«Mum, meet someone,» Oliver said, steering a girl forward. «This is Poppy. My fiancée.»
Margaretwho had been standingsat down abruptly, luckily finding a chair just where she needed it. Her boy, her little Ollie, looked like a cub scout next to his bride-to-be, who might as well have been his troop leader.
«Alright?» Poppy kept her hands stuffed in her jeans pockets, chewing gum with the air of someone who owned the world.
«Hello there,» Margaret stammered, utterly flabbergasted. «Since when? How?»
«Mum, its fine!» Oliver kicked off his shoes, nodding for Poppy to do the same. «Well be staying at Poppys place, yeah, Pops?»
«Mm-hmm,» she agreed, jaws working like a cement mixer.
«Son, a quick word?» Margaret rose and headed to the kitchen.
«Speak in front of me,» Poppy said, flopping into an armchair, flipping channels with the remote, one leg draped over the other. «Ollie and I dont keep secrets. Right, Dumbo?»
«Right, Mum,» Oliver nodded, flushing red.
«Fine.» Margaret steadied herself. «Son, are you sure about this girl? Shes at least a decade older than you.»
«Eight years!» Poppy corrected. «And it doesnt matter. Got a problem with that? Im independent, well-off, a grown woman»
«Exactly! A woman! My boys barely twenty!» Margaret clutched her head.
«Well, someones got to make a man out of him, since no one managed it by now,» Poppy snorted.
Margaret gaped, opening and closing her mouth like a stranded fish.
«Mum,» Oliver finally spoke, «We came for a reasonwe need money for the wedding.»
«And whys that my problem?» Margaret scoffed, stunned by the gall of her future daughter-in-law.
«How is it not your problem?» Poppy blinked. «Traditionally, the grooms family pays. Mine agrees.»
«Oh, brilliant!» Margaret threw up her hands. «Dump the shelf-worn goods and demand cash. I should be paid for handing my baby over to some has-been. Not a penny!»
She slashed a hand through the air like a guillotine.
«Right, then,» Poppy stood, smirking, crowding Margaret. «Coo all you like, you old pigeon. Come on, Dumbo, well manage.»
She strode to the hallway, yanking the front door open. Oliver scurried after her, casting one last hopeful glance at his mothermaybe shed cave. But Margaret turned away, though not before asking:
«Why Dumbo?»
«Look at his ears,» Poppy called from the doorway, shoving her groom onto the landing.
«Bye, Mum!» Oliver managed before the door slammed.
«Lord! What did I do to deserve this?» Margaret wept into a packet of digestives at the kitchen table. Her sweet, gentle boy, ensnared by some predator.
«His ears are perfectly normal,» she sniffed belatedly at the closed door.
«What now?» Poppy scratched her head outside, eyeing Oliver. «We cant afford a venue, a toastmaster, or a proper spread. My folks wont chip in either.»
«What about our garden party, then a trip?» Oliver suggested hopefully. Hed only just started workingbarely saved a thing.
«Why didnt you say so sooner?» Poppy clapped his shoulder. «Go beg your mum for the keys. Ill waitwouldnt want to traumatise the old dear.»
Just as Margaret composed herself, the doorbell rang again.
«What fresh hell?» she muttered, shuffling to answer.
Oliver stood alone. Margaret peered past himno sign of the she-devil.
«She left you?» she gasped hopefully.
«Mum, dont! We love each other.»
«Then what?»
«Can we have the garden keys? Well host the wedding there.»
«Over my dead body! Youll trash the place!»
«Well clean up! Everyone will help. Dont you want me happy?»
Margaret choked on her tea.
«I do! But not like this!»
«Poppys wonderful, Mum.»
«Couldve fooled me.»
With a sigh, Margaret fetched the keys.
«Brilliant! Youre a star!» Oliver kissed her cheek and bolted.
«See? Told you you could do it,» Poppy praised, spitting her gum before planting a searing kiss on him.
Margaret got an invite.
«How am I supposed to look happy?» she moaned to her neighbour. «Id rather drown her in the punch bowl.»
«Relax,» the neighbour waved her off. «Kids these daysmarried today, divorced tomorrow. Mines on her third. Just pray they dont breed.»
«Whats the point, then?»
«Who knows? Some collect stamps, some collect spouses.»
The wedding day was unseasonably warm.
«Lucky with the weather!» guests cheered. Thirty showedPoppys parents among them, stiff as starched shirts. Her mother feared the garden: «Bugs keep flying into my nose!» Meanwhile, her father, after a few brandies, ditched his dignity to flirt with bridesmaids.
«What does she see in him?» Poppys mother wailed to Margaret.
«Likewise,» Margaret snapped, moving away before she ruined the party.
Outside, Margarets heart brokegrills nestled between trampled vegetable patches, firewood reserves fuelling the barbecue.
«The loos that way!» she barked at guests relieving themselves by the apple trees.
«Cheers, Mum!» they laughed, zipping up.
By dawn, the garden was fertilised with half-digested canapés and champagne. Margaret patrolled the wreckagebottles, strewn scarves, guests snoring in the greenhouse.
«Mum? Whatre you doing?» Oliver yawned.
«Waiting to see wholl clean this up.»
«They will.»
But when the newlyweds emerged with suitcases, Margaret blocked them.
«And whos tidying?»
«Were off, Mum,» Oliver said, nudging her aside. «Booked a trip.»
«What about the guests?»
«Theyve got legs,» Poppy said, dragging him off. «This dumps all yours.»
One by one, guests slunk away. Poppys father, reeking of booze, mumbled apologies before wobbling off with his dishevelled wife.
Alone, Margaret surveyed the carnage. Inside, under gift boxes, she found an envelope stuffed with cashenough to hire cleaners.
«Good travels, kids,» she smirked, dialling a number as she bit into a digestive.
