{"id":4497,"date":"2013-09-18T11:10:09","date_gmt":"2013-09-18T11:10:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/?p=4497"},"modified":"2013-09-23T10:42:14","modified_gmt":"2013-09-23T10:42:14","slug":"the-world-is-a-wedding-by-wendy-jones","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/?p=4497","title":{"rendered":"The World is a Wedding by Wendy Jones"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>Published by Corsair 5 September 2013<\/strong><\/p>\n

After her acclaimed debut The Thoughts <\/em>and Happenings of Wilfred Price, Purveyor of Superior Funerals, <\/em>Wendy Jones returns with its sequel and picks up where it left off. It is 1926 and Welsh undertaker Wilfred is newly married and preparing for fatherhood. But can he embrace his future, without letting go of his past?<\/p>\n

Now read on, to sample the first chapter of this cherishable second novel.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0*<\/em><\/p>\n

Narberth, late summer 1925<\/em><\/p>\n

Wilfred Price, undertaker, purveyor of superior funerals, was up with the larks and off for his morning constitutional. And no time, today, for a cup of tea first. Wilfred strode out of his house, put his hands on his hips and breathed in the watery Welsh air that smelled of turned earth. He felt affection for Narberth, the small town \u2013 green as a bean \u2013 five miles from the crinkly coast of Pembrokeshire, where he had lived all his life.<\/p>\n

\u2018Morning, Jeffrey,\u2019 he called to his friend above the sound of a cleaver splitting a rib in half, as he passed Lloyd the Butcher.<\/p>\n

\u2018Sunny day, today.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Talking sense you are, Wilf.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Good morning to you, Mrs Evans,\u2019 he greeted Mrs Annie Evans, who was heaving a sack of oatmeal on her tiny back up the steps of the Conduit Stores.<\/p>\n

\u2018Beautifulest funeral yesterday,\u2019 she replied.<\/p>\n

\u2018Wonderful funeral,\u2019 Wilfred agreed. It had been the simplest of funerals yesterday for Mrs James \u2013 as it often was for elderly ladies. Half the time the whole town had been expecting them to kick the bucket for decades. But some old ladies were surprisingly enduring; they could be very determined about not dying, despite a whole host of ailments, including sugar diabetes. Though when they finally fell off the perch, the family were prepared, and simple grief made for simple funerals.<\/p>\n

\u2018And beautiful <\/em>weather it is for you today,\u2019 Mrs Evans added. Wilfred raised his hand in acknowledgement.<\/p>\n

In the High Street, Willie the Post, carrying his bulging mailbag, waved at Wilfred cheerfully. Mrs Cadwallader was singing opera in her steamy bakery. Wilfred heard Handel Evans, the organist, playing Bach in the Bethesda Chapel as he did every morning of the week, crashing chords and hitting harmonies. Meanwhile, no doubt, the Reverend Waldo Williams MA (Oxon.) sat hunched at the lectern beneath the organ, suffering perturbations over the Psalms in the big black King James Bible he so earnestly studied. Shiny-faced schoolboys scampered around Wilfred, and outside Dai the Mint\u2019s a baby in a broken perambulator cried.<\/p>\n

Wilfred climbed the hill to Narberth\u2019s ruined castle, flattening the dewy grass with his feet as he walked. He stood between the roofless towers and the vaulted cellar, gazing over the hushed and splendid land where Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed, was said to have struck his bargain with Arawn, Lord of the Underworld. Wilfred saw the fields of barley; St Andrew\u2019s Church, where the gravestones stood like wonky gentlemen; and the wide circle of trees surrounding Narberth, tree after tree with great, round crowns, standing like a chapel congregation, neither ostentatious nor afraid to be what they were.<\/p>\n

He rested on an ancient stone wall, listening to the wind, then took the Narberth & Whitland Observer <\/em>out from under his arm and glanced at the front page.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Popular Narberth Wedding<\/em><\/p>\n

