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The Lost Owl pub in Godric’s Hollow was bustling, as it usually was. Patrons stamped the worst of the snow off their boots before piling in to warm themselves by the three fireplaces, in the cosy, worn armchairs or at the rough, battered old tables. At this time of the year, they might have some of Madam Eliza’s mulled wine, or mulled cider, perhaps by the large Christmas tree.
Usually, plenty of muggles were in the pub, and the magical patrons were well versed in keeping things subtle, though odd occurrences did occasionally slip out. The muggles of Godric’s Hollow, historically, were used to such things, and did a good job, in Monty Potter’s opinion, of pretending that they hadn’t noticed anything at all. These days, there were fewer muggle men, at least of fighting age, and a few more muggle women, which Phil and Monty both appreciated.
‘Look at that one,’ he was saying, with round eyes. ‘Look at the legs on her-’
‘The one in the dungarees?’ said Monty.
‘I’m not going to apologise, I’m sorry they’re all at war, but I approve of all the women muggles wearing trousers.’
Monty didn’t mind it either; he’d certainly had some fun evenings laughing loudly with the young women that worked in the fields around Godric’s Hollow. But tonight he was after a little more glamour, and the Land Army girls didn’t quite provide.
As though reading his mind, Phil burst out, ‘do we have to go to this thing tonight? Couldn’t we just stay here like we usually do?’
‘We’re going,’ said Monty. ‘I’m sick of sitting in the Owl ‘til closing time - no offence, Babs,’ he added hastily, as the barmaid, with terrible timing, appeared on the other side of the bar to pull a pint.
‘None taken - not my pub, loves, you’re just lucky it weren’t Mr Abbott here,’ she said scoldingly, though she gave them a wink. ‘Where you boys off to, then?’
‘There’s a dance hall night on in London,’ Monty told her. ‘By Diagon Alley - a group has hired it out-’
‘Oh, yes, I heard about it, I saw the flyers,’ she said. ‘But you ‘ent going all the way up to London? With all the business the muggles have going on?’
‘I’ll go anywhere for a party, Babs,’ Monty told her.
‘We’re getting the new Knight Bus and all,’ said Phil. ‘No need to stash brooms anywhere, or risk apparating.’
She looked amazed. ‘Fancy that - it’ll be more exciting than round these parts, that’s t’be said.’
‘That’s what we hope,’ said Monty. He raised a hand and cautiously touched his hair. ‘And I want to make sure this batch holds - for the whole evening, even with lots of dancing.’
‘It looks very neat,’ she reassured him. ‘Reckon you’ll be ready to launch soon? My friend Jenny says she’d be willing to test it for you an’ all.’
‘Brilliant! Get her to come along here one evening, I’ll give her a sample,’ he said. He looked at Phil. ‘Still trying to think of a name though, aren’t I?’
‘I suggested Smooth Hair Potion,’ said Phil, and when Barbara wrinkled her nose, he gave an understanding shrug of defeat.
‘I’ll think of something,’ said Monty. ‘I need something a bit… glitzy. Something that makes people feel glamorous and young. Perhaps I’ll find some inspiration tonight.’
‘It goes on til late, Babs,’ Phil said. ‘Why don’t you come along after your shift ends, meet us there?’
‘Ooh, no,’ she said, looking positively alarmed. ‘I’m not going all the way to London. I’m all right here, thanks. Besides, sounds a bit modern for me.’
‘Modern?’
‘I heard that they welcome muggleborns in there,’ said Barbara. She paused, and then although she spoke very delicately, her words carried a lot of meaning. ‘And mixing.’
Monty took a long draught on his beer before answering. ‘Yeah, that’s why we’re going,’ he told her casually. ‘It’ll be interesting to meet some muggles.’
‘Tempt them away from their husbands, even,’ said Phil daringly, and Monty grinned down at the sodden beermat, and failed to suppress a snort.
‘I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with ‘em!’ said Barbara hotly. ‘Can’t live round these parts and not get along with ‘em, can yer? I’m just saying - when one of us accidentally falls in love wiv’ one, well that’s all well and good, but should it be encouraged? It’s a difficult life to have, no point in pretendin’ elsewise.’
‘An easy life would be boring,’ said Phil carelessly, and Monty slapped him on the back.
