Wedding Babylon

by Imogen Edwards-Jones

  After such a fraught atmosphere in the house, I am quite looking forward to getting out of the place and going for a relaxing drive to the next village to pick up the vicar, David Clinton. We have spoken a few times on the phone already when I was booking him and the local St Mary’s Church. He seems like a nice enough chap, helpful and not quite as mad as the snake pit I’m leaving.

  As I reverse the car around, I spot Alistair slinking his way back out into the garden and down to the marquee. He is off to sex-pest the poor florists again. Although I have to say, both girls looked like they could handle him quite easily.

  Pulling up outside the station I spot Reverend Dave leaning against the wall, taking in the sun. He is wearing a white shirt, soft brown shoes and the sort of baggy high-waisted jeans that only ever seem to appear on priests or geography teachers. He is also sporting a dodgy pair of purple-tinted sunglasses that only a paedophile would find groovy.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ He smiles, revealing a set of very English teeth, like a partly bulldozed graveyard. ‘Very kind of you to pick me up. I am extremely sorry to bother you, but by the time the cab came to collect me and drop me at the house, we would all be a good fifteen minutes late for the rehearsal, and I hate to keep people waiting and I hate to let them down.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I reply, opening the car door. ‘In fact I am quite pleased to be able to get out of the house.’

  ‘That bad?’ he asks, plonking himself next to me and smoothing down his very thin mousy hair. ‘I haven’t met this couple yet, actually, which is a bit bad. Normally I’d like to meet them a few times to discuss a few things, like how many children they want, and if they’ve been married before.’

  ‘I imagine that’s quite a conversation.’ I smile, turning the car around.

  ‘Normally it is fairly straightforward.’ He shrugs. ‘Although the other day I had someone who forgot.’

  ‘What? That they had been married?’

  ‘Yup,’ he says, looking out of the window. ‘It’s a big thing, bigamy. I had to stop a wedding once because the groom was still married. I made them both come to the vestry to explain themselves. He’d apparently just made a mistake. He’d forgotten that he’d forgotten to get a divorce. A bride I married also forgot to say ‘yes’ to the ‘Have you been married?’ question on the form. She’d ticked the ‘no’ box because it was so long ago and she thought it didn’t matter any more. It was a green-card marriage, so apparently she thought it didn’t count. It wasn’t until someone told me at the reception that this husband was so much nicer than the last one that I realized we had a situation. So I had to go back to the house the next day and ask her what she was playing at. Fortunately, she was divorced; otherwise it would have been a police matter. And you can see why – lots of scam artists make lots of money out of bigamy. It’s a lucrative business.’

  ‘And yet it is so expensive getting married,’ I laugh.

  ‘Especially if you have a planner,’ he says, turning to look at me. ‘What is the world coming to, when a couple are too busy to organize the most important day of their lives?’

  ‘Maybe it is just that we do it better,’ I reply.

  ‘But what’s better?’ He sighs. ‘The average cost of a wedding is £21,000 and only £250 is spent on the church. Don’t you think we’ve got something wrong? That the emphasis is a little skewed? Most people think of the church bit as something to get through before the party. But in my experience, if people put a bit of effort into the service it tends to be a much better wedding.’

  ‘I can see that, I suppose.’

  ‘I tell you,’ he laughs, ‘if I had a pound for every time the bride has come down the aisle to that wretched Queen of Sheba and I’ve had to sit through 1 Corinthians 13 and the awful Prophet, which is Corinthians for those who think they are trendy, then I’d be a very rich man. I can’t believe couples are so dull and unimaginative. I don’t know of a single vicar who doesn’t loathe the whole lot. I personally can’t read Corinthians without thinking of Tony Blair. “Love is patient, love is kind . . .” I just hear his voice all the way through. Still,’ he grins, ‘mustn’t groan. There are some churches that do more funerals than weddings. Thankfully, mine is not one of them.’

  ‘So are you busy at the moment?’ I say, trying to sound breezy and all the time thinking about the order of service sitting on the back seat of my car. What will he do when he sees it? Will Reverend Dave pretend it is fine, or will he just remain mute?

  ‘I’ve done four weddings this week,’ he says, smoothing down the front of his jeans.

  ‘God!’ I say, and then immediately apologize. Is that swearing? I’m not sure. ‘Goodness,’ I continue. ‘How can you write an address for all of those?’