Miss Daisy Prior and Mr J. Heath<\/em><\/p>\n

The Tabernacle Chapel was the scene of a pretty wedding<\/em><\/p>\n

on Saturday morning . . .<\/em>\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

He was eager to read on, couldn\u2019t help wondering what was inside the newspaper. There would be births, deaths, marriages, scandals, and the umpteen things in between of which he knew nothing and would be surprised to learn about. And there would be news of the prime minister in London, Mr Stanley Baldwin, along with an account of Mrs James\u2019s funeral. But there wasn\u2019t time to read \u2013 or to think, much as he loved to. He must go straight home to 11, Market Street right this moment and prepare himself. He folded the paper in half and set off across the hummocky grass. There wasn\u2019t time to read the newspaper, not today.<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s mighty tidy in here,\u2019 Wilfred announced confidently, arriving back in the house and looking around the scully. But as Wilfred and his da stood in the cosy kitchen they\u2019d shared for twenty-nine years, both had the same thought: the kitchen didn\u2019t cut the mustard.<\/p>\n

\u2018Let\u2019s get rid of that old flour sack,\u2019 Wilfred suggested, lifting up the frayed sack on the floor to reveal tea-leaves, grit, bits of grass and a dog-eared playing card.<\/p>\n

\u2018Ach-y-fi<\/em>. Didn\u2019t you sweep under the rug?\u2019 Wilfred\u2019s da asked.<\/p>\n

\u2018No,\u2019 admitted Wilfred. \u2018It didn\u2019t occur to me.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Well, quickly then \u2013 get the brush.\u2019<\/p>\n

Wilfred collected the dustpan and brush from the yard next to the cabbages where it had been left a few months ago and swept the floor, but the brush kept shedding bristles and he had to sweep up those as well.<\/p>\n

\u2018That dustpan and brush,\u2019 his da said, watching, \u2018was a wedding present from Auntie Blodwen for your mam and me. Long time ago now.\u2019<\/p>\n

Wilfred stood up from all fours and put his large hand over his da\u2019s gnarled, soil-stained hands and squeezed gently. Summer sunlight streamed through the window and lit up the humble and dishevelled room, and brought it into vivid relief.<\/p>\n

\u2018We have lived very well, you and I, in this room, and this house, boy bach<\/em>,\u2019 his da stated. \u2018I hope I have been wise,\u2019 he added. \u2018The only thing I ever prayed for was to be a good father.\u2019<\/p>\n

There was a gentle pause.<\/p>\n

\u2018Do you think you should have cleaned the stove?\u2019 his da asked.<\/p>\n

\u2018I did,\u2019 Wilfred replied. He took the blackened, encrusted frying pan with its inch of white lard from the stove and put it in the higgledy-piggledy crockery cupboard. \u2018That\u2019s looking better now,\u2019 he stated. \u2018And you won\u2019t be able to keep your spade in the kitchen sink any more. I don\u2019t think that will do.\u2019 Wilfred\u2019s da rubbed his chest in silent contemplation.<\/p>\n

\u2018There are momentous changes ahead,\u2019 Wilfred said, attempting to console his da but succeeding only in unnerving himself. Then, from nowhere, Wilfred remembered, as a child, waking from a nightmare and running with all his might to his da \u2013 out of bed, across the tiny landing and under the scratchy blankets of his da\u2019s bed, where he clung resolutely to his father\u2019s back, which was naked and strong.<\/p>\n

\u2018I dreamed a saint nibbled me.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Whoever heard of a saint in a bedroom?\u2019<\/p>\n

Tumbling into the deep dip in the middle of the old mattress, Wilfred was soothed by his da\u2019s presence.<\/p>\n

\u2018Keep still, boy bach<\/em>. You\u2019ve got St Vitus\u2019s Dance.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Who\u2019s St Vitus? Is he dead?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Not yet,\u2019 his da replied. And then Wilfred had fallen asleep, warm and safe \u2013 safe as houses.<\/p>\n

Wilfred straightened the chairs around the kitchen table and closed the cutlery drawer.<\/p>\n

\u2018That\u2019s looking better again. Are you going to comb your hair?\u2019 he asked his da.<\/p>\n

\u2018Aye aye,\u2019 his da replied, smoothing his halo of white hair down.<\/p>\n

\u2018Now, you\u2019s better go and get yourself ready.\u2019<\/p>\n

Wilfred nodded, rubbing his bristly chin. He must have a shave.<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ve put petrol in the hearse,\u2019 he mentioned, adding, \u2018It\u2019s not ideal, is it?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018What?\u2019 his da said, alarmed.<\/p>\n

\u2018You know.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No! I\u2019s thought you were happy this time.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Not that, Da,\u2019 Wilfred explained. \u2018This time I couldn\u2019t be happier. I meant it\u2019s not ideal, going to my own wedding in a hearse.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Once an undertaker, always an undertaker,\u2019 his da replied.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2018Now, cariad<\/em>,\u2019 said her mother, bending down and cutting the stems of some dalias, separating forever the flower heads from their roots. She stood up and handed the freshly cut flowers to Flora Myffanwy. \u2018Let bygones be bygones.\u2019<\/p>\n

Flora nodded. Her mother was talking about Albert. It seemed an obvious comment, but Flora knew what her mother meant. She was to let go of the past, no matter how golden it had been.<\/p>\n

\u2018This is a new beginning for you,\u2019 Mrs Edwards continued. She reached for the white, trumpet-like lilies. \u2018Shall I cut you some of these?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, I\u2019d like some lilies.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Your father planted these earlier this year.\u2019<\/p>\n

It was still so raw. Flora saw an image of her father slumped on the hall carpet. It was a very fresh memory. She gazed at the line of metallic blue sea in the distance. The air was full of insects flitting and a rabbit hopped in the apple orchard at the end of the garden.<\/p>\n

\u2018He would have wanted to give you away,\u2019 her mother stated, cutting four of the tallest, most beautiful lilies.<\/p>\n

Her father had died in the spring; she had first seen Wilfred at the funeral, met with him across the summer and they were marrying before harvest. Much else had happened besides, but at its simplest and most pure, they had come together over the year. Today was her wedding day, not to Albert, but to Wilfred. She loved Wilfred, but she was marrying him because Albert had died.<\/p>\n

\u2018Perhaps a few sprigs of laurel?\u2019 her mother enquired.<\/p>\n

\u2018Shall we find some ivy?\u2019 Flora said.<\/p>\n

\u2018Let\u2019s walk to the front garden,\u2019 her mother suggested, \u2018and see if we can find some. I\u2019m sure there\u2019s some ivy clinging to the silver birch.\u2019 They ambled across the dappled lawn, passing the pink and lilac hydrangeas growing bushily in the borders and heading towards the iris beds.<\/p>\n

\u2018I like irises,\u2019 Flora said, gazing at the elegant, indigo flowers leaning giddily against the garden wall.<\/p>\n

\u2018But I couldn\u2019t imagine them in a bouquet,\u2019 her mother responded. \u2018The trailing ivy will go lovely with the lilies.\u2019<\/p>\n

Flora unbuckled her sandals, took them off and began walking barefoot on the cool, fresh grass. The lawn had not been cut regularly since her father passed away so the clover had long, wilting stalks.<\/p>\n

At the silver birch Flora began pulling the ivy away from the tree. The sun beamed down, the sky was cloudless and it was a hot, almost oppressive day. Flora ran her hand round the back of her neck and lifted up her long brown hair.<\/p>\n

\u2018It will be time soon for you to put on your dress. I will help you with the lace veil,\u2019 her mother said, watching. \u2018That ivy\u2019s proving difficult.\u2019<\/p>\n

Flora tried to pull a young piece of ivy away from the bark but it was tangled and stuck too tightly to come away in one piece.<\/p>\n

\u2018Married life . . .\u2019 Mrs Edwards began, then stopped. Flora knew her mother would not advise her on married life; she would be more sensitive than that. \u2018I only want you to know that I had a lot of pleasure from married life.\u2019 Her mother was allowing Flora into an aspect of her life that she had not revealed before. \u2018And I learned that there was nothing to be gained from holding back.\u2019<\/p>\n

