfect bridesmaids too, but this is not that kind of wedding. I have everything I need in Beth and Lily.

  As I walk into the chapel, I see the fiery hair of my cousin Skyler in the second row and next to her my formidable Aunt Ursula who have made the trip from San Francisco. They will stay with Michael for Christmas so Simeon and I will be able to spend some time with them before we head off on our honeymoon. Skyler gives me a massive thumbs up sign as I walk past her and it makes me laugh, despite my nerves.

  I glide up the aisle with Beth on one side and Lily holding my hand on the other. I can hear murmurs of appreciation as I walk past our guests and Ursula mutters something to Skyler, which I suspect is a barbed comment about how Dad didn’t want me designing dresses for a living and how wrong he was.

  Simeon and Mark are waiting at the far end. Simeon is standing without his stick. He’s been practising, building himself up each day until he could manage the whole ceremony. I couldn’t be more proud of him.

  And there is Mark. Poor, lovely Mark. My insides still squirm when I think about how wrong I got everything and how much hatred I poured on his head when it wasn’t in any way justified. But he seems to have forgiven me instantly, which is ironic given how long I held on to my grudge against him. And I’ll make it up to him somehow. In fact, I must, as I have a feeling that he’s going to feature in our futures quite heavily. Later in the day I catch him and Beth having a snog by the ladies’ loo. I’m delighted. They will be good together.

  We make our vows. Beth wanted us to write our own but I told her that the traditional ones say everything that I need to say. Little Lily struggles to sit still. When we are signing the register, I see her trailing from chair to chair giving each guest a single rose petal. Mrs P is fiddling with the clasp of her handbag and I watch as she extracts a handkerchief, which she uses to dab delicately at her tears. Bless her. When I cast a quick glance at the other guests, I see that there is barely a dry eye in the room. Even my brother Michael looks a little emotional. We did that, I think. Simeon and I. We have surrounded ourselves with people that love us so much that they are reduced to tears at our happiness. I finally have a real family and it feels wonderful.

  It’s virtually the shortest day of the year and when the light fades to nothing by four o’clock, the grounds outside are lit by torches, burning like beacons. They illuminate the ancient stone ruins of the tower next door, which look strong and solid next to the twinkly fairy lights inside. If this were a film, then it would start to snow now, little white flakes fluttering down and coming to rest on the grass. But this is Yorkshire and the weather never does what is expected of it. I don’t mind though. I look around at everything that surrounds me, and I know that this is all I need.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2017 Karen Ross Photography

  Imogen Clark lives in Yorkshire, England, with her husband and children. Her first burning ambition was to be a solicitor, and so she read law at Manchester University and then worked for many years at a commercial law firm. After leaving her legal career behind to care for her children, Imogen turned to her second love – books. She returned to university, studying part-time while the children were at school, and was awarded a BA in English literature with first-class honours. Her novels, Postcards From a Stranger and The Thing About Clare, both reached number one in both the UK and Australian Kindle charts. Imogen loves sunshine and travel and longs to live by the sea someday.