Saturday,

September 24th, 1960

Christine Leigh Hamilton became Mrs. Demetrios Papadopoulos today. It was a wonderful do, though a bit peculiar. I suspect that a great deal of diplomatic wrangling had gone on, conceding this custom to the bride, that custom to the groom, until both bride and groom reached conciliation. The groom’s relatives and friends were on one side of the church, and the bride’s on the other. His side was chocka, hers was about a third full of almost all spinsters, except for a few doctors and their wives. Dr. Michael Dobkins was there with his physio wife, which solved a mystery. She was the spitting image of Chris right down to the grand piano legs, except that, having money, she could afford to wear contact lenses. How do I know? She has that blind-as-a-bat-without-my-glasses look. No matter how well their optical aids allow them to see, they still have that muzzy myopic gaze.

The last person I expected to see was Duncan, but there he was complete with the Missus. Of course, I realised, Chris must know him very well from her days in main X-ray—orthopods look at a lot of pictures of bones. I lurked in the back of the church with a pink lace hanky on my head because I refuse to wear a hat, even for Chris’s wedding. Until I set eyes on Mrs. Duncan Forsythe, I had been pleased with my slinky pink jersey dress. But the Missus—phew! Jacques Fath, if the draping of her clinging beige number was anything to go by. Beige kid gloves with seven buttons, beige kid shoes by Charles Jourdan, a beige hat nobody in the Royal Family would be seen dead in, it was so elegant. In amongst us over-dressed New and Old Australian peasants, she stuck out like dog’s balls, despite the fact that her hair, skin and eyes are as beige as her outfit was. She should have faded into the background, but she surely didn’t. Her jewellery consisted of pearls, too dingy and dull to be fake.

Duncan looked awful, though the Missus had made sure he was perfectly clad for an occasion I’m positive she despised. Only one little week, and he’s faded. Not to her beige, but to various shades of grey. Grey skin and grey hair—can so much grey appear in a week? I daresay it can, if hair can go silver overnight. To me, he seemed as if he was cooking a heart attack, but he’s too fit for that. No, Harriet Purcell, he’s plain suffering, and it’s all your fault, you flaming selfish bitch! Though I was glad to get a look at the Missus, probably never will again.

Turns out that Chris has no close relatives, so Sister Agatha gave the bride away! The bride wore a Scarlett O’Hara crinoline of white tulle covered with millions of lace frills, its back cut to form an imposingly long train held up by two weeny Greek girls who staggered adorably, and everybody oohed and aahed when she came down the aisle on Sister Agatha’s arm. Sister Agatha wore pastel blue guipure lace and a hat the Queen Mother would have died for—a punch-bowl of matching pastel blue straw embellished with stiff quiffs of mauve net and a couple of violent purple orchids the same as her corsage. Sister Cas—Marie O’Callaghan today, I suppose—was the only bridesmaid, in cream lace over daffodil yellow satin. The bride carried the sort of bouquet you only see in wedding photos from the 1920s and 1930s—trailing masses of white lilies and orchids. The bridesmaid carried another stunner made of creamy roses. As it’s the groom’s job to buy the flowers, I dipped me lid to Demetrios.

The reception was held in a Greek restaurant at Kensington, and it was, in my view, brilliant. Demetrios’s parents were so proud of him! He’d managed to catch an Old Australian, the ten-quid trip out from Greece on some ghastly old cockroach of a ship was vindicated. The Papadopouloses have entered the Australian mainstream. The Forsythes, I saw, contented themselves with the church, shook hands with the groom and pecked the bride outside among the tons of confetti, then purred away in a huge black Rolls, no doubt to attend some more palatable occasion. I don’t think either of them noticed me because I hid behind a pillar in the church and skulked inside the vestibule until the Rolls had gone.

So I could relax at the reception, danced with a dozen Greek blokes who all undressed me with their flashing eyes, threw plates with the best of them, and tried that Never on Sunday stuff, but decided it was more fun to sit back and watch the men do it the right way. They were graceful and passionate, the music was magic. I don’t think there was much enthusiasm for the food among the bride’s contingent, but I shovelled it in with gusto. Moussaka, dolmades, weeny meatballs, tabouli, spitted roast lamb, eggplants, olives, artichokes, octopus, squid. The rice pudding was out of this world, sweet creamy mush laced with brown ribbons of nutmeg and cinnamon. I made an absolute pig of myself.

Despite the divine food and the admiring throng of men all asking me to dance or sleep with them, I found the time to observe the table on the dais. Chris and Demetrios sat in a daze and ate nothing, but Sister Cas and the best man, Constantin, gazed into each other’s eyes and fed each other coyly when they weren’t in fits of giggles from the Retsina. There is going to be another Cas wedding, mark my words! When it came time for Demetrios and Chris to leave and Chris summoned up her sandbag-enhanced strength to chuck that colossal bouquet at a screaming horde of desperate women, I did use my old basketball skills, just not in the way I’d threatened. I manoeuvred Sister Cas into the right spot, flipped my knuckles at the correct flower as the thing whizzed straight at me, and deflected it into Sister Cas’s delighted hands.

Cupid strikes again.

Sunday,

September 25th, 1960

Neither Harold nor I saw Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz last Sunday because she had her most important client, Mrs. Desmond Thingummy—I always forget their names. It may be that she’d arranged that with malice aforethought, thanks to Pappy’s crisis. Incidentally, Pappy isn’t home yet. A real worry, but I’m sure if anything has gone wrong, the sanatorium knows how to contact us. Duncan wouldn’t do it any other way. Perhaps her general health is so run down that they had preferred to wait a few days before acting, and keep her a few extra days after acting.

At least that’s what I told Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz today, and she’s sensible enough to agree with my theory.

Of course she already knew that I had dismissed Duncan, though I did it very quietly, there was absolutely no one around, and last Sunday I didn’t see her. I told no one about Duncan, but she knew. It was in the cards. It’s always in the cards. Is it her tumour makes her prescient? They say that there are parts of our brains we don’t utilise, that there are powers we don’t know we have. Or can some people genuinely summon up the elements? Force events to go their way? See into the mists of time? I wish I knew, but I do not. All I know is that either Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz has the best espionage system in the world, or she actually can see what’s happening by spreading her cards.

I had to report on the wedding in every tiny detail, from the six crystal wine glasses I’d given the happy couple to how Sister Agatha danced the hours away on twinkling little feet. Who would have guessed it? Retsina is potent.

Flo looked exhausted, yet her mother says she’s had no clients this weekend. When I came in Flo stared at me as if she knew just what I was going through, though I’ve tried to keep that from the whole world, haven’t even given my emotions any space in this book. Nobody’s business, including whoever broke the hair on my Tilsiter cupboard when they picked away the plasticine and stuck their head inside. My old books have been read, they aren’t how they should be, standing neatly upright. I found them lying down, and they hadn’t fallen either. Someone knows my business almost up to the present day, because I’m just starting a new book. It’s left a sour taste in my mouth, though I know who’s guilty. Harold. So I went one better when I drew all my curtains closed, stood on my bed and put the books in through the manhole in my ceiling. He’d need a ladder even if he thought of looking in the crawl space. I wish there was someone I could talk to about Harold. With Duncan gone, is he about to start his horrible little war against me all over again?