"You have to blame Grandma Mackenzie; she thought he was the nearest thing to an angel on this earth."

"Heaven help us all," Mary said, "if we get up there and find it inhabited by people like your father!" And then added hastily that actually of course it would be very nice. You couldn't be too careful with stepchildren: even if they were sixty ...

It was a perfect December morning: bright and golden, with frost spangling the hedges and meadows and a sky that was brilliantly clear and blue.

The guests started to arrive at eleven thirty. Russell was deeply touched by how many people, some of them quite elderly, as he remarked to the girls-while clearly and blissfully unaware that this description could be equally applied to him-had accepted and made the really quite long journey to Somerset, England, as they all called it. Mary's friends-also quite large in number; there was no doubt they were good, healthy stock, their generation-followed them in, and the organist began to play the lovely echoing, rounded sound soaring through the little church. Russell felt a dangerous lump in his throat, and gripped Morton's hand suddenly.

Alex felt rather proud to be arriving with not one but two extremely pretty women; he had confessed to Emma that he and Linda had become "just friends, nothing more, seen each other for a meal once or twice." Given that he flushed to the roots of his hair as he said it, and failed to meet Emma's eyes, she guessed that the relationship might be just slightly more meaningful than that, but she nodded politely and said how nice that must be.

Linda had suggested she meet them at the hospital; they proceeded in her Mercedes ... "I'm sorry, Alex, but I'm just not prepared to sit in that bone shaker of yours." The Mercedes was very low-slung and swayed about a lot, and by the time they arrived in Tadwick, Emma, who had obviously been relegated to the back, was feeling extremely sick and had to stand in the lane breathing deeply for five minutes before she trusted herself to go into the church. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder red dress, with a white stole wrapped around her, and high-heeled red shoes, and her long legs were golden and bare. What was it about the young? Alex wondered. What extra, if short-lived gene did they possess that they didn't feel the cold?

Linda was looking staggeringly beautiful in a pale grey silk suit with an ankle-length skirt; she had extraordinarily good ankles, Alex thought, studying them as she walked ahead of him down the aisle, and then as he settled into the pew, found himself thinking rather unsuitably carnal thoughts about the rest of her legs, and tried to concentrate on the organ music instead.

Dear old chap, the bridegroom looked; he had not met him before. He was tall, as far as Alex could make out, and he sat ramrod straight in the pew, occasionally running a hand through his thick white hair and staring fixedly ahead of him; presumably the chap beside him-well into his sixties-was his son. And how wonderful it was, Alex thought, that love could flower so sweetly and so late, that two really very old people could be celebrating their marriage in a spirit of such determination.

And these people coming in now, walking to the front of the church, they must be Mary's family, a grey-haired, rather portly man and a very pretty young girl. And another man, slimmer and fitter-looking, together with a woman in a rather chic yellow coat and brown fur hat, and two girls in trouser suits with very high heels and a lot of makeup.

There was a flurry at the back of the church, and three little boys appeared, all dressed identically in tuxedos; fine-looking little chaps, with dark, curly hair and brilliant blue eyes, flanking a wheelchair in which sat Patrick Connell-also with the dark hair and the blue eyes-dressed in a very smart suit, smiling broadly and pushed by Georgia. Patrick had made such progress, Alex thought; it really was a little less than a miracle: he could sit up properly now, no longer belted tightly into the chair, and his legs in their perfectly pressed trousers were beginning to look larger somehow, and as if they knew how to work and walk, and less at variance with his heavy shoulders and broad chest.

Georgia looked amazing in a brilliant green dress-also bare shouldered-with a green feather arrangement in her wild hair. Linda was sporting similar headwear; they were known as fascinators, she had informed Alex on the way down.

Georgia urged the three little boys into a pew at the back and, after a whispered conversation with Patrick, inserted herself between them, clearly with a view to minimising talking and giggling; Patrick was beside them in the aisle.

This was a great day, Patrick thought, for all of them, and thought how far he had travelled from that darkest of the dark days all those months ago, and how impossible it would have seemed then that he could have been attending a wedding, dressed up to the nines, his conscience clear and his physical outlook so good ... He was interrupted in this reverie by a change of pace and tune from the organ and a rustle of excitement from the opening door, and saw that the bride was standing on the porch, on the arm of a handsome young chap positively beaming with pride, and behind them, dressed in the palest, softest pink chiffon dress, his beloved, beautiful Maeve.

She should be here, Gerry thought, Christine really, really should be here. What demon had possessed her that she had been able to resent her mother's new happiness so deeply; and worse, to be unable to suppress it or at the least conceal it? He was ashamed of her, and he wasn't sure how he was going to cope with those emotions in the days ahead. He- "Stand up, Gerry," hissed Lorraine, Tim's girlfriend-very nice to have on his arm that day. What did they call girls like her? Oh, yes, arm candy. "They're here."

Russell was afraid for a moment that he was going to pass out, so strong was the wave of emotion that passed through him then. The sound of the organ, the opening of the door, the knowledge that she was walking towards him down the aisle at last, after a wait of more than sixty years ... it was an experience of such intensity that the light in the church seemed to fade a little, the sound of the organ to diminish, and all that existed for him was her, walking slowly towards him, then standing beside him, smiling up at him, his Mary, his adored and adorable Sparrow, her eyes as brilliant and blue as they had been then, her mouth as soft and sweetly smiling, and her hands shaking a little as she handed over her bouquet to Maeve.

And Mary, looking up at him, saw the young Russell again, whom she had loved so very much, whom she had never forgotten and never failed. She had feared she might cry, make a fool of herself at this moment, as she put it; but she felt steadfast and strong, purely and intensely happy.

This was how it should be, Linda thought; this was love she was looking at, true love, not the counterfeit version she had known, and wondered if it was what she felt for the man beside her, who had suddenly and unaccountably gripped her hand.

This was how I thought it was, Alex thought, and do I dare even to think I've found it now? and do I dare even to think I've found it now?

This is what I thought we had, Emma thought, and what I've lost, and will I ever find it again? and what I've lost, and will I ever find it again?, and first one large tear and then another fell onto her prayer book, and for a while she saw everything spangled with tears.

Mary reached up suddenly and kissed Russell, and the gesture was so sweet, so spontaneous, that a small fragment of applause started from somewhere near the back of the church and spread round it, and Mary turned to acknowledge it, smiling, and thought as she did so that she saw the door begin to open; and then turned back to the vicar as he bade them all welcome and prepared to embark on the lovely, familiar words. (While omitting, as they had agreed, those that might appear somewhat ludicrous, about the procreation of children, and carnal lusts and appetites.) But then something truly wonderful happened: as the vicar began to speak, the door at the back did indeed open-everyone heard it and turned to look-and through it, with no expression on her face whatsoever except one of absolute determination, came Christine, bareheaded, wearing the old mackintosh in which she walked the dogs and some really quite sturdy boots, and Mary, catching sight of her, provided one of the most beautiful moments of the day, for her small face fragmented into joy and she left Russell and walked back up the aisle and put her arms round her daughter, her beloved, brave, difficult daughter, and kissed her, and then led her by the hand to her place in the front pew, next to Gerry. Who, in turn, put his own arm round her and gave her a kiss.

The service proceeded without any further departure from convention; Tim gave her away with his eyes suspiciously bright; Russell beamed throughout, until it was his turn to make his vows, and then as he said, "Thereto I give thee my troth," his strong voice cracked and two great tears rolled down his handsome old face; and as Mary promised to love, cherish, and obey, a giggle rose unbidden in her voice, and it was more than a moment before she could compose herself once more.

And then, having uttered his final solemn exhortation that no man must put them asunder, the vicar pronounced them man and wife and told Russell he might kiss the bride; and Mary was not only kissed but held so tightly and so fervently that it seemed Russell was afraid, even now that she had been pronounced his, of losing her again. The bells began to peal; Mary turned, took Russell's arm, and walked slowly down the aisle, smiling into the dozens of flashing cameras that had most assuredly not been a feature at her first wedding, waving at people, blowing kisses, and hugging the small boys who scrambled over their father and rushed from their pew to greet her.

"I've been to a great many weddings," Maeve confided to Tim, who was walking her down the aisle, "but never in my entire life one more beautiful than this."

CHAPTER 44

The concert had been Anna's idea. Georgia had been talking to her in the pub one night, trying to explain how bad she still sometimes felt about the crash-"and not just about Patrick, the lorry driver, although there he is, three little kids to keep and no job, really-there are other people who are still really hurting. That man whose wife was killed, with a little boy he's had to give up his job to look after him, and several other people who have lost their livelihoods, no fault of their own, like one girl who can't walk, and she was a dance teacher, or who've had breakdowns, and I just feel so bad about them-here I am having a great time now, and it's not fair. Is it?"

Anna had agreed it wasn't fair. "But it absolutely wasn't your fault, Georgia; you have to see that."

"I know it wasn't my fault-well, except for deserting Patrick-but that doesn't stop me feeling terrible. I just wish there was something I could do."

"Like what?"

"Well, I don't know. Help. Really help. In a practical way."

