Are all weddings like this?

I could hear the sounds from the hall as I walked down the lane behind the old clapboard church. A sort of braying, rattling, screaming noise. My shoes slipped wildly on the wet leaves rotting into the path, and I thought,
“You shouldn't be doing this, Dave.”
But I kept on walking. The air was thick—heavy with mist and damp, and I could easily believe it was going to rain again. I don't know how I'd been talked into it, but I'd driven all the way from Melbourne to Omeo, on the Great Dividing Range. To a wedding reception, of all things. I hate weddings. Maybe because nothing much of any good seems to come out of them. Maybe because mine didn't end up leading anywhere. Doesn’t matter. I hate weddings. Like a fool, I was going to one, after avoiding them for years. My cousin Brian was marrying his sweetheart, Melanie.
Sure enough, a light, almost freezing drizzle began to paint my jacket shoulders with a fine silver spray as I turned off from the road by the hall and levered the sagging gate open. My ears felt like slivers of bacon as the rain cooled them off. An old mongrel dog with a grey-whiskered muzzle eyed me incuriously as I stepped through, then cocked his leg on the gate as I closed it. He scratched his belly, balls flailing violently from side to side. I've never understood how dog's balls can thrash around so much without hurting.
The hall was set about twenty paces into a grassed area butting onto the church. Everyone in the area used the hall for their social functions. Boy Scouts, Parents Without Partners, Alcoholics Anonymous, Greek Progress. You name it. Tonight was Brian and Melanie's turn. My heart sank as I began to pick up the different parts of the noise. Babies wailing, and a strange, persistent drumming noise. Mingled in with it, an inconsistent crashing racket which I knew instinctively to be older infants running backwards and forwards on the wooden floors in their best leather shoes.
God.
I consoled myself. Hang in there, Dave, at least you avoided the service. And, best of all, you don't have to stay all that long.
The hall doors burst violently open as I reached them. I stepped back sharply and my left foot sank down into a new, livid yellow and green dog-turd. “Shit!” I yelled accurately, scraping my foot backwards and forwards on the grass in that futile way people do when they're trying to avoid removing their shoe and operating on it with a twig to get the mess from between the sole and heel. Two elderly men, Joe Randsworth and Kevin Sproud, glanced at me over their shoulders as they closed the doors again and strutted quickly out through the gate. At a smart pace, I thought.
Kevin called back as they disappeared,
“G'day Dave! See yer in the shit again! Gettin' more piss. Not nearly enough for them Irish bastards in there!”
Then they were gone, almost running in their agitation to get more piss for the Irish. I operated with a twig, then composed myself for the onslaught. You know how, when you've trodden in dog-shit, you don't really feel clean? Well, that's how I felt.
I slipped through the doorway, dreading being recognised and mobbed by relatives. I needn't have worried. One of Brian's brothers, Joe, was entertaining the throng, and most of them were watching woodenly. The bride and groom were wearing fixed, glassy smiles. Melanie's mother had her head in her hands. Brian's father was fiddling with his hearing aid. The vicar was drawing on his experience in difficult situations. He was unsuccessfully attempting to clap his hands in time with the performance.
Joe played in a local pop-group. He was a drummer, and he was demonstrating his percussive dexterity by hammering the crap out of four up-turned sauce-pans with a table-spoon and a wooden-handled egg-whisk. He was sitting on a chair at the far end of the hall, surrounded by kids. No doubt they'd be putting Joe's demonstration into practise when they got home.
I felt ill.
Then I reflected I could sneak quietly onto a chair at one of the tables while he was doing his floor-show, and I began to feel a little better. There were two long tables, really lots of small tables pushed into two lines. About eighty people of all shapes and sizes were sitting around them. The closest empty chair beckoned from the end of one line. I surveyed the people I'd be sitting with. No kids. A man and woman I didn't know. Good.
Joe was working up to a crescendo. This must be what it sounded like when Santa's little helpers were making the toys.
I dropped into the chair and looked around. Down both sides of the hall, against the walls, prams were arrayed. There were big prams and small prams. Prams with big wheels and prams with little wheels. Prams with big wheels and little wheels. And swishy, modern-looking strollers that could be turned into tiny prams. Surveying all this infant-carrying equipment, I couldn't help considering who was doing all the screwing to cause the babies. Faintly, behind Joe's finalé, I could hear squalling noises. When he stopped, it was going to be bad, because he'd woken all the kids up. Mothers stirred as they prepared for brat-quietening.
