Francis Ross was getting dressed for his daughter's wedding. He called out to the woman with whom he was living: 'Iris, bring my shirt, nuh man! What tekking you so long to iron it?'

Iris came in and put the shirt gently on the bed. Francis grabbed it. 'Don't put it on the bed. It's going to get crushed again. You got the creases out of my jacket?'

Iris nodded and walked out of the room to get the jacket. 'Hurry nuh, man,' Francis called after her.

Iris came back in and tossed the jacket at him. 'You mek youself late, watching TV till all hours of the night and cyah wake up in the morning time.'

Francis winced because she pronounced 'hours' with the h. 'How many times I have to tell you the word is 'ours'? Jesus!'

Iris kissed her teeth but said nothing more. She sat quietly on the bed and looked up at him while he straightened his tie. Her voice was meek when she spoke. 'Francis, how come Amanda didn't invite me? Don't she know we are like man and wife?'

Francis looked in the mirror, straightened his part and combed his hair, smoothing down his soft curls with oil while he spoke. He was proud that his hair was still jet black, unlike so many of his contemporaries. 'Iris, don't bother me with this now. I told you it was a small wedding and she only invited close family.'

'But two hundred people invited. I heard you say so on the phone to your friend the other night.'

'I can't tell my daughter who to invite. Her mother will be there and maybe she doesn't want her to feel uncomfortable.'

'It's you who don't want to feel uncomfortable, Francis. You don't want anybody to see you with me, especially your high and mighty ex-wife and your high-colour friends.'

'Woman, stop your foolishness. Can't you see I'm late?'

Iris started crying. 'It's not foolishness. I heard you on the phone and I heard you call the name Trisha and you said your wife. You didn't say ex-wife, and it's how many years you're divorced now? Fifteen.'

Francis handed Iris a handkerchief, kissed her forehead and told her he would bring back a piece of wedding cake for her but that he had to go. He knew it would have made her happy if he had said he loved her but he had never said those words to anybody and he certainly wouldn't be saying them to Iris. He wasn't even sure he did love her. So he said the next best thing. 'See you soon. We'll watch a good show on TV together. I'll borrow a good movie.' And he rushed out to walk his firstborn down the aisle.

He drove like a madman, weaving in and out of traffic. It was a miracle Amanda had asked him to walk her down the aisle. He had always thought there would be no doubt that he would walk his daughters down the aisle on their wedding day, until his other daughter, Laura, proud and rebellious, informed him some years ago that he certainly wouldn't be walking her down the aisle. 'First of all, Dad,' she had said, 'You are not giving me away. If I get married, and I doubt I will, I will be entering an equal union of my own accord. Second of all, you were not around when I was growing up. If I get married, Bill would walk me down the aisle.'

Francis had been hurt. After all, Bill could not love his daughters as he loved them. Trisha had probably turned them against him. He had smarted from that comment for a long time and he secretly hoped she would never get married so he wouldn't have to endure Bill walking her down the aisle.

Francis screeched into the church parking lot, almost hitting a small, barefooted boy in ragged clothes who was begging at the church gate. He saw a small huddle around Amanda: Trisha, Bill, Laura, and her grandmothers, their heads craning to the gate, no doubt looking out for him. He saw Trisha stamp her foot impatiently. He slammed the car door and rushed toward them, straightening his tie and smoothing down his hair.

'Did you have to be late?' Francis' own mother berated him. Amanda looked relieved. Trisha didn't say so much as hello to him; she glared at him, then turned to Amanda. 'Well, we can start now. The rest of us should take our seats.' Bill took Trisha's hand and led her to the front of the church.

Francis wanted to tell Amanda he was sorry he was late, but he couldn't speak. He was not used to showing emotion, but she was so beautiful, and she looked exactly like how Trisha had looked when he had married her in 1967. Francis wanted to cry. It was just yesterday Amanda had been born, a perfectly shaped baby with dark, curly hair, skin the colour of the palest yellow flower, and hazel eyes like his own. Sometimes he had wanted to stay at home and hold her, but she cried for her mother, and his friends expected him to come out with them. Now Amanda stood looking at him with those huge hazel eyes, her thick black hair cut short, emphasising her perfect features. Her skin had the rosy glow of youth and happiness. She had perfectly sculpted cheekbones and a pointed chin with a nose that was slightly long, like her mother's. 'Do you like my dress?' she whispered. He hadn't noticed her dress, but when he stood back and surveyed her, he recognised it as her mother's wedding dress. It had been restored and it fit her perfectly. It had always been Trisha's wish that one day her daughter would wear her wedding gown. The dress was simple and elegant, white and long, with beads and lace lining the bodice. It clung to Amanda's waist and hips and then flared slightly to the floor. Instead of a veil, she wore a tiara.

'You look beautiful, like a princess.' Francis fought the tears that threatened to spill over. He used to pick her up and call her his princess until, one day at age ten, she told him not to call her that anymore. He took her arm and walked up the aisle. The church was filled with people, a lot of whom he hadn't seen since he and Trisha had got divorced. He was glad he had come without Iris. It wasn't that she hadn't been invited; Amanda had asked him if he would bring her and he had said no. He wanted to share this moment with Trisha only, to reminisce and feel nostalgic together. He had forgotten that she was still cold toward him, and, of course, that Bill would be there.

