Free The World is a Wedding by Wendy Jones

to think about something else entirely. Stanley Baldwin flashed into his mind—his upright stance, his neat centre parting, his purposeful demeanour.
    He rolled onto his side and pulled Flora to him. On his wedding night he had thought about the Royal Family and the fusty old Queen, but even with the image of the late Queen Victoria he had fallen apart and let go. And it had all been over in a moment or two, perhaps less. He was disappointed with himself. He had yearned for this occasion since the moment he had first set eyes on Flora Myffanwy. And had waited months, when waiting hours had felt like a long time. Even seconds felt like a long time when confronted with the physicality of Flora Myffanwy. Now he had a new frustration—this time with himself.
    He reached down, put his hand on Flora’s nightdress and began to pull it up. On the second Saturday night of his married life he had tried thinking of cricket, but had found it too
abstract—
that was an
A
word from the dictionary—and so cricket had also failed him in the performance of the duties of his married life. It was hard to think of something specific about cricket, and this had made his mind wander from the task at hand, so to speak, and that had been that.
    If he moved his hand any higher up Flora’s thigh, he would need to think about Stanley Baldwin again. He paused. It was a mystery to Wilfred how long these things were supposed to last—but he felt certain it should be more than a couple of seconds. He thought perhaps around two minutes. That was a long time and would demand an exceptional level of control, and political thought.
    He stroked and kissed Flora’s hair. He didn’t know if Flora enjoyed the conjugal act. He could ask, but that would be very ungentlemanly. She appeared to like it because she smiled afterwards. He wasn’t sure if ladies liked these sorts of things. Perhaps ladies didn’t think about these matters as much as men—otherwise they would need to go, like men, to the Narberth Rugby Club to get things off their chest. And he had never heard a lady make mention of marital relations, so perhaps they didn’t think about it at all. Although Flora Myffanwy had once said something: ‘You’re on my hair,’ and when Wilfred had looked he saw that his forearm was leaning on her long thick curls so that her head was being pulled to the side at an odd angle.
    Wilfred shifted and arranged himself in the bed. What he hadn’t understood was how much geometry there was in the conjugal act—it was not unlike trying to get a corpse in a coffin at the right angle. Things had to go in the right place in the right way, so to speak, and he was glad of his training in undertaking. It had unexpected benefits because he was experienced in attempting to get bits of other people’s bodies to do what he wanted and needed them to do.
    He lay still and paused in the proceedings for a moment. Wilfred had thought about his predicament a great deal while making coffins. What was the least exciting thing he could think of? Tax. But he was prone to getting hot and bothered when doing his bookkeeping and getting in a fix about the figures. Politics? The Liberal Party? But then he might think about David Lloyd George, that Titan of a Welshman—though he was born in Manchester. Now there was a man to rile the blood. Stanley Baldwin? Very nice chap, no doubt commanded respect, what with him being prime minister, of course. Couldn’t argue with that. Stanley Baldwin was a good choice—an
apposite
choice—and Stanley Baldwin cut the mustard.
    By the eighth Saturday night of his married life, Wilfred Price was happy to acknowledge to himself that he had performed his matrimonial duties with the requisite level of control demanded by a husband for the satisfaction of his wife. With the help of the prime minister.

6. T HE A PPLE N EVER F ALLS V ERY F AR FROM THE T REE
    T here were so many