The place was brilliantly lit by large fluorescent tubes—no mood lighting here. Curls of smoke from cigarettes and pipes lifted lazily over heads. In one corner, a kaleidoscopic coloured arrangement of wedding presents was stacked on a table and the floor around it. There was a strange odour over the room—a peculiar combination of metal polish, rotting wood and Christmas-present talcum powder. I thought for a moment there could be a hint of dog-shit in it, too, but decided it was my imagination.
“Who're you then?”
The phlegm-coated words slithered from the lady sitting next to me, very close to my ear against Joe's efforts. I turned, surprised away from my thoughts. She was a grotesquely fat woman in her sixties. Her clothing appeared to consist of various wrappings in shades of brown. Stripping her (and God help anyone who needed to do it) would have been rather like peeling an onion. Her jaws worked rhythmically as she waited for my answer. Reflections from the lights made bars over her glasses, hiding her eyes as she surveyed me.
“Only, I don't know you, you see, and I know everybody in Omeo. Even though I've only been here for a bit. Well, who are you?”
She bore down on the last words any a way suggesting if I didn't answer them satisfactorily, she could have me shot.
“I'm Brian's cousin, Dave. Pleased…”
“Oh, well, that's oright then. Come on, Cedric.”
She stood, grabbing her companion by the elbow. A thin streak of a bloke, round-shouldered. Similar age to her. He dragged himself to his feet, silent, with a subtle hint of death about his eyes. Dandruff decorated his raincoat, a tired-looking garment much too large for him.
“We ’ave to leave now,” she smirked, “Cedric’n I are on a special diet, so we're going before the food an’ drink comes on. We can’t enjoy ourselves so much as we’d like.”
I wondered when they’d last enjoyed themselves.
“Anyway,” she finished, triumphantly, “its time to empty ’is bag. ’Nite!”
As she spoke the last word, I realised she wasn't chewing anything at all. It was just that her false teeth were loose. She dragged the poor bastard off without a word to anyone.
Joe finished his musical interlude with a grand flourish, then stood for applause, dropping the smallest pan. It was seized by a particularly repulsive-looking ginger-haired kid who ran off into the rain-drizzled evening pursued by most of the others, all of them screaming their heads off. I couldn't help hoping he found the dog shit on the way out. The crowd stirred as Brian’s Dad stood, adjusting his hearing aid.
“Now then, friends,” he began, “this is a great occasion an’ the ladies’ve done us proud with the caterin’, which’ll be brought on shortly…”
“Where's the bloody beer, then?”
An overtly Irish voice interrupted him, bursting from a small man distinguished by brilliant blue eyes. They protruded indignantly from his extremely red face. He was wearing a navy blue serge suit he must have borrowed for the occasion, because it was so small on him he couldn't button up the jacket. His arms stuck out from the sleeves almost to the elbows.
Brian's Dad eyed him distastefully. Brian's Dad was a counsellor, a man of some importance. People would accost him in the street, saying things like, “Oh, Mr Harding, I must talk to you about having street lights put up, because…” And he would listen to them, nodding his grey head, all the while jotting in his special notebook. He answered the Irishman. As he spoke, four tired-looking ladies in white uniforms emerged from the kitchen at the rear of the hall and scuttled around the tables, pouring champagne from very large bottles.
“Mr. Hennessy, if my new daughter-in-law's mother had warn… ah, advised us the Hennessy relatives were attending the wedding, we would have made special, that is extended our arrangements for the alcoholic beverages. Joe and Kevin are attending to the matter now.”
There was a low growling noise from what I guessed was the side of the hall seating Melanie's relatives. Hennessy grunted,
“Better be bloody soon, but.”
His remark led to the production of deeper and even more menacing noises from his associates.
Ignoring him, Mr. Harding continued with his introduction.
“I'm sure you're all waiting to hear the best man's speech.” Whistles and catcalls erupted from the guests.
“So, without further ado…”
“What about the bloody beer? We've nothing to drink but this gin's piss. An’ its…”
“…without further ado,” Mr. Harding paused for effect, his bass voice squashing complaints from the floor, “I'll introduce the best man, Jason Williams!”
Simultaneously, Mr. Harding sat down and Jason stood up. Jason was a tall, handsome man of around twenty-four years. He'd been a first-year student during my last school year at Omeo. Brian and he had been friends since they were toddlers. Jason was flashily blond, with blue eyes, given to wearing roll-necked nautical pullovers. Somehow or other, he was always tanned. I remembered that he never seemed to be short of women friends. He leaned forward slightly, looking almost artificial in his dark and expensive-looking suit, smiled brilliant white teeth around the hall, and began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as the best man at this wedding, I feel deeply honoured. I've known the bride and groom for many years. More than I care to remember, in fact.”
Groans from the guests. Most of them were more than twice his age. He continued.
“Brian and I have been in more than our share of scrapes. Most of you'll remember us being chased through the school that day…”
More groans from the assembly. Everyone knew the two had been chased through the school by a master who'd heard them breaking in on some prank or other. They'd climbed into the false roof to avoid him, and Brian had fallen through the plaster into the assembly hall, much to the consternation of the choir-group practising in there at the time. Mr. Harding had been hard-pressed to stop the Headmaster from expelling Brian.
Jason, of course, had got away with it.
“Well, Brian's come a long way since then. We all know how he's performed in the football club, and how he's been a solid, reliable Omeo citizen. Now he's finished his apprenticeship, I'm sure it won't be too long before he's got his own turd-strang…er, plumbing business. I won't make this a long speech,” he turned and gazed fondly at the newly-weds, “but simply say that I hope he's going to have as much fun with Melanie as I have.”
He stopped, realising his mistake. Melanie, a pretty dark-haired girl, looked down at the table and flushed scarlet. You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone knew about Jason and his women. The vicar cleared his throat to ease the assembly past the moment. I decided I didn't like that vicar. Bloody parasite.
Jason rushed on.
“What I mean is, what I mean is, that Brian and Melanie and I have been friends for a long time, and they're the best of people. Now, charge your glasses for the bride and groom!”
We obediently stood up and raised our glasses. Jason cried out,
“Ladies and gentlemen. I give you the bride and groom!”
And we drank to the lucky couple. The champagne was over-sweet, but I figured it was the generally the way things were going to be. A bit sickly. Jason, recovered from his faux pas , went on.
“I'll read the telegrams now.”
Cheers from the guests. He fiddled around with some scraps of paper.
“From Dean and Rosemary in Traralgon. It says 'Dear Melanie and Brian. We wish you well on this, your special day. We'll never forget the weekend we shared with you at Merimbula. Would never have thought Melanie knew all those things. Must do it again some time. Good Luck.'"
Guffaws erupted from the groom's side of the hall, and Mr. Harding glowered into the throng. Jason threw down the paper and read from another.
“This one's from Great Uncle Bertrand at the Dapto Rest-home. ‘Dear Newly-weds, take my advice. If you don't want the stork to arrive, be very careful to shoot it in the air!’”
More sniggers. Brian's mother examined the ceiling with great interest. The vicar smiled faintly.
“This one's from the Orbost Volunteer Bush Fire Brigade. It says 'Roses are red, violets are blue, this is a poem that’s made just for you,
Brian's a ram, and Melanie's stunning,
When you hear the wild howling you'll know that she's coming…’”
Noisy, extended cackling erupted. Brian and Melanie drooped noticeably. Mrs. Harding had her head in her hands again. Melanie's mother, a stocky woman wearing a bilious green silk dress, was snorting with indignation. I couldn't help thinking, if they didn't like this sort of thing, they shouldn't have had a bloody wedding reception in the first place.
“And there's one more from the library.”
A perceptible easing of tension in the hall. Melanie worked at the library. A telegram from there would be safe.
“It says 'From the staff of the Orbost and Bairnsdale Municipal Library, to Brian and Melanie. Good Luck in your new life. Melanie, please don't let Brian drip on your library books when he’s finished.’”
Jason sat down as the assembly dissolved in a hail of mirth. Melanie's mother was livid, mainly because the bride was laughing helplessly, tears rolling down her face. Mr. Harding leapt to his feet, rattling a fork against a glass.
“All right, all right, quieten down please. Pray silence for the groom.”
“Keep it short, Brian, or you'll be late gettin’ ’er ter bed!”