"What ... like raise some money, maybe? Help them at least financially? Don't look at me like that. Quite small things can help a lot. I did a gig for a concert, just a small one, that provides special bikes that physically disabled children can control. It means they can hare about like other kids. But ... it's only an idea."

"I'm not looking at you like anything. Except in admiration. That ... well, that could be a really great thing to do. D'you think I could?"

"With a lot of help, yes, I'm sure you could."

Georgia felt as if a light had gone on in her head, shining into the dark, ugly memories and the rotting guilt, slowly but steadily shrinking them away. She could do something-actually do something to help all those people. It wouldn't bring anyone back; it wouldn't restore damaged muscles or bones or nervous systems; but it would be so, so much better than nothing.

She decided to talk to Linda about it.

Linda was cautiously enthusiastic; she thought it was a great idea ... "But you really have to do it properly, Georgia. Think long and hard before you get into it, because it could turn into a monster. If you're going to set up a charity, then you have to get it registered, appoint some trustees ... I know that sounds like a lot of work and rather daunting, but people will be much more willing to help if it sounds official and not like a lot of kids raising a bit of money for fun. And it's got to be done well. The venue alone will be a nightmare to find and fund, and you'll have to scale everything to it. No use getting the Stones to agree to play and then offering them a rehearsal hall in Staines. Sorry, I don't mean to discourage you. I just don't want you getting into something you can't cope with."

Georgia said she was sure she could cope with it, and that she didn't actually envisage getting the Stones; but a few enquiries revealed the extent of the venue problem. Hiring anywhere at all was hugely expensive and would wipe out any profit at a stroke; something radical was clearly required.

Linda said she'd sound a few people out, that she knew quite a lot of musicians, and maybe Georgia might even consider having a couple of dramatic items in the programme. The few people she'd sounded were cautiously interested; Georgia didn't want to ask anyone yet on Moving Away Moving Away-she had enough to cope with there-but it would be worth a try when it was over; Merlin, she was sure, knew a lot of people in the music business.

She could see it was all going to take a long time; it needed intensive long-term planning. But an optimism had gripped her; she felt absolutely certain something would turn up-in fact, she said this so often that Anna had nicknamed her Mrs. Micawber ...

The other person she talked to about it was Emma; she and Emma had seriously bonded at Mary's wedding, got quite drunk and danced together. Emma said she thought it was a great idea. She agreed with Linda that it might be better to raise the money specifically for the hospital; she said she didn't think she'd be much use herself, but when Georgia said she was forming a committee and that she was hoping Alex would come on it, she told Georgia to count her in: "Only if you think I could help, of course. I've ... well, I've got a bit of spare time at the moment, so I could write letters for you, stuff like that, if you like. My mum works for a school, and she's always being asked to go on fund-raising committees. Only small local ones, of course, but the principle's pretty much the same. She might have some ideas."

Georgia said she was beginning to think quite small and local herself: "It's hopeless thinking we can do something big in London; it'll cost squillions, and we'd never get the sort of people we'd need. I mean, the crash was local, and the hospital's local, and people are bound to remember it. And there must be places in Swindon, for instance-it's not that small-or Reading, maybe. Anyway, it's early days. The great thing is to keep trucking, as Dr. Pritchard calls it ... I'm going to start writing letters."

She and Emma were both very intrigued by the relationship between Linda and Alex, which had become extremely obvious after Mary's wedding.

"It's a match made in heaven, really," said Georgia. "I mean, Linda's so lonely and needy ..."

"Is she? She doesn't come across lonely and needy ..."

"No, but that's her whole problem. Ballsy women, especially good-looking ones, just scare men off. Anyway, then there's Dr. Pritchard, also lonely, you say ..."

"Well, pretty miserable a lot of the time. His wife is an ace cow. She's literally turfed him out of the house, sold it more or less over his head, as far as I can make out. He's had to move into some cruddy flat in Swindon; it's so not fair. They've got some nice kids, though. Like fourteen, fifteen, that sort of age. How'd Linda be with kids, do you think?"

"Mmm ... she's been pretty cool to me. We've had a few fights, but we've always worked it out."

"Yes, but you're twenty-two," said Emma. "And she's not having a relationship with your dad. Well, we'll have to hope for the best. I love Alex, I really do; he's such a sweetheart-all bark and really no bite at all. And he does seem much happier these days. I shall be very sad to leave him."

"Which is when?"

"Oh ... January, February time. Depends what I can get."

"You'd better not go to some hospital in Scotland or something," said Georgia. "Not until after the concert, anyway."

"Right now Scotland looks quite appealing," said Emma with a sigh. "Far away from London as possible, that's what I want."

