the wedding, telling him that they were welcome to stay with the family. Morgan’s reply had been less than reassuring. He would be coming to England for the wedding, he said, but his marriage had broken up and his daughter, fifteen-year-old Andrea, preferred to stay at their home in Nrubi and therefore would not be accompanying him.
Now, as Helen tied the cords of the cream figured jerkin that matched her evening skirt, she felt a pang of sympathy for the man who had always treated Barry like his own son. Still, Morgan had arrived home early this morning, and when Barry telephoned her later, inviting her round for dinner that evening, he had not sounded too concerned about his stepfather.
‘I can’t promise you the fatted calf,’ he had teased his fiancée, ‘but Mum and Mrs Parsons have been in the kitchen since nine o’clock, and I’m pretty sure it will be something special.’
Helen had laughed and said she was looking forward to meeting his brother, but she couldn’t help wishing Morgan Fox had not brought his troubles to blight this week which should have been such a happy one for all of them.
Her bedroom door opened as she was adding a touch of perfume to her wrists, and her younger sister, Jennifer, stood regarding her admiringly. Jennifer was just fourteen, but she was tall, as tall as Helen, in fact, and although Susan Fox was three years older they were much of a size. Jennifer was the fourth bridesmaid, and as it was her first opportunity to attend at a wedding, she was more excited about the ceremony than Helen herself.
‘Barry’s here,’ she said now, hands tucked into the waistband of the jeans she invariably wore. ‘Are you ready?’
Helen nodded. ‘I think so. Do I look all right?’
Jennifer pulled a critical face. ‘I guess so. That’s new, isn’t it? Honestly, you’ve got more clothes than anyone I know!’
Helen gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘When you start earning some money,’ she replied, ‘you’ll be able to buy your own clothes, too. And besides, this is part of my trousseau.’
‘So why are you wearing it tonight?’
Helen sighed. ‘I don’t see what it has to do with you, but as I’m meeting Barry’s brother for the first time, I wanted to look—decent.’
Jennifer grimaced. ‘Decent!’ she echoed. ‘You always look decent, and you know it. What is it with this brother of Barry’s? Why should you want to impress him?’
‘It’s not a question of impressing him,’ exclaimed Helen tersely. ‘Anyway, you should mind your own business.’
‘Why? He’s nobody. He’s old, isn’t he? Barry’s twenty-four, and he said he was at least twelve years older than him.’
Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh? So you’ve been talking to Barry about him, too, have you?’
Jennifer coloured then. ‘I only asked. I was curious, that’s all. Barry said I could go round and meet him tomorrow, if I liked.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Helen was beginning to feel impatient now. ‘Mum and Dad are inviting him to dinner on Tuesday. You can meet him then.’
‘Barry says he has a daughter about the same age as me, but she’s not coming to the wedding. He said that he and his wife have split up.’
‘Barry seems to have said an awful lot,’ declared Helen, picking up her fur jacket and slinging it about her shoulders, not quite knowing why that knowledge irritated her so, and Jennifer made another face before flouncing off downstairs ahead of her.
Barry was waiting with her parents in the lounge. He was a tall, good-looking young man, with dark curly hair and blue eyes. After passing his exams he had got a good job in the Borough Surveyor’s department, and he and Helen were to live in a furnished flat in York until they could afford to buy a house of their own. Helen was to go on working for the time being, and as she was only twenty-one, there would be plenty of time for having children later. She had known Barry for years, they had attended the same grammar school, but it was not until about a year ago that she had actually consented to go out with him.
Now he came to greet her warmly, bending his head to bestow an affectionate kiss on her lips. ‘You look great!’ he murmured, and then moved aside to allow her parents to look at her.
‘Are you sure that skirt won’t get marked?’ asked Mrs Raynor anxiously. ‘It would be a shame if you spoiled it before you went away.’
Their honeymoon was booked in Majorca, and they all hoped the weather would be warmer there than it was in England at present.
‘It is washable,’ said Helen tolerantly, and her father from his stance before the hearth added: ‘Take no notice of her, love. You look beautiful, doesn’t she, Barry? All in cream like that. Could be a wedding gown!’
‘Oh, don’t say that!’ exclaimed Mrs Raynor, shaking her head. ‘Don’t you know it’s unlucky for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress before they’re in church!’
‘But she’s not wearing her wedding dress, is she?’ demanded her husband irritably. ‘I only said—–’
‘I know what you said,’ Mrs Raynor interrupted him, and sensing an argument, Helen took Barry’s arm and drew him towards the door.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave them to it. I’m hungry if you’re not.’
Outside, Barry’s sleek Triumph sat smugly on the drive of the Raynors’ semi. He helped Helen into the front seat, and then walked round the bonnet to climb in beside her, flashing her another smiling look of possession as he stretched for the ignition.
‘Dinner’s not until eight,’ he said, reversing carefully into the road. ‘Morgan’s slept most of the day, so Mum’s put the meal back an hour.’
Helen nodded. ‘I expect he was very tired. It’s a long journey.’
‘Yes.’ Barry frowned. ‘I’m surprised he came, actually, as Andrea wasn’t coming and Pamela’s left him.’
‘Well, I’m not.’ Helen’s brows drew together. ‘Mr Fox is his father, after all. And he hasn’t seen him for—what? Five years?’
‘Four,’ said Barry shortly. ‘But I don’t see the connection. We’ve seen next to nothing of him ever since he qualified.’
‘Yes, but you’re getting married now,’ said Helen gently. ‘Naturally he would want to attend your wedding.’
‘Would he?’ Barry didn’t sound convinced, and Helen wondered if he wasn’t feeling just the tiniest bit resentful of the fuss his parents were making of the prodigal.
Deciding a change of subject was needed, she put her hand on his arm and said softly: ‘I wonder what we’ll be doing this time next week?’ and was rewarded by a return of Barry’s good humour.
‘Well, not spending the evening having dinner with my parents,’ he declared huskily, and she bent her head to rest it against his shoulder.
‘I can’t; help wishing it was this time next week,’ she murmured, but not quite for the reasons he imagined. ‘I shall be glad when all the fuss is over. I wish we’d