  ‘I don’t. I have six addresses on my computer at home and cut and paste them accordingly,’ he explains, rolling down his window and looking back out of it. ‘Oh! Afternoon, Mrs James!’ he shouts suddenly at a large middle-aged woman in gardening gloves at her garden gate. ‘See you Sunday! Sorry,’ he adds, turning to me. ‘She does the flowers for the church. No,’ he continues. ‘I have the six and I try to add a few bits and bobs. About how brilliant it is that Susie and Roger met at school, how great that they have been together since the office party. You don’t want a dry theology lesson. You know, “A marriage is . . .” thing. Otherwise you’ve lost them. You do want to try to capture the moment a bit. I think seven minutes is the perfect length. Any shorter and they feel cheated, and any longer and they get all fidgety. But it is desperate if you are clutching at straws, trying to think of interesting things to say.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I say.

  ‘That’s part of the reason for the forms, so I can try to find out something about the couple, to see if they’re suited. I had a couple in last year who only had sex in common. They were from different walks of life and wanted different things. It was lust that held them together. It was obvious that it wasn’t going to last, and it didn’t. I do try to get couples to think a bit about what they are doing. Ask themselves some questions. Most people prepare more for a holiday than they do for a lifetime together.’ I turn left up the lane that leads to the house. ‘Oh, this is nice,’ he says, poking his head out of the window. ‘I have been up here before, but it was a long time ago. Is the father a bit of a Lothario?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Is that the sort of question a vicar should ask?

  ‘Is the mother a bit ginger?’ he tries again.

  ‘That’s right,’ I say.

  ‘I have definitely been here before, but it was years ago. I think I might have had tea here when I first joined the parish about ten years ago.’

  We pull up in the drive and Alice comes out to meet us. Her face looks swollen and her pretty turned-up nose looks a little red. She has very obviously been crying, but judging by her over-effusive smile, it is clearly something she doesn’t want us to mention.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ says Reverend Dave, grasping her hand with both of his. ‘I am the other one in the white dress.’

  ‘I am so sorry we didn’t collect you,’ Alice says.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He pats the back of her hand. ‘I am sure you had better things to do. How is everything coming on? Are you on time? On schedule? How are the flowers?’

  ‘It is all OK, I think – I hope. At least the loos arrived this morning. We didn’t have any of those until an hour ago,’ she says, trying to raise a smile.

  ‘But the matter was very much in hand,’ I add.

  ‘Ah! Vicar!’ booms Louise from the hall. ‘Are we ready for the rehearsal?’ She walks towards us in a new floral wrap-dress that is clearly intended to show off her curves, but instead rather sadly just shows off her underwear, which is clearly visible in the bright sunshine.

  ‘We have met before,’ he says, holding out his hand.

  ‘Have we?’ queries Louise.

  ‘It was a while ago, I think.’

  ‘Not when I was married?’ she snorts.

  ‘Prob
ably.’

  ‘God save us!’ she replies. ‘Are we all ready to go to the rehearsal? Because I want you home and in the bath before the dinner tonight,’ she adds, looking at Alice. ‘We have taken over Othello’s.’ She smiles at Reverend Dave.

  ‘Oh, very nice, I am sure,’ he replies.

  ‘Well, it is the best restaurant for miles around,’ she adds, just in case the man has forgotten.

  ‘Only the best,’ he says. ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I would rather the couple just come on their own, along with those directly involved in the service.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Louise, sounding extremely put out. ‘Well, I would rather be there to see what is going on.’

  ‘Are you reading a lesson?’ asks Dave.

  ‘No,’ she says, her eyes narrowing at the realization that her ex-husband is. ‘But . . .’

  ‘I think it is for the best,’ he continues. ‘You must have so much you need to do here at the house. Although, looking about, you do seem to have it all under control.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiles, her lips tighter than ever. ‘Now you say that, I can see my role is here – where all the important things need doing.’

  ‘Quite,’ nods the vicar. ‘Who is doing the readings? And let’s take a look at that order of service, just to see what we are in for tomorrow.’ He rubs his hands with enthusiasm and looks around for someone to hand him a booklet.

  ‘Here you are,’ says Alice. ‘Fresh off the press.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he replies, sniffing the freshly printed paper before opening it. ‘Sheba,’ he mumbles as his finger goes down the pages. ‘Corinthians, The Prophet and – Oh!’ He smiles. ‘And “I Vow to Thee, My Country”. A full house! Great! What can I say?’ And for a moment I think I see him struggle to fight the huge wave of boredom that’s just enveloped him. ‘Very traditional.’ He grins. ‘Very traditional indeed.’

  ‘Oh, I am glad you like it,’ says Alice, her nose wrinkling as she smiles. ‘We really thought about it.’

  ‘It must have taken hours,’ agrees Reverend Dave.

  St Mary’s Church is about ten minutes away by car. Perched at the top of a small incline, it is about four hundred years old and is short and fat and utterly charming. With a skinny path leading to the door, it is surrounded by a cluttered, tumbling graveyard that appears to be home to about twenty grazing sheep.

  ‘That brings a whole new meaