road beyond a strip of lawn and a crammed car park. Doormen dressed like town criers were guiding the guests through the foyer, past the Beefeater Bar, and into an L-shaped anteroom where you could already hear a wall of sound, like the clamour of a schoolyard but on a lowered register – the contraltos of the women, the baritones of the men, in festive concord. Springtime, amatory union, massed revelry … With due allowance made for the imperfections of all those present, this wall of sound was a wall of love.
Dawn at once hurried off to the ladies’ room, and Des was at once confronted by a cream-jacketed waiter with a silver tray: prosecco! The bubbles sizzled in his nose and romped and swarmed round his brain and after a second sip he was already feeling tremendously happy and proud. Dawn joined him, and together they advanced through the tall doorway.
Now, Des had never been in a hotel before, and he was a little overawed, perhaps, by the way the place seemed to set itself the task of pampering his senses – the smiling, dipping waiters, the limitless refreshments, the soft music, the padded chairs in lines against the walls, the thick rayon drapes, the twinkling plastic chandeliers, the fitted nylon carpet (orange, with attractive sprinklings of yellow), and the brilliant company, all around, in their Whitsun best.
‘They’re not so bad, Dawnie,’ he said, reaching for a second glass. ‘They’re all right, I reckon. They’ll do. Look at them.’
Of the ninety-odd souls gathered in that lofty ballroom, the most august, probably, was Brian ‘Skanker’ Fitzwilliam (Uncle John’s father-in-law), his compact head adorned by a scythe of snow-white hair, together with his lady wife, Minnie, spryly wielding her black crutches. Next in seniority was Jayden ‘One Mile’ Drago, father of the bride, in all his immovable girth, together with his current partner, Britt, half his age, with her miniskirt, her freckled poitrine. Then, too, there was Dennis ‘Mumper’ Welkway, and Mrs Mercy Welkway (née Pepperdine), and her younger sister Grace, with her walking-frame and her hairnet and her …
‘You look lovely, dear. Lovely. Doesn’t she, Des.’
‘Yeah, she does. Eh, what’s that, Gran? Orange juice?’
‘No. Buck’s Fizz!’
‘Prosecco, me! Gaw, all this. Must be costing a –’
‘Oops,’ said Gran, turning away. ‘Here comes summer. And I can tell. He’s got that look in his eye.’
Lionel Asbo moved smoothly through the crush, patting a back here, giving a wrist-clasp there, embracing Uncle John, Uncle Paul, Uncle George, Uncle Ringo, and Uncle Stuart, slapping hands with Marlon’s brothers, Charlton, Rod, Yul, Burt, Troy, and Rock, bowing in solemn introduction to Gina’s innumerable siblings (bowing to Dejan, to Shakira, to Namru, to Aaliyah, to Vassallo, to Yasmine, to Oreste, to little Foozaloo) … And Des thought: Could it be possible? Could it be possible that Lionel Asbo, the great asocial, was in certain settings a social being?
Dawn said, ‘And over there, Des. Ooh. There’s posh.’
A waistcoated string quartet, up on the stage, rose as one and began playing the theme of The Godfather . Yes, there would be dancing, after the formalities, and then a great array of traditional Maltese dishes, artichoke hearts, beans with parsley, vegetable medleys, ricotta pie, nougat. But for now the fingerfood was reassuringly English – honest tavern fare – and Des said,
‘You’d better eat your fill now, Dawnie. You won’t be wanting that foreign muck. Horace wouldn’t like it. Here. Have a nice ham bap.’
‘Oh, get off … What are you smiling at?’
‘I’m just thinking. I’m thinking about tonight.’
‘Mm. So am I.’
They kissed.
‘Oy!’
And here he was (in his one good suit, his white shirt, his cord-thin blue tie), scrubbed and shaven, with a stubborn tin of Cobra in his meaty hand.
‘Lionel, can I ask you something?’
‘Course you can, girl,’ he said,
Dawn at once hurried off to the ladies’ room, and Des was at once confronted by a cream-jacketed waiter with a silver tray: prosecco! The bubbles sizzled in his nose and romped and swarmed round his brain and after a second sip he was already feeling tremendously happy and proud. Dawn joined him, and together they advanced through the tall doorway.
Now, Des had never been in a hotel before, and he was a little overawed, perhaps, by the way the place seemed to set itself the task of pampering his senses – the smiling, dipping waiters, the limitless refreshments, the soft music, the padded chairs in lines against the walls, the thick rayon drapes, the twinkling plastic chandeliers, the fitted nylon carpet (orange, with attractive sprinklings of yellow), and the brilliant company, all around, in their Whitsun best.
‘They’re not so bad, Dawnie,’ he said, reaching for a second glass. ‘They’re all right, I reckon. They’ll do. Look at them.’
Of the ninety-odd souls gathered in that lofty ballroom, the most august, probably, was Brian ‘Skanker’ Fitzwilliam (Uncle John’s father-in-law), his compact head adorned by a scythe of snow-white hair, together with his lady wife, Minnie, spryly wielding her black crutches. Next in seniority was Jayden ‘One Mile’ Drago, father of the bride, in all his immovable girth, together with his current partner, Britt, half his age, with her miniskirt, her freckled poitrine. Then, too, there was Dennis ‘Mumper’ Welkway, and Mrs Mercy Welkway (née Pepperdine), and her younger sister Grace, with her walking-frame and her hairnet and her …
‘You look lovely, dear. Lovely. Doesn’t she, Des.’
‘Yeah, she does. Eh, what’s that, Gran? Orange juice?’
‘No. Buck’s Fizz!’
‘Prosecco, me! Gaw, all this. Must be costing a –’
‘Oops,’ said Gran, turning away. ‘Here comes summer. And I can tell. He’s got that look in his eye.’
Lionel Asbo moved smoothly through the crush, patting a back here, giving a wrist-clasp there, embracing Uncle John, Uncle Paul, Uncle George, Uncle Ringo, and Uncle Stuart, slapping hands with Marlon’s brothers, Charlton, Rod, Yul, Burt, Troy, and Rock, bowing in solemn introduction to Gina’s innumerable siblings (bowing to Dejan, to Shakira, to Namru, to Aaliyah, to Vassallo, to Yasmine, to Oreste, to little Foozaloo) … And Des thought: Could it be possible? Could it be possible that Lionel Asbo, the great asocial, was in certain settings a social being?
Dawn said, ‘And over there, Des. Ooh. There’s posh.’
A waistcoated string quartet, up on the stage, rose as one and began playing the theme of The Godfather . Yes, there would be dancing, after the formalities, and then a great array of traditional Maltese dishes, artichoke hearts, beans with parsley, vegetable medleys, ricotta pie, nougat. But for now the fingerfood was reassuringly English – honest tavern fare – and Des said,
‘You’d better eat your fill now, Dawnie. You won’t be wanting that foreign muck. Horace wouldn’t like it. Here. Have a nice ham bap.’
‘Oh, get off … What are you smiling at?’
‘I’m just thinking. I’m thinking about tonight.’
‘Mm. So am I.’
They kissed.
‘Oy!’
And here he was (in his one good suit, his white shirt, his cord-thin blue tie), scrubbed and shaven, with a stubborn tin of Cobra in his meaty hand.
‘Lionel, can I ask you something?’
‘Course you can, girl,’ he said,
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