This is an instalment of an as-yet unnamed autobiographical series that started in Australia in 1975.
Click here for the first instalment.
The full list of instalments so far is in the sidebar to the right.
I can’t remember much about my wedding day. I think I was numb. John and I had fought so hard for it and now it was actually happening it seemed unreal. Parts of it stand out, like sunbeams, and other parts are lost in the dusty corners of my mind.
Once in the village, my family and John headed for the church, while Jo and I hung back. I pulled him into the Tuns and downed two vodkas. I’ve no idea why. I think I thought they were part of the ritual. Jo didn’t join me in a drink but he stood by, offering his usual uncritical support.
All I remember of the service is John, me and the vicar going into some back room and signing the register, with Liz and Rod as witnesses.
Outside, we must have posed for photographs as I have a collection: some of me and John; some of me, John and Richard; and some group photographs.
In these, John’s parents are one end, Mollie sweet and smart in a brown velvet jacket. John and I are in the middle, holding tight to each other’s hand. My mother is next to me with Jo behind her, bushy-haired and tall.
I don’t like to look at those group photographs now. Perhaps because they’re a lie. We weren’t a happy group, at least I wasn’t happy to be next to my mother. I’m looking away from her, holding myself tight on the side next to her. She looks grown-up and confident. I look like an overweight child.
My favourite photograph shows John and me with our back to the camera, walking away with our arms around each other. Safe at last.
We didn’t have an official photographer but two friends with cameras were standing outside, waiting for us all to come out of the church. How did they know to be there? Such thoughtfulness. Such kindness.
I remember our rings, of course. John had designed them, and a silversmith he’d met at a craft fair on Exeter’s Cathedral Green had made them. His was a wide band with my name engraved on it in runes. Mine was three rings twisted together. It was heavy and clunky on my finger and I wondered if I’d ever get used to it.
Outside, we must have posed for photographs as I have a collection: some of me and John; some of me, John and Richard; and some group photographs.
In these, John’s parents are one end, Mollie sweet and smart in a brown velvet jacket. John and I are in the middle, holding tight to each other’s hand. My mother is next to me with Jo behind her, bushy-haired and tall.
I don’t like to look at those group photographs now. Perhaps because they’re a lie. We weren’t a happy group, at least I wasn’t happy to be next to my mother. I’m looking away from her, holding myself tight on the side next to her. She looks grown-up and confident. I look like an overweight child.
My favourite photograph shows John and me with our back to the camera, walking away with our arms around each other. Safe at last.
We didn’t have an official photographer but two friends with cameras were standing outside, waiting for us all to come out of the church. How did they know to be there? Such thoughtfulness. Such kindness.
I remember our rings, of course. John had designed them, and a silversmith he’d met at a craft fair on Exeter’s Cathedral Green had made them. His was a wide band with my name engraved on it in runes. Mine was three rings twisted together. It was heavy and clunky on my finger and I wondered if I’d ever get used to it.
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| Looking at my new wedding ring |
Back at the The Three Tuns, Richard had organised champagne. We sat at two tables, the young on one and the old (older) on the other.
The older table was the noisy one. The vicar had joined us for lunch and he was regaling them with scurrilous stories (I heard something about him having to blow the smoke from his cigarette up a chimney) and they were all laughing loudly. In the pictures they are all smiling except for Betty who’s looking askance at my mother.
The older table was the noisy one. The vicar had joined us for lunch and he was regaling them with scurrilous stories (I heard something about him having to blow the smoke from his cigarette up a chimney) and they were all laughing loudly. In the pictures they are all smiling except for Betty who’s looking askance at my mother.
 |
| John T and Betty, looking askance |
I sat mute in the centre of the other table.
Friends of John’s from the pub joined the party and bought John and me brandies.
Everyone was celebrating, except for John and me.
When we went outside after lunch we discovered that Simon had sprayed the Mini with ‘Just married’ in shaving foam and tied bells to its rear bumper. John was almost speechless with anger.
‘How could you,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve probably damaged the paintwork.’
He untied the bells immediately.
We went back to Liz’s cottage with Mollie where we found four telegrams – from my father’s two sisters, my grandfather (my father’s father), my godfather (who was related in a complicated way to my mother) and his daughter who’d been to stay with John and me at Liz’s cottage over the summer. (She and her boyfriend had slept in our room and we’d slept in a tent in the garden.) There were presents too. I began to feel a little more conscious. The world came into focus again. I’d expected everyone to be on my parents’ side but perhaps I mattered to people as well.
John wiped the Mini clean. The paintwork was intact, thank goodness. We changed out of our wedding clothes, shaking the confetti out of our hair and underwear, and packed the Mini. We were off to Cornwall for a week, staying for two nights in a B & B and then camping. John had all the gear.
We kissed Mollie goodbye and set off, alone at last, married at last.
John cried all the way down. I wasn’t sure what to do as I’d never credited men with emotions, not subtle ones anyway, and I didn’t yet know what to do about my own.
I kept my hand on his leg in what I hoped was a reassuring way, and passed him tissues when he needed them.
Friends of John’s from the pub joined the party and bought John and me brandies.
Everyone was celebrating, except for John and me.
When we went outside after lunch we discovered that Simon had sprayed the Mini with ‘Just married’ in shaving foam and tied bells to its rear bumper. John was almost speechless with anger.
‘How could you,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve probably damaged the paintwork.’
He untied the bells immediately.
We went back to Liz’s cottage with Mollie where we found four telegrams – from my father’s two sisters, my grandfather (my father’s father), my godfather (who was related in a complicated way to my mother) and his daughter who’d been to stay with John and me at Liz’s cottage over the summer. (She and her boyfriend had slept in our room and we’d slept in a tent in the garden.) There were presents too. I began to feel a little more conscious. The world came into focus again. I’d expected everyone to be on my parents’ side but perhaps I mattered to people as well.
John wiped the Mini clean. The paintwork was intact, thank goodness. We changed out of our wedding clothes, shaking the confetti out of our hair and underwear, and packed the Mini. We were off to Cornwall for a week, staying for two nights in a B & B and then camping. John had all the gear.
We kissed Mollie goodbye and set off, alone at last, married at last.
John cried all the way down. I wasn’t sure what to do as I’d never credited men with emotions, not subtle ones anyway, and I didn’t yet know what to do about my own.
I kept my hand on his leg in what I hoped was a reassuring way, and passed him tissues when he needed them.
To be continued . . .
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