Flora tugged at a different frond of ivy. She didn\u2019t know if she could let go of the past. Time had passed but the ties of her heart remained. Flora tried to feel within her her love for Wilfred, but it felt hidden quietly beneath the preparations for the wedding and moving to Narberth. She needed a still moment to feel her love for him clearly and strongly again.<\/p>\n

\u2018And to think you are wearing the same muslin dress as I wore, the one belonging to your great-grandmother,\u2019 her mother said, arranging the flowers in her hand. \u2018That reminds me, I have a small gift for you.\u2019 She went into White Hook and Flora stood waiting, looking at the large, old house that was her home, and could not imagine having another home. Her mother returned with a neat box wrapped in dark green ribbon. \u2018It is for you, now you are almost married.\u2019<\/p>\n

Flora carefully removed the ribbon and brown paper, opened the glossy black box and pulled out a lipstick in a pale, pearly pink.<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s for you to wear today,\u2019 her mother explained. \u2018Something new to go with the something old \u2013 the wedding dress \u2013 if you think you would like to use it.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ll try it,\u2019 Flora Myffanwy said, carefully dragging the lipstick across her lips.<\/p>\n

\u2018If ever there is a day a woman can begin wearing lipstick,\u2019 her mother said, \u2018it is surely her wedding day.\u2019<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2018Tell out my soul, the greatness of the Lord,\u2019 the reverend roared, and Handel Evans hit the organ chords as if his life depended on it.<\/p>\n

Wilfred stood at the altar next to Flora Myffanwy and sang, strong and deep, with his shoulders back and head high, losing himself in the voices of those he loved surrounding him. He sang with all his might so that his heart was full of lightness and he felt he could float above Stepaside and Narberth and be singing with the stars. His joy was as plain as the written sign.<\/p>\n

When the final thunderous organ chord had faded to a slow echo and the Benediction had been given, Wilfred, beaming, held out his arm for Flora to take and they walked together down the aisle to the church door. These are our first steps, he thought, of a long journey.<\/p>\n

Wilfred and Flora Myffanwy stepped out into the sunlight to the sound of voices raised in a cheer. A shower of rice confetti landed with a pitter-patter on Wilfred\u2019s top hat and tails. The rice fell helter-skelter onto his shoulders and into Flora Myffanwy\u2019s bouquet, nestling among the lilies and the ivy. Small children from the local cottages strewed wine-red camellia and rose petals at their feet for the bride and groom to walk on.<\/p>\n

\u2018Here\u2019s the bride and groom,\u2019 Jeffrey announced. \u2018They look a masterpiece.\u2019<\/p>\n

Wilfred and Flora stood outside the small chapel in Stepaside. Wilfred noticed the quivering aspens and wild rambling roses. It was a glorious day, the sun was shining and the sea in the distance was still. A blackbird was putting loops and twists in his voice and a solitary plump bee hovered about the honeysuckle. The black clothes and the white linen of the guests were very plain against the green of the trees and the silvery-grey of the chapel.<\/p>\n

\u2018There\u2019s one thing I will say, and it is this,\u2019 Mrs Annie Evans stated. \u2018There\u2019s children you\u2019ll have, with all this rice thrown.\u2019<\/p>\n

Men in bowler hats and top hats nodded in agreement, as did the ladies in bonnets with feathers in them.<\/p>\n

\u2018It\u2019s better than the old shoes of tradition they threw at my wedding,\u2019<\/p>\n

Willie the Post called, pulling Mrs Willie the Post towards him. \u2018We\u2019re only happy because I\u2019m deaf and my wife is blind.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Wondrous sermon. The reverend is like Milton\u00a0and Cromwell rolled into one,\u2019 Wilfred overheard Handel Evans comment.<\/p>\n

\u2018Aye,\u2019 Dai the Mint replied. \u2018There\u2019s no flies on that bugger.\u2019<\/p>\n

