an unknown hand

After the speeches we all drifted out into the hotel grounds.

The sun was shining and the early daffodils and crocuses made for a beautiful display along the borders by the gravelled car park.

The photographer walked to his Subaru and started to unpack his larger tripod. He looked at the sky.

As the wave of guests grew behind them, the first pioneers started to wander onto the grass. There were one or two quiet shrieks of alarm as stilettos sank into the lawn, still soft after last night’s rain. Little groups congregated in their respective tribes – bride or groom. Elaborate hats caught a little of the breeze. Men gravitated towards one another, cigarettes were lit, connections with the appropriate party were outlined and coincidences smiled at.

In an attempt to fracture the wedding apartheid, I found myself talking with an older gentleman dressed in a immaculately tailored light grey suit with a highly decorated silken waistcoat, a flounced cravat at his neck and silver hair sleeked back across his head. He explained that he was the uncle of the bride, had flown in from Geneva the previous afternoon, was intending to spend a month in the country visiting old acquaintances, galleries, the opera, Oxford Street.

After some moments, I felt a light snag of my trousers just below the knee. Without looking, I reached my hand down to adjust the offending wrinkle, but found instead the hand of a small child taking my own. I assumed it was Charlie, my son, who had been released by his mother to wander between the legs of the guests. But after a moment I realised I was holding the hand of an even smaller unkown girl, encumbered by a large nappy, who was attempting to persuade me through little guttural ejaculations to pick her up. I simultaneously became aware of a sudden hue and cry close by, and the alarmed voice of a woman reached my ears.

"Cassie! Cassie! Cassiopeia! Where are you?"

prompt: an unknown hand