I turn back to the front. Maidstead is the smallest cathedral not just in the south-west but in the country – only just scraping its official status. I like that you can see front to back from my vantage point. For some reason we are in the VIP seats directly in front of the choir stall. No idea how we ended up here but it’s a happy mistake. A great view. There are narrow corridors with stone arches beyond the choir stalls and I can see glimpses of university staff with clipboards.
For a moment I think I recognise someone in the distance – Helen’s sister. Mandy. Or is it Molly. For the life of me I can’t remember but it suddenly occurs to me that maybe she organised our seats? Mandy （or Molly?） is the sister of one of my book-group friends, Helen. When Gemma expressed an interest in this uni, Helen very kindly passed on some tips. Her sister’s in the comms department. Gave us some general pointers on the most popular accommodation for freshers – that sort of thing. Nice woman. We’ve met her very briefly at a couple of uni events – on nodding terms, no more. Would she have done this for us? I doubt it . . .
But now I am frowning. Reconsidering. I have been going on and on about the ceremony at book club, worrying about the seating, so maybe Helen did put in a word. It’s the sort of thing she’d do. I glance at my bag, thinking of my phone. I should message Helen later. Yes. If her sister wangled these seats on the quiet, we should at least thank her . . .
And now the chancellor is telling us that our sons and daughters, lined up in these anterooms off the rear corridors, are presently graduands – the technical term until they miraculously transform into bona-fide graduates once their certificates are in their happy hands.
I turn to Ed, who sits alongside me, his shoulders still tight – no longer quite the ball of fury he was when we first took our seats, but he’s still cross with me. I touch his arm and whisper again that I’m sorry about the bad atmosphere in the car.
He finds a small smile but as payback will not look at me. But I can tell, even from his profile, he’s softening; that I am almost forgiven. Good.
It wasn’t my fault – the row. Well, not row; we don’t really have rows. I’m lucky that way. It was just that I wanted to leave the hotel nice and early as we were supposed to meet Gemma at the ‘dressing tents’ to see her in her gown and do some photographs ahead of the cathedral. But Ed, who’s a great deal more relaxed than me about timings, wanted a full English. Stop catastrophising Rachel.
And then a lorry with gas canisters decided to burst a tyre – and my bubble – right in front of us on a major roundabout on the way into the city centre. Of course, I blamed Ed. I didn’t say anything out loud – I just let out this huff. Looked away. But the problem with Ed is sometimes he just won’t leave things . . .
Spit it out, Rachel. You really saying this is my fault? This lorry?
I’m fine.
You’re not fine. You can’t even look at me.
Leave it, Ed.
I didn’t rise to it. The thing is I absolutely can’t stand arguments and there’s no way we need all that. Not today. I just messaged Gemma – devastated to miss the dressing tent. She said no worries, then texted something rather odd: Don’t be upset when you see me, Mum. Promise?
And now she’s had to turn off her phone and I’m in limbo. Puzzled. How could I be upset with her – today of all days?
Suddenly there’s applause and I’m pulled back into the moment to see that the chancellor is at last wrapping up. I clap. Ed claps. Someone else, an alumni, steps forward to take up their position to our far left to hand over the certificates. Someone off the telly but not A-list famous. I will have to look them up in the programme. Gemma did tell me.
And now – hurrah – the first glimpse of the graduands – appearing in a line through a stone arch off to the right, behind the choir stalls. My goodness – what a logistical feat this is. Gemma told me the briefing was a right palaver.
I clap and smile at the first batch as if I know them. There are hoots and whistles from some of the parents and I love that this is more relaxed than I expected. I can feel tears pricking my eyes. It’s all so huge. And then? Name after name after name and my palms are sore already. I realise that I cannot possibly keep up this level of enthusiasm. I simply can’t love all these strangers quite this much. I glance down. Good Lord. We are still on page . . . one.
I reduce the quality of my clapping and distract myself by taking in the very different shoes that all the girls have chosen. Some spectacularly high. Gemma has this phobia about tripping in public and has chosen wedges. I need to have something solid to walk on, Mum. I suggested kitten heels, but she was not having that. Reckoned it would make her legs look stumpy in the photographs.