Arthur Squibs of Arthur Squibs Studios of Tenby emerged from the gathering, lugging his cumbersome camera.<\/p>\n

\u2018Good afternoon, Mr Price. Good afternoon, Mrs Edwards. Good afternoon, Mr and Mrs Wilfred Price.\u2019 He doffed his bowler hat in greeting. He gazed up at the light of the sun, then set up his heavy wood and brass camera on a tripod.<\/p>\n

\u2018Now, Mr Price and Mrs Melbourne Edwards, if you would stand next to your son and daughter respectively.\u2019<\/p>\n

His da, smelling of mothballs and boot polish, stood beside Wilfred, his fine hair fluffing out around his hat, as white as if the snow had fallen in it. Mrs Melbourne Edwards, holding a new handbag, stood next to Flora. Wilfred watched his da attempting to straighten up.<\/p>\n

The Reverend Waldo Williams MA (Oxon.) sashayed forward, his cassock swaying about him freely, with two simple wooden chairs for his da and Mrs Melbourne Edwards. His da sat down, as if resting from a long journey taken and completed.<\/p>\n

\u2018Wilfred, move closer,\u2019 Arthur Squibs said. Wilfred leaned towards Flora. Flora smoothed the wisps of brown hair springing loose from the delicate white veil placed over her head.<\/p>\n

\u2018There\u2019s beautiful the bride is,\u2019 said Mrs Bell Evans with admiration.<\/p>\n

\u2018Thank you, Mrs Evans,\u2019 Flora replied quietly.<\/p>\n

\u2018There\u2019s proud you must be of your daughter, Mrs Edwards.\u2019 Mrs Edwards swallowed visibly, unable to reply.<\/p>\n

\u2018Look straight ahead,\u2019 the photographer advised, clapping his hands to attract their attention. Flora Myffanwy stood by Wilfred, her shy eyes smiling. Wilfred stood tall and upright in his best suit.<\/p>\n

\u2018Stand still, if you please.\u2019 Mr Arthur Squibs moved his large camera and tripod slightly to the left, hid his head under the thick cloth and emerged, moving the camera nearer again. He stood beside the camera, like a magician about to capture their souls. The photograph was eventually taken.<\/p>\n

\u2018There are photographs, and then there are . . . photographs,\u2019 Mr Squibs said enigmatically, \u2018and that <\/em>was a photograph.\u2019 Then: \u2018One more picture, please. It is important to have two of everything that is important to have,\u2019 he announced to the baffled gathering, adding, \u2018like kidneys.\u2019 He took a cloth from his waistcoat pocket and rubbed the camera lens vigorously. \u2018Now, keep still, don\u2019t move a muscle,\u2019 he instructed. \u2018This is a ten-second exposure. Talk among yourselves, ladies and gentlemen . . .\u2019 Arthur Squibs pressed the shutter. \u2018One second, two seconds . . .\u2019<\/p>\n

Wilfred stood as still as he could. This was a proper wedding in an ancient chapel, and standing next to him was the woman he wanted as his wife. Out of the corner of his eye he looked at Flora Myffawny \u2013 beauty was around her like lavender \u2013 and thought to himself that this was the happiest day of his life. And there was the night to come as well. He felt the muscles in his belly contract and the long muscles heat and flare inside him. It would be the happiest night of his life, too, when the air between them was hot. He had not yet had conjugal relations and did not know the exact ins and out of these things, but he had lain in bed with a woman before and he felt confident this practise would hold him in good stead tonight. He glanced at Flora Myffanwy.<\/p>\n

\u2018Wilfred, you\u2019re twitching!\u2019 Arthur Squibs reprimanded. \u2018Six seconds and seven seconds . . .\u2019<\/p>\n