A very flushed and nervous Brian stumbled through his speech. He was a short, craggy-featured bloke with sandy-coloured hair and a broken front tooth. A fine tremor and white sweaty face betrayed his hang-over. Looking at him, I figured he’d had quite a Buck’s Turn.
“Thank you all f-fer comin’ an’ thank you all fer the l-lovely presents you bought me an’ Melanie.” Heads turned to glance at the gifts. There was a ripple of low conversation regarding their qualities as Brian paused for a breath. I hoped the newly-weds enjoyed a breeze. I could see three electric fans, even from my limited aspect.
He stuck out his chest and continued. “My wife and I, that is.”
This drew cheers and applause from the crowd. Another unmistakably Irish voice yelled out “Giv ’er one fer Me, Bri!”, resulting in a minor disturbance and some rattling of chairs. The groom struggled on.
“On behalf of my wife and myself,”—whistles and stamping of feet—“I'd like to thank our parents for all they've done for us, and also the ladies doin’ the caterin’. Thanks.”
He collapsed into his chair, sweating profusely, and Melanie grabbed his hand. Mr. Harding rose again.
“Well, I'm sure you're all hungry…”
“Bloody thirsty, mate, bloody thirsty!”
“An’ if there's no more speeches…”
A hard, aggressive voice surged out into the ambience of the occasion.
“I'd like to say a few words if yer don’t mind, Mr. Harding.”
It was Melanie's mother, Greta Randwick. She'd been widowed for some years and had been known to rule her household with a rod of iron. Looking at her, I tried to decide if she'd killed her husband, or if he'd killed himself. There had been a story she'd had his ashes put into an egg-timer so she could have him working for her even after his death—but I didn't believe it.
Complimenting her green silk dress, she was flaunting a strangely shaped green hat. Perhaps it had been run over by a tractor. Many strands of pearls emphasised her double chins. Her viciously shaped spectacles made a perfect framework for the predatory eyes lurking behind them. Mr. Harding resumed his seat without a word. The guests were silent. Anticipatory.
“As most of you know, my ’usband passed away some years ago. So I’m going to speak for him, on this occasion of giving our much-loved daughter away. We’ve done our best to ensure that Melanie ’as ’ad every opportunity to live a rewarding and ’appy life. In recent years, this ’as been ’arder, what with the loss of my husband and some of Melanie's attitudes…”
Around the hall there was an uneasy shifting and scraping of chairs. Mrs. Harding's face hardened and she braced her shoulders. Greta Randwick gathered steam as she warmed to her speech. Glasses flashing, silk rustling.
“Well, my ’usband and I wanted Melanie to marry into a good Catholic family situation, a professional man. But I’m sure she’s going to do the best she can with Brian and his family. Thank you very much.”
And she sat down pompously.
“Now you listen to me!” thundered Mrs. Harding, rising from her seat. And then the hall doors opened. Kevin and Joe rushed in, carrying cartons of beer. Joe was in no mood to waste any more time. He yelled out,
“Well come on, give us a bloody ’and!”
It was more than the Irish could stand. Chairs scraped back, and I saw some fall over, making that loose, dry rattling noise that only comes from buggered hall chairs.
I was surprised by the number of Irish and thirsty people. Fifteen men bore down on Joe and Kevin, dragging the cartons from their arms and ripping them open. Noisy, relieved conversation ensued, punctuated by the pfssssst! of cans being ripped open. Joe was livid. He roared,
“I meant ’elp us ter carry it in, not just stand there ’n sup it!”
A few contrite men sidled outside and brought more cartons in from Kevin's old pickup, parked at the end of the lane.
Deciding I'd better let my relatives know I’d turned up, I looked around for a familiar face. The bride and groom were being mobbed by friends. Mr. and Mrs. Harding had disappeared into the alcove serving as a kitchen. Eventually, I saw Aunt Rhona down near the other end of the hall. She looked lonely, and I decided she would be a good way of easing myself into the throng. The wailing from the line of prams was quietening as I stepped quickly past them. Aunt Rhona looked up as I slipped into an empty chair by her. She didn't recognise me at first, and her delicate, pretty face registered apprehension. Then it clicked and she grabbed me, giving me a genuine family hug. She was wearing an expensive fur coat which seemed to have been dipped in an even more expensive perfume. I wondered if she'd ever lived up to the erotic expectations such a scent could arouse in a man. Then I remembered her husband, Uncle Simon. He knew where to find women who were goers, and he certainly wouldn't marry one that didn't.