‘Quite right. Well - we’d better be off - doors will have opened already. How’s my hair looking?’
‘Still holding,’ Phil advised him, casting an experienced, critical eye over Monty’s tamed dark hair.
‘Excellent.’
They downed the rest of their pints, bid goodbye to the rather flustered looking Barbara, and left the pub. They took the Knight Bus to London, an exciting new scheme they’d seen advertised adapting a double decker bus into something for the everyday witch and wizard to use, for quick trips or overnight journeys, in comfort. Quite where the comfort came in, Monty wasn't sure; the lurching of the bus and the loud bangs with which it departed and arrived from location to location had him regretting the two pints he’d had in the Lost Owl, and by the time they arrived on the Charing Cross road, he was wondering if he might have just apparated anyway. Phil, however, was adamant that it was a work of genius.
‘And only fourteen sickles!’ he was saying gleefully, as they hurried up the crowded road. Gaggles of giggling women in uniform were shrieking in delight as their heels clacked on the pavement, buses rumbled past, and in the descending evening the buildings around Charing Cross and Trafalgar loomed large, the lamps unlit.
‘I can’t believe you got hot chocolate,’ said Monty, a little queasily.
‘Stiff drink is all you need,’ said Phil bracingly, slapping him on the back. ‘And hey - your hair’s stayed spiffy.’
‘It has?’ he reached up to touch it lightly and, with some glee, felt it neat and smooth under his fingertips. If the potion could hold it during that rambunctious ride, surely this could be the batch?
Feeling remarkably better, he stood a little taller and kept pace with Phil, who also seemed more enthusiastic about the evening ahead now that he was actually in London.
They reached The Astoria, a large theatre acting as the venue for the slightly controversial party that had been advertised in magical communities up and down the country. Any passing muggles that fancied popping in found themselves quite keen to go elsewhere that evening, and they would continue walking, past the Leaky Cauldron pub that they never seemed to notice, in search of somewhere else. Except, of course, the muggles that held a ticket, for, as the leaflets had boldly stated, mixed couples were welcome.
They hurried beneath the bright red sign against the curved white of the building, squeezing through the bottleneck of other attendees that were pouring in, some in robes, some, like Monty and Phil, in muggle-style dress. Inside, streamers of crimson red and emerald green fluttered pleasantly from the vast ceiling, and paper chains were pinned along the edges of the balcony; when he looked up, Monty could see people leaning precariously over it to wave down at their friends.
On stage, a band was already playing - swinging, jazzy music that seemed to compel him to dance and move, and by the look of the crowd, it compelled them too. Skirts swished and curls bounced as women were spun and whisked under arms, men kicked and tapped and laughed loudly - there was something deliciously scandalous in the closeness of it all, the joyful impropriety, the unrestrained and unencumbered fun.
‘On the leaflet, it said they’d be serving gigglewater from America,’ Phil was saying loudly over the fast music, tearing his eyes away from the huge, glittering Christmas tree in the corner. ‘What say we try some? I’ve heard it’s jolly good…’
‘You clap your hands… and you swing out wide…’ an angelic voice was singing.
‘Eh, Monty? Monty? Oi!’ Phil was nudging him, but Monty was entirely oblivious to the world around him, including his old school friend. He was utterly transfixed, staring across the room at the singer.
Her dark brown hair, almost black, was in perfect victory rolls and cascading down her shoulders in large, tight curls. Her ruby red lips were utterly entrancing as she sang into the microphone that floated before her, her melodic notes coming from a brilliant smile. Her tall, hourglass figure wriggled in the long red robes she wore, her slender arms moving elegantly as she clicked with the music. Monty thought she was the most glamorous, most beautiful, most vibrant person he had ever laid eyes on.
‘Shake it boogie woogie style, everybody's swinging when you're doin' the jive-’
‘Who is that?’ he asked Phil vaguely.
Phil followed his gaze. ‘The singer of the band? Dunno, mate.’ He paused, and though Monty did not take his eyes off the witch, he could feel Phil looking between them. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I want to marry her,’ said Monty.
‘Oh, bloody hell, get a grip, old chap,’ said Phil.
But he was sure of it, as sure as he had been of anything in his life. Phil guided him to the bar, pointing out that they had only just got here and that she was the very first woman Monty had laid eyes on, but Monty’s neatly styled head was full of nothing else.