Flora was looking at the camera lens with her solemn beauty and serious eyes. It wasn\u2019t always like this at a wedding, Wilfred knew. But he wouldn\u2019t think about that today. That was the past. Whomever else he had professed to love, honour and obey was gone. He would dwell on it no more. He would put it behind him. Flora was his wife now and he couldn\u2019t be happier. To think that the days earlier in the year had been so dark, so imprisoning, when all had seemed lost . . . and now here he was.<\/p>\n

And Flora had loved before, but the chap had died in that dreadful war and so that was all over and they could both begin a new life. The past was gone for Flora, too. She loved him <\/em>now. He must remember Mr Ogmore Auden\u2019s advice. Mr Auden had asked him, when he was an apprentice undertaker: \u2018Do you know the secret to a happy life?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018No, Mr Auden,\u2019 he\u2019d replied.<\/p>\n

\u2018Two words: \u201cYes, dear\u201d.\u2019<\/p>\n

Wilfred decided, there and then, that he would call Flora Myffanwy \u2018dear\u2019 and he hoped that she would like that. It was important to call one\u2019s wife \u2018dear\u2019. It was called a term of endearment, Wilfred knew, and was the opposite of a term of abuse. One would never call one\u2019s wife a term of abuse. That was unthinkable.<\/p>\n

\u2018Nine seconds and ten seconds,\u2019 Arthur Squibs counted. There was the fat click of the camera then a fizz of the photograph being taken. A dignified round of applause broke out.<\/p>\n

I will kiss her cheek, he thought to himself, and felt the gentle warmth of her skin.<\/p>\n

\u2018There is good to have flowers so near you,\u2019 Wilfred remarked on Flora\u2019s posy. \u2018Dear,\u2019 he added. Flora looked up at him quietly. Still waters run deep, he thought to himself, though she had said the only words that mattered to Wilfred: \u2018I do,\u2019 and in the gentlest voice he could ever imagine. Wilfred put his hand tenderly around her small warm waist and looked at the woman he could almost barely believe existed. And he could see the smile coming in her eyes. Wilfred was aware that he knew very little about women, as his mother had died on the fourth day of his life. Women were different from men. He had already noticed, and he\u2019d only been married five minutes.<\/p>\n

\u2018Shall the bride throw the bouquet?\u2019 Mrs Willie the Post suggested.<\/p>\n

\u2018Those flowers are more beautiful than poetry,\u2019 Mrs Cadwallader remarked.<\/p>\n

\u2018There\u2019s an abundation of lilies for you,\u2019 Mrs Annie Evans agreed, \u2018and with the smell of the scent of paradise.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u2018Jeffrey, if you catch the bouquet it will be your wedding next,\u2019 Mrs Willie the Post encouraged.<\/p>\n

\u2018Good God Almighty, there\u2019s a thought!\u2019 Handel Evans retorted.<\/p>\n

Flora smiled, turned her back to the expectant crowd but the bouquet slipped from her hands, falling onto the soft grass. Wilfred, removing his top hat, bent down to pick it up.<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh,\u2019 she said, blushing a little.<\/p>\n

\u2018Let me. Dear,\u2019 he offered, picking up the bouquet and handing back the slightly crushed lilies. Flora took the flowers and threw them carefully behind her to a cheer of joy and excitement from the anticipating crowd.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u2018Married life . . .\u2019 Mrs Edwards began, then stopped. Flora knew her mother would not advise her on married life; she would be more sensitive than that. \u2018I only want you to know that I had a lot of pleasure from married life.\u2019 Her mother was allowing Flora into an aspect of her life that she had not revealed before. \u2018And I learned that there was nothing to be gained from holding back.\u2019
\nFlora tugged at a frond of ivy. She didn\u2019t know if she could let go of the past. Time had passed but the ties of her heart remained. Flora tried to feel within her her love for Wilfred, but it felt hidden quietly beneath the preparations for the wedding and moving to Narberth. She needed a still moment to feel her love for him clearly and strongly again […] in Authors and Extracts<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[20,23],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4497","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-authors-and-writing","category-extracts-and-short-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4497","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4497"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4497\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4504,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4497\/revisions\/4504"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4497"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4497"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bookoxygen.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4497"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}