Wokingham Writers’ Group runs regular fiction writing contests for its members. Here is LINDA FAWKE’S winning entry
It was an odd match. I never thought I’d be best man to this pair. I stood beside Phil and fiddled with the gold ring in my pocket.
She was a live wire, Beth. She’d danced on the table at New Year’s Eve, her skirt swirling high and her hair and mood higher. Phil had watched and nodded his head in time to the music, refusing to join her. He didn’t say he’d rather be at home with the book I’d given him. He was kinder than that. Lily, now the bridesmaid, had danced with her instead.
Their parents had been neighbours for decades, happy in Hull. There they were, grinning in the front pew, best friends, soon to be related. Creating their dynasty. As the ceremony continued, my attention wandered. I looked at the vicar’s scuffed shoes; a wedding was too every-day to warrant shoe polish. The edge of his cassock was frayed and there was a dirty mark on his dog collar. A nudge brought me back to reality and I produced the ring, placing it on Phil’s large, shovel-like hand, brushing his fingers. He was a huge man, an imposing presence. I wondered, again, why he was marrying the butterfly that was Beth, his childhood sweetheart.
I glanced towards Lily. Wasn’t it usual for the best man to get off with the bridesmaid? The thought amused me. Not likely.
My attention must have wandered again. Before I realised it, Beth and Phil were walking down the aisle as man and wife. I caught Phil’s eye and the glance that passed between us spoke of times past. A similar look passed between Lily and Beth. No regrets – just sadness that it was over.
Although maybe not…
It wasn’t a match made in Heaven. It was a marriage manufactured in Hull.
© Linda Fawke