‘She might be doolally,’ Phil pointed out, when Monty was still preoccupied with her twenty minutes later. Clearly his patience was wearing thin.
‘Can’t you hear her voice? Like a nightingale. Or a phoeni-’
‘I told you to get a grip,’ said Phil firmly, and he nodded at the barman, who handed over two glasses of gigglewater. ‘Drink up,’ he ordered, and they knocked it back and burst into peals of laughter.
‘I’m serious,’ Monty said, through the last splutters of laughter. ‘Never seen a woman like her.’
‘The night’s young,’ Phil reminded him, and he nodded to a group of giggling witches further along the bar. ‘Come on - I thought we were going to meet some muggles?’
And they did so, joining a small group of young women in WRENs uniforms, who were falling about in hysterics and amazement over the magical drinks. ‘We all have siblings in Hogwarts,’ said one, after they had introduced themselves and bought them all a round. ‘Except for Bunty - her dad’s a wizard.’
‘Johnny Macmillan,’ said Bunty eagerly, ‘do you know him? He works in the department for Magical Accidents and Catastrophes-’
‘No-’ began Monty, but Phil interrupted.
‘Monty might end up knowing him - his hair is naturally a catastrophe and we’re expecting an accident with the potion he’s developing for it any day now!’
Monty grinned at him and politely told him to fuck off, but the girls just seemed more excited than ever. ‘You make potions? Oh, that is simply so magical! I can’t wait until my little brother can make them outside school for me!’
The girls were nice, and he and Phil even danced with them. Monty rocked and swung with one of the blonde women, called Edie, and any other night might have got on very well with her, even been excited by her, for she seemed enthusiastic to hear more about potions and Quidditch and all sorts of things he found perfectly ordinary. Similarly, he might have been enthusiastic to hear her talk about her job, and have her explain to him what a telephone was, and what exactly all the muggles were fighting about anyway.
But again and again as he danced his eyes were drawn to the fantastic red of the singer’s dress, her fluid, easy movements, the confident tilt of her head as she sang.
The great Christmas tree glittered and sent shards of light across the packed hall, the skirts of women swung out as they were spun across the room, a mix of robes and muggle dress in a festive array of colours.
Soon the heat of the many bodies enthusiastically dancing got to him, and he was breathless himself. He mimed drinking to Phil over the sound of the music, who nodded, leaned in to the woman he was dancing with, and whispered in her ear. She nodded and the two men returned to the bar, which was busy with waiting punters.
'She's fantastic,' said Phil, who looked entirely delighted. 'I'm getting her a gin rickey - she's a muggle - she works as a nurse at the-'
Suddenly, the music stopped, and they heard a noise, quiet at first but then rhythmically and strangely louder - a wailing siren. Nearby, someone swore. ‘It’s Christmas! Don’t they have Christmas over there?’
The crowd began to shuffle out with trudging, practiced resignation. ‘What’s going on?’ said Phil.
‘Get to the shelter, lads,’ said a man nearby. ‘Air raid.’
‘Isn’t the building protected?’ asked Monty.
‘We’re not in Diagon Alley - we’ve got muggles in here. How's my wife meant to protect herself with no wand?'
‘What about-’
‘Shield charms won’t do it - not with the amount they chuck down, unless you’ve got the talents of Albus Dumbledore. Come on.’
They followed the man and joined the rest of the heaving crowd; if Monty had been expecting a somberness or fear, and to be frank, he felt like there should be, he was wrong.
Many people had taken their drinks with them - one man had produced an accordion from somewhere and played it as they all dutifully walked down the slippery cobbles of the Charing Cross road.
‘Look out for my wife, won’t you?’ the wizard said. ‘Blonde - short. Dressed in blue tonight - she was in the loo. We’ll meet in the shelter but I won’t be happy til I’ve got her within wand’s reach-’
‘Of course we will,’ Phil assured him, and Monty nodded too.
He looked up at the dark night sky and saw great beams of light roving over the dark clouds as the sirens continued to wail. Despite the cacophony of noise, he could still hear the drunken, joyful singing of some of the muggles ('Göring has two but very small-') and the authoritative shouts of the muggle authorities directing them.
'Try to put shield charms over some of the buildings,' Monty muttered to Phil. 'Worth a shot, at least, isn't it?'