She didn't tell Georgia why, and Georgia didn't ask. She could see something was hurting Emma a lot, and equally that she didn't want to talk about it. Which usually meant in Georgia's experience that she'd been dumped. Men were such idiots. Who'd dump someone as lovely as Emma?

The days when Alex mooded around, as Emma put it, and shouted were the days when he was undergoing severe anxieties over his relationship with Linda. She was gorgeous, she was sexy, she seemed really to care about him; on the other hand he had vowed he would not enter another relationship with anyone who didn't totally understand the demands of his career and profession. Linda might understand them, but she was hardly going to give them priority. If it came to a conflict between a first night or a major audition, and a dinner with other doctors and their wives, the dinner would not win. They had already had a couple of run-ins over a South African trip, funded by a pharmaceutical company, which she'd persuaded him to accept. Having promised to be totally accommodating with the spousal programme-"I cannot believe there are things called that"-she had said there was no way she was going to go on a boat trip to Robben Island-where Nelson Mandela had been imprisoned-without him, or go on what she called an obscene trip to one of the townships.

"Patronising, utterly ghastly, I wouldn't even contemplate it."

"I seem to remember your saying that the tourist trade benefited the country."

"I'm sure it does. I just don't think sitting in an air-conditioned car and looking graciously around a series of shantytowns benefits the inhabitants very much. I'm not going to go, Alex, and that's all there is to it."

"Linda, you seem to be embarking on this trip in a rather different spirit from what you'd promised. I really don't think it's viable on this basis, and I don't see how we can go."

"Alex, that's crap."

"It is not crap. I said I didn't like any of it in principle, that I never had, and you talked me round ..."

"I did not talk you round!"

"Oh, really? I seem to remember a lot of talk about how it wouldn't help anyone, my sulking in Swindon, while someone else went in my place ..."

"I do dislike the way you play back everything I say to you. All right, then let's not go. Let's not do anything nice. You jut sit in your bed-sit and contemplate your navel."

"I think I'd prefer to do that than see you alienating everyone on the trip. Not just your hosts, but the other wives."

"I'll be delighted to alienate the other wives. If they're the sort of people who enjoy a lot of patronising garbage by way of a meal ticket ..."

He'd left at that, without another word, too angry for twenty-four hours even to return her dozen or so missed calls. Finally she'd texted him: VV sorry, totally wrong on this, need bottom smacked. xxx Alex had replied that he would perform the smacking in person that Saturday; it had all blown over; she had meekly agreed to do everything on the spousal programme-"even the shopping trip"-but it had left him worried. Not just about the trip, but about Linda's whole attitude. He was beginning to be afraid that she wasn't going to be a supportive consort; the whole incident had illustrated that.

And what about the children; how was she going to cope with them? He needed a proper base, a real home, and a decent setup, in order to be able to claim their time and attention to any degree. Not to be haring up to Marylebone at every available opportunity to see a mistress who was hardly likely to welcome him with two inevitably awkward children in tow. A mistress, moreover, who would not in two dozen years consider moving to Swindon ...

It couldn't work; it was impossible-and the fact that he enjoyed her so much and for so much of the time was depressing in itself.

Dear Mr. Grainger,I hope you don't mind my writing to you out of the blue, but a friend suggested that you might be able to help in some way, however small.I'm hoping you will get this safely and that I've got the right address; I looked up Grainger in the directory and your farm was definitely in the right place: if you see what I mean!My name is Georgia Linley, and I'm the girl you met wandering round your property on the day of the M4 crash last August. You were very kind to me, and I hope I wasn't rude! round your property on the day of the M4 crash last August. You were very kind to me, and I hope I wasn't rude!I know you were incredibly helpful to everybody that day-allowed the air ambulance to land on your field, and brought water for people to drink, and did all sorts of other kind things-so I'm hoping you'll feel sufficiently interested to read on!I am trying to organise a fund-raising concert in aid of the crash victims and their families, many of whom are still in considerable difficulties. I have the support of several people at St. Marks Hospital in Swindon, where the injured were all taken; I could let you have names there, if you're wanting to check my credentials.Patrick Connell and his family have all become good friends of mine. He was the lorry driver who was at the forefront of the crash, and who had given me a lift that day. He was very badly injured, and can't work at the moment; he's just an example of one of the many deserving causes.We are setting up a charity, in order to make sure that everything is done properly and in a businesslike way. If you log onto crashconcert.linley.com you can check that as well.Several musicians have already expressed an interest-nobody very grand yet, I'm afraid-but until we have a venue, we can't get a great deal further, and that is proving the biggest obstacle so far.I wondered if you would be willing to contribute anything, however small, to our setting-up fund; and in due course, obviously, to bring as many people to the concert as possible.We're also looking for a sponsor: any suggestions in that area would be hugely helpful.Yours sincerely, Georgia Linley (Ms.) William sat staring at the letter, concerned not so much with helping Ms. Linley, who sounded rather engaging, and whom he remembered as being extremely pretty, or even with the unfortunate crash victims, who were undoubtedly a very good cause, but wondering if this was a second enormous nudge on the part of the Almighty in the direction of his reestablishing a relationship with Abi. If so, then he should surely respond-before the Almighty gave up on him altogether.