Francis proudly led Amanda down the aisle, kissed her and stepped aside. He almost walked over and took his 'rightful' place beside Trisha, but then he saw Bill. Everyone said how happy Trisha was with Bill. Francis felt alone. It wasn't that Iris didn't count, but she would not have fit in with this crowd.

Francis walked back to his seat. He barely heard the ceremony: it was as if he had walked through a doorway to the past. He found himself back in 1967. The priest was talking but he hadn't heard a thing except the cadence of the priest's voice, rising and falling. All Francis could think of was that Trisha was now his and all the waiting they had done would now be over they hadn't really waited, because the weekend before the wedding, she had finally given in. 'Just this one time before the wedding,' she had said, 'since it's only one week away.' He couldn't wait to enjoy that blissful experience again.

Then, just like that, the wedding and the honeymoon were over. They settled into a rented house. They got up every morning and went to work. They came home and had dinner. His friends called and he went out. 'Where are you going now?' Trisha would ask.

'Out with Wray and his nephew,' he'd reply; and he wouldn't come home until early morning.

It became habitual - going out all night, or leaving home from Friday after work and staying out all weekend. Sometimes other women were involved; sometimes he was just too drunk to come home. As the group of men woke in the morning, they started drinking again.

Francis didn't see why Trisha got upset. All his friends were married and they were all doing the same thing. He had never had access to so many women. It seemed that the day he got married, women became available. They didn't care that he was married; if anything, that made him more desirable. He had a long four-year affair with one of these women before Trisha got wind of it. During the time of the affair, he had his two daughters Amanda and Laura.

They bought a house, and a second car. He spent more weekends at his mistress' house than he did at his new home with his own family. He didn't think of it as a double life. All his friends had other women.

One Sunday, when he walked in slovenly and smelling of the other woman, Trisha asked, 'Where have you been?'

'Out with Mr. Walker.'

'Who is Mr. Walker?'

'Johnny.'

She threw her plate of food at him. The children screamed in fright.

'Stop telling me crap. You think I don't know about her? You think I'm stupid!'

Before he knew what was happening, Trisha left. She left everything in the house, even most of her clothes, and moved in with her older sister in a tiny house in Havendale. He would go there and bang on the door, screaming her name to let him in. He called her everyday to tell her to come home and that she better bring his children home, but she hung up. He realised he loved her more than ever, so he drank more and carried on with more women. Sometimes Trisha called him to pick up the girls at school and, when he did, he realised he didn't know them. As far as he knew, Trisha would one day come back to him.

One Saturday morning, she called to tell him she was getting married. He didn't believe her at first, but the wedding came and went, and he eventually met Bill at Amanda's ballet recital. Bill was there at every school event and his name always came up when he saw his children. He finally accepted that Bill was there to stay, but sometimes Francis left the present and returned to the past where he concocted his own memories, his own version of events. When he returned to the past, Trisha was always there. She would never think of leaving him, no matter what he did. In time, he settled down and they sat on the verandah together and laughed about their early days and his roaming ways. Trisha always said she loved him too much to leave him and thank God for that, because look how they had each other now.

After the ceremony, the posing for the pictures, the reception and sit-down dinner, Francis roamed around the garden, feeling left out. He seemed to have nothing to say to anyone and making small talk was painful. He saw some old friends, but all they had in common was the past. 'Wh'appen, Ross? Remember when we used to kick some ball back when we were younger and fitter?' Or: 'What a way time fly! Remember when ...'

He left a group of men talking and went over to Trisha. He caught her alone. 'Will the mother of the bride dance with the father of the bride?' She hesitated and he said hurriedly, 'It's just a dance.'

'Okay.'

As always, all he wanted to say was stuck in his throat, but something told him if he didn't say it now he would never get another chance. 'We have a beautiful daughter,' he said. 'You've done a great job. Don't think I haven't noticed all you've done.'

'Thank you.' She smiled but didn't look him in the eye. He got the feeling she wished the dance were over.

'Trish, only time makes you realise how ... I did a lot wrong ... I didn't realise things ... you were a good wife, a great wife. I messed it up ... I was young and stupid ...'

'It's okay, Francis. It's all water under the bridge. I'm happy with Bill. Maybe it was meant to be like this.'

He didn't say it could never have been meant to be like this. 'Maybe, he muttered.

After he danced with Trisha, he walked casually over to his daughter. 'My baby is a married woman now.'

'I haven't been a baby for a long time, Dad.'

Once again, he felt misunderstood. He tried again. 'That man of yours seems like a good man. Men these days are different, more into family. I haven't always been a good father.' The tears that threatened to erupt escaped. He hugged her so she wouldn't see. Finally, he said the words that had never left his lips. 'I love you, princess. I'm sorry how it's been with me and your mother. It wasn't meant to be like that.'

In a voice reminiscent of Trisha's, she murmured, 'Oh Dad. I love you, too. Stop thinking so much about the past. It's all water under the bridge.'

END

- Peta-Gaye Nash