They did so, as secretively as they could manage, right up until they were following the massive crowd down the steps that led beneath Trafalgar Square; Monty briefly looked over his shoulder to see the great lions around Nelson's Column silhouetted against the sky, now filled with a distant buzz.
They made their way down the escalators, but some people were making themselves comfortable on them and the stairs already; as they made their way slowly onto the dimly lit platform, they could feel the stuffy warmth of too many bodies in too tight a space, and the lumps of people, many of which had brought blankets and flasks of tea with them, packed in. Some sat against the tiled walls, some lounged on the hard floor, some had even hopped down onto the tracks to make themselves comfortable.
‘There she is!’ said the wizard beside them with great relief. ‘Pearl! Pearl!’ He fought his way through the mass of people, and vanished.
‘There’s space down the end, lads,’ said a woman in a WREN uniform, gesturing through the crowd.
They shuffled along, and as they did so they began to hear dull, muffled booms from far above them. Bombs, Monty realised, falling upon the city, though they seemed a world away down here in the tunnels.
'This is all a bit exciting, isn't it?' Monty told Phil bracingly.
'No,' said Phil bluntly. 'I was really enjoying dancing with those girls, and now we can't find them - I bet they're on a different platform now.'
They found a precious spot and tried to make themselves comfortable on the cold, grimy tiles. They could smell someone's flask of tea nearby, and a baby had started wailing.
'This is exactly what everyone was warning us about,' said Phil worriedly. 'I knew we shouldn't have come-'
'You've changed your tune! You were all for it while you were dancing with pretty muggles. Make your mind up!'
'Well, yes…' admitted Phil. 'But now I keep thinking about your dad warning us that your average wizard isn't strong enough to-'
‘That’s her,’ Monty interrupted suddenly.
‘Who?’ said Phil, irritably, and then followed Monty’s gaze. There, almost at the other end of the platform, was a figure in floor length red robes. ‘Oh, bloody hell - look, you’ve no chance, mate.’
‘I’ll be right back-’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Going to talk to her.’
‘You better not be thinking - don’t propose to her, Monty! Don’t be odd-’
‘I’m not, I’m just going to talk,’ said Monty distractedly, already rising and stumbling over the people trying to settle on the platform floor.
‘Talk about what? About what? Monty? MON-’
‘Shut up!’ a man called grumpily, and Phil fell silent, which was good because by now Monty was almost out of earshot.
He picked his way carefully through the crowds, some of which were trying in vain to settle down and sleep, many of which were trying to continue the party. Some little groups had instruments and were leading singsongs, some people had decks of cards, others were simply passing around bottles of liquor and cackling loudly at rude jokes. Finally, walking along the faded yellow line at the edge of the platform, Monty reached the group where the glamorous woman was sitting.
She was surrounded by the rest of her bandmates - some of them had brought their instruments with them, though their attention was focused on a flask being passed round. She was the only woman, though he was sure she’d have stuck out anyway, being so staggeringly beautiful.
To combat the cold, she’d thrown a large fur coat over her shoulders, though beneath the glossy brown he could still see an alluring glimpse of red. She was raising the silver flask to her lips, laughing uproariously at someone as she did, and he was once again struck by a strong belief, something like faith, that there was no one else in the world he would rather be with.
He approached them as she was drinking from the flask, and he saw her swallow and lower it as he came close. Her eyes met his, and they glinted with a mischief that seemed to inspire something deep within him. He summoned up his most foolish, courageous thought.
‘I want to join your band,’ he told her.
Her neatly pencilled eyebrow arched. ‘Do you, now?’ she asked, her amusement ringing like bells in her voice. ‘And what do you play?’
‘Piano,’ he told her, honestly.
‘We already have a pianist,’ she said, tilting her head elegantly to a nearby wizard in a trilby hat, who was smirking at them as he puffed on his pipe.
‘Yeah, well, I reckon I’m better than him,’ said Monty boldly.
She seemed unfazed. ‘Quite a claim,’ she said, and then she turned to the pianist. ‘What d’you think, Glenn? Are you outta the band?’
‘He certainly seems confident,’ said Glenn, who looked highly entertained.
Monty grinned and shrugged, ‘all right, well, I’d at least be more fun.’