I disentangled myself as we giggled and prattled on, then asked,
“Where's Uncle Simon?”
I’ve never been diplomatic, which I suppose means that I’m a bit thick. Rhona’s face crumpled briefly, then she straightened up and nodded her head at another part of the hall, behind me. I turned and looked. Uncle Simon was engaged in an earnest conversation with a lady I didn’t know. He was a rogue, known all around the area because of his flamboyant disregard for the conventions of the small town. It was rare for gossip not to have at least a passing reference to him. His good looks had persisted long beyond any reasonable expectation. Gentle blue eyes set in an interesting face. Curling fair hair, quite short. And a tiny dimple tucked carefully into a small space by his grin.
His companion was spectacular. She had thick dark hair falling down over her naked shoulders, curling intriguingly about as it coyly concealed those soft parts of her body not enclosed by her rich ruby-coloured dress. I was impressed. I think Uncle Simon was impressed too, because if he got any closer, he was surely going to fall down the front of her gown. The cold in the hall didn’t seem to be bothering her at all. She was one hot-looking woman. Aunt Rhona spoke. An edge of bitterness glinted behind her remarks.
“He's been snivelling around her ever since she came up here. Jessica Travers. Her husband died about a year ago’n left her heaps. Not that Simon's interested in her money. You'd think he’d ’ad enough at his age wouldn’t you?”
I felt dreadfully guilty, because if I had the chance, I'd knock Jessica Travers off, too. I took Rhona’s hand.
“Come on, he's not that bad…”
“You don't know the half, Dave. Never mind, I’m used to him. What’s happening to you these days?”
We launched into a conversation as the food arrived. The four tired ladies scuttled back and forth, crashing plates down in front of the guests. Predictably, it was a cold collation. The ham, slightly curled even in the cool of the winter, leered at me as much as to say,
“Didn’t think it was going to be something special did yer? Eat me, bastard. If yer dare!”
I dared. I was hungry.
The noise level dropped sharply as the horde began to gorge. The smacking of lips and susurrant slurping even soothed the infants into quietness. I was toying with a cocktail onion impaled on a tiny little pole when I noticed a very old man sitting a few chairs down on the other side of the table. I asked Aunt Rhona who he was. She leaned round me and looked, shoving fur coat up my nose.
“Oh, that's Arthur Willings. He married Great-Aunt Flo about two months ago. Met her at Bingo. You remember Flo, she's sitting next to him.”
I followed her gaze. Sure enough, when I looked hard, there was Great-Aunt Flo, concealed under a new hairdo. She was eating as though her life depended on it. Arthur was watching her fondly as she snatched at the tucker. I turned to Rhona.
“Why isn't he eating anything?”
“Oh,” she laughed, “’E broke is upper set about a week ago, so ’e can't eat solids. But ’e wanted to come out to this do with ’er. ’E reckons 'e really loves her.”
I couldn't think of a suitable reply, but I didn't have a chance anyway. A truculent series of grunts from the Irish area swelled rapidly into a medley of hoarse exchanges. Mauve-faced men leapt up from chairs, assuming fighting attitudes.
“I knew this would happen, the Irish’ve ’ad all the beer again.” Rhona was standing and adjusting her fur as she spoke, making ready to leave. I couldn't believe it. After all, I'd only been in the hall for about forty minutes.
“Cool it down, you lot. This is a bloody wedding. Where j’a think y’are?” Mr. Harding was unimpressed by the pushings and shovings, and his authoritative tones would have quelled the most aggressive council meeting. But not the Irish in an argument over beer.
“Outside then!” Mr. Hennessy of small navy blue suit fame lead the combatants out through the hall doors, accompanied by a shambling throng of male observers already placing bets on the outcome of the fight. I saw Arthur Willings grinning gummily in anticipation. In a curiously untypical show of gentility, Hennessy carefully closed the doors. Naturally enough, the ladies weren't too impressed, and neither was the vicar, because he bade goodbye to the wedding party and left. I noticed a great shaking of heads and whispering as I gazed around. Uncle Simon had seized his opportunity with Aunt Rhona's sudden departure. He was patting Jessica's hand and murmuring into her ear. She was shaking her head, but I could tell by the expression on her face that she really meant ‘yes’. It was time to circulate a little. After all, there were plenty of empty chairs. Dustbins crashed outside, accompanied by full-blooded yelling and meaty, smacking noises as fists hit heads. Mrs. Harding looked as though she needed cheering up. I wandered over and dropped into her husband's chair.