Abi had been at work when he rang.

"Hello, Abi. You all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine, thanks. You?"

"Absolutely fine. Abi, I've had an idea. Well, I've had a letter, actually."

"Well ... which? Or is it a letter with an idea?"

"Um ... bit of both."

"Hmm. Hard to guess this one, William. Film, book, play ..."

"What?"

"Charades. Didn't you ever play charades?"

"Few times. Yes, I see what you mean. Well ... what's the sign for concert?"

"There isn't one. William, do spit it out. Please."

William spat it out.

Three days later, Georgia arrived in the location house, breathless and flushed. "Is Merlin here? Or Anna?"

"Anna's in Makeup," said Mo. "Don't know where Merlin is." Georgia hared up the stairs to the bedroom that doubled as Makeup.

"Anna, Anna, listen to this; it's amazing, totally amazing. I think we've got our venue!"

CHAPTER 45

The letters arrived after Christmas. Their presence would be required as witnesses at an inquest on February 19 19 into the deaths of Sarah Tomkins, Jennifer Marks, and Edward Barnes which occurred on August into the deaths of Sarah Tomkins, Jennifer Marks, and Edward Barnes which occurred on August 22 22, on the M4 motorway. Details of the time and place of the inquest were also given; and the letter was signed by the coroner's officer. motorway. Details of the time and place of the inquest were also given; and the letter was signed by the coroner's officer.

"Well, thank God it didn't come before Christmas," said Maeve. "It would have cast a bit of a blight. Not that you've got anything to worry about. But still ... good to have it over. A line drawn."

Patrick nodded; he actually felt he had quite a lot to worry about, however much he'd been reassured that the accident had in no way been his fault. The fact remained that his lorry had gone sprawling across the motorway, bursting through the crash barrier, and the result had been three deaths and dozens of injuries, some of them major. Every time he thought about the inquest, he felt the old, panicky fear ...

Abi found the thought of the inquest pretty scary also; she had, after all, lied to the police, albeit about nothing to do with the crash, and she still had nightmares about them charging her in connection with drug offences. She had actually taken legal advice on this; the solicitor had told her that since she had not been in possession of any drugs, either at the time the police talked to her or later, they were extremely unlikely to press charges.

Nevertheless she was a major witness; she would have to stand in the dock or whatever they had at inquests and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the bloody truth, and it could well transpire that she had lied the first time around, and in front of all those people. It was a complete nightmare.

But at least Christmas was over. Abi hated Christmas usually; she had a few misfit friends, equally at odds with their families, and they would spend the day together, drinking mostly, although they'd cobble a meal together-Christmas odds and sods from M&S and Tesco-and pull some crackers, and even occasionally play charades before the evening really disintegrated, but she was always hugely relieved when it, and its insistence that everyone was part of one great big, happy family, was over.

The best thing that had happened all Christmas was a text from William that she'd got on Christmas night: Happy Xmas, hope it's a good one, mine isn't. William, x Happy Xmas, hope it's a good one, mine isn't. William, x. She struggled not to read too much into it, not to presume his wasn't good because he wasn't with her, and that the kiss was simply what anyone would put at the end of a text on Christmas Day; but the fact remained that he'd been thinking of her enough to send it. She texted back, Happy one to u2, not bad, thanx, gd 2 hear from you. Abi Happy one to u2, not bad, thanx, gd 2 hear from you. Abi, and after that a kiss also. She'd put gt gt at first instead at first instead of gd of gd, but that looked a bit keen.

And now, astonishingly, she was seeing quite a bit of him, albeit on a completely platonic basis ...

She was extremely excited about Georgia's concert. It had been her idea that it should be held at the farm, festival-style. She had actually suggested something similar to William once before, when he had been talking about diversifications and moneymaking schemes; and he had been surprisingly receptive to the idea then. It really hadn't been too difficult-amazingly easy, in fact-to repersuade him.

It was very scary-on a professional basis-and she wasn't even sure they would be able to pull it off; but if they did ... she could launch her party-planning career on the back of it. And see lots of William in the bargain.