‘Now, it’s clear to me you don’t know how fun Glenn is,’ she told him. ‘Or, for that matter,’ she continued as Glenn gave a great bark of laughter, ‘the whole dynamic of the band. You see, I’m the fun one. I don’t want anyone outshining me. I’d be much more interested if you told me that you’re terribly dull.’
‘I can be terribly dull if you want,’ he said at once.
‘Keen, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, having long abandoned any pretence of smoothness. He moved closer, and sat down on the cold floor of the station platform. There was an almighty boom from somewhere above them, and the earth seemed to shake a little. Monty started, glancing up at the low ceiling.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Effie said easily, and he looked back at her, reassured by her calmness. ‘I’m starting to think you’re not actually interested in music at all,’ she continued.
‘Oh, I am,’ he assured her. ‘But I won’t pretend that’s why I’m really here.’
‘And why are you really here?’ she asked, and she clearly knew exactly why he was there.
‘You’re entrancing. I have to know your name.’
‘Don’t you remember me, Fleamont Potter?’ she asked, looking more amused than ever.
He blinked in shock, and for a moment his mouth opened as he frowned and peered more closely at her. He could faithfully say that he had no recollection of ever having laid eyes on this woman in his life.
‘Er…’
She burst out laughing, a delightful, loud, infectious laugh. ‘Your face - I don’t expect you to remember, really - you probably didn’t pay much notice to the Hufflepuff Prefect two years below you.’
‘I must have had a bludger to the head,’ he told her, ‘there’s no way I’d have forgotten-’
‘No, no, darling, don’t you worry,’ she said, her eyes still glinting with mirth as she leaned forward and gave him a sympathetic pat. ‘It really is amazing what growing up can do to a girl. But yes, you may well have received a bludger to the head, I do remember you flinging yourself around on the Quidditch pitch. Chaser, weren’t you?’
He shook his head, utterly mortified and feeling rather deflated. ‘Yes…’ he said heavily, and shifted to rise. ‘Well - sorry, I’ll let you get on - I just wanted to-’
‘Don’t you even want to know the name you’ve forgotten?’ she asked indignantly.
‘Right - yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Please-’
‘Effie,’ she said haughtily.
Something exploded in his brain. ‘Euphemia? Euphemia Longbottom?’
‘Oh, so you do remember me!’
‘I-’ Monty managed to stop himself from blurting out, ‘I remember you looking very different.’ The awkward, gangly teenager that had vaguely known was nothing like the glamorous, full bodied woman before him, and he would never have imagined that a girl seemingly unable to look up from her shoes would ever perform in front of a crowd. ‘Faintly,’ he said instead.
She fixed him with an amused but piercing gaze, and he gave an embarrassed, breathless sort of laugh. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, genuinely. ‘I… am so embarrassed.’
‘I’ll forgive you if your piano playing is good enough,’ she said. ‘I’m getting sick of Glenn.’
‘Getting sick of you too, love,’ said Glenn easily, and she winked at him before turning back to Monty.
‘I remember you differently too, if I’m honest,’ she told him, unashamed. ‘I didn’t recognise you til you got up close. I’m sure you used to have the most ridiculous hair.’
‘Oh, it’s holding, is it?’ said Monty, and he reached up and patted it. ‘I’m a potioneer by trade, now. I’ve developed something to control it, glad to see it’s still working.’
‘Rather than duelling anyone who takes the mickey out of it?’
‘Once you’re an adult you stop getting detentions for that sort of thing and get actual consequences.’
‘Wise to think up a new strategy then.’
‘I thought so. I think it’ll be ready to go on the shelves soon, just need to finetune some marketing details, assuming anyone likes it.’
She gave him an appraising look. ‘Well, I like it. Very sleek.’
‘Come out for a drink with me,’ he said confidently.
Her eyebrow arched again. ‘I don’t think we can leave until the sirens go again.’
‘When they go again,’ he said. ‘Or after the dance. Whenever. Just come out for a drink with me. I’ll even remember your name this time.’
She gave a sniff, and a lofty, ‘I’ll think about it,’ but Monty grinned.
‘I’ll write to arrange it,’ he said.
‘And I’ll carry on thinking about it,’ she replied, a wicked smile playing around her lips.