“Hello, Mrs. Harding. Surely your husband's not out with that lot?”
“’Course not!. ’E’s calling the cops. Bloody Hennessy’n ’is mob cause trouble everywhere they go.” She was twisting and untwisting a serviette as she smouldered on. I think she was wishing it was Hennessy’s neck. “That’s why they never get invited anywhere.”
She changed the subject.
“’Ow are you, anyway, Dave? We ’aven’t seen you round ’ere for yonks.”
I gave her a brief reply and steered the conversation around to weddings again.
“Bin working in bloody Melbourne at the hospital. I miss going rabbitin’ like I used to ’ere.” I indicated the wedding cake. “Beautiful cake.”
“Yeah, reminds me of when I married Brian’s father.” her faded, rather angular face softened wistfully, and she paused for a moment, then continued. “I nearly forgot the little bride ’n groom to go on the top when I collected it from the shop this morning’. The assistant reminded me as I was carryin’ it out. Asked me if wanted the bride ’n groom mounted an’ I took it back’n said ’no, standin’ side by side would be fine’.”

I eyed her, wondering if she was making a joke, and then Mr. Harding walked into the hall from the kitchen, and I gave him his seat back. He was in no mood for conversation. The last time I'd seen a face as red as his was when I was four and my Dad discovered I'd painted his car with creosote.
“The police'll be 'ere soon, then we can get back to the weddin'.”
He was absolutely correct, because, before he'd even finished his sentence, the ululating sound of a siren swelled into the night air. Men surged back into the hall, straightening their clothes and brushing hair back into an approximately dressed-up position. Seats were resumed. Wives chided their spouses. Brakes squealed as the dustbins were rattled around again. It was obviously a good fight, because the battlers hadn't noticed the siren. Abruptly, all noise outside ceased. The guests looked at each other knowingly, and heads turned to watch the entrance. They were disappointed. After a few moments, car doors slammed and the vehicle moved away. There were several empty chairs on both sides of the hall.
“And now,” Mr. Harding stood as he spoke, “we can continue. Would the bride and groom care to cut the cake?”
Applause and cheers as the embarrassed couple walked around to the wedding cake. It was displayed on a small card table. A pimply youth who seemed to be on the verge of collapsing under the weight of his spectacles rushed over with a camera and flash-gun. Brian and Melanie arranged themselves with the knife and cake. The photographer fiddled with his equipment and gave them the nod. The knife was thrust into the cake as the guests clapped. And then five things occurred simultaneously.
The card table collapsed and the cake fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand fragments. The ginger-haired kid ran through the hall door waving his arms and screaming,
“I fell in shit, I fell in shit!”
Great-Aunt Flo, repulsed by the stench from the child, brought up her wedding breakfast in a magnificent cascade, and the only complete set of teeth in her household smashed into oblivion as they hit the floor. Melanie burst into tears. And the flash-gun didn't fire.
I decided I'd had enough. But how to get away? I pondered this as Melanie's mother and Mrs Harding helped the bride over her first wedded crisis.
“Dave?”
I looked up. Straight into Jessica Travers' cleavage, and eventually her face. She was very much younger than I'd assumed. Clear brown eyes. Creamy skin. My bowels loosened. Then tightened up again.
“You don't know me, but Simon was telling me about you. He's very proud of you, did you know? You've got his dimple, too. I've been watching you. I…”
Her voice was soft, sibilant. The words flowed over me like warmed honey.
“Mrs Travers…”
“Oh, call me Jessica, Dave. Simon's told me so much about you I feel I know you so well. Would you like to get away from here as much as I would? I'm not one for weddings really.”
I looked wildly around for Uncle Simon. He was watching, grinning his grin, and he raised his glass to me. What could I say?
“Yes. Perhaps we could go for a drink…”
“Why don't you come back to my place? Its not far, and its a long drive back to Melbourne …”
I hope Aunt Rhona never finds out.
***