He gave her a wink, rose, and walked back to Phil, resisting the strong urge to look over his shoulder to see if she was still watching him.
‘Well?’ Phil demanded, as he settled next to him.
Monty cleared his throat. ‘Went well, I reckon,’ he said casually. ‘Have you got any tobacco?’
‘Going to marry her, then, are you?’ asked Phil, digging into his pocket as Monty pulled out his pipe.
‘You just watch,’ Monty told him.
What felt like hours later, the sirens sounded again, and people began to pick themselves up and shuffle back out of the air raid shelter.
After the heat and unique smell of the hundreds of huddled people in the underground tunnels, the cold, fresh December air hit them with a relief Monty hadn’t realised he had needed. Above them, stars twinkled, but his glimpse of the vast heavens above was quickly obscured by thick black smoke drifting lazily across the sky.
His father had been right, and so had the wizard they had walked out of the dance hall with. The shield charms that he and Phil had valiantly tried to cast had been of little help. The smoking shells of buildings stood like skeletons, piles of rubble spilling out onto the road. The muggles picked their way across the bricks and plaster with practiced ease, the clanging bells of a fire engine rising as it whizzed past.
Monty and Phil stood in the middle of Trafalgar Square and stared at the devastation. In Godric’s Hollow, they had seen some muggle children joining families for a while, they had seen gardens turned over to vegetable patches and posters on the walls calling for Air Raid Wardens or explaining how to put on a gas mask. They had seen the muggles clutching their ration books and the young men disappearing off to war. Monty had heard his father despair that it was all happening again, that last time had apparently been for nothing, that the blood and violence that was inherent in man, muggle and wizard alike, would continue to result in fire and anguish. Yet it had not struck them, until that moment, that the world was bigger than their little village, that entire cities were crumbling while they drank and thought about hair potions and chatting up women.
Monty swallowed. ‘I wonder if - if we could distract those muggles, we could repair the side of that building-’
‘No way, too many have seen,’ said Phil in a low voice. ‘But we could probably do a little bit sneakily? Clear a bit of a path through the rubble for people?’
‘We should put some magical supports on that bit of that pub,’ said Monty, ‘it looks like it could collapse-’
‘You always want to fix things,’ said Phil kindly, ‘but I don’t think we can, not here, not-’
‘Are you all right, boys?’ came a voice.
They turned, and there she was, Effie Longbottom. Stunningly elegant even amongst the mess of the square, her fur coat mere inches above the smouldering wreckage that littered the ground. There was a large crater a few yards away; wardens were rushing around it already, setting up barricades.
‘Yeah,’ said Phil weakly.
‘Fine,’ Monty lied. ‘Just… I don’t know what we were expecting. Not this.’
She nodded slowly, and though she was still smiling, there was more gentleness than mischief in her eyes. ‘Always want to fix things, do you?’ she asked him, echoing the words she had clearly overheard.
‘Well, you know,’ he said, with feeble bravado. ‘My hair… international conflicts I know nothing about.’
‘Are you coming back to the dance hall?’ she asked. ‘We’ve still got a few numbers to do.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Phil uneasily. ‘Maybe we should-’
‘Very important,’ she continued, ‘in times like these - to support causes like positive relations with muggles, integration and cooperation, that sort of thing.’
Behind her, Monty saw the wizard they had walked out with, his wife now holding onto his arm, heading back up the Charing Cross road. ‘Reckon the house is all right?’ she was saying to him worriedly. ‘You won’t be able to get it back up if the neighbours have seen it’s been hit, will you? Not like last time-’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, looking back at her. ‘Very important.’
‘You support the cause, then, do you?’ she said.
‘Absolutely,’ he replied honestly.
She nodded, satisfied. ‘I’m looking forward to our drink,’ she said. ‘Come for the rest of the evening at least, though, won’t you?’
They agreed, and walked with her and her band back to the Astoria, which had suffered only cursory damage rather than a direct hit - Monty joined his fellow wizards in sneakily repairing the worst of it, leaving the shattered windows for the sake of appearances, but fixing the crumbled brickwork on one side.
‘I reckon you might be right,’ Phil breathed to him, as Effie and her band went back inside to start up again. ‘I reckon you are in there, old chap.’
‘Told you,’ said Monty, as certain as he was that the sun would rise tomorrow. ‘I’m going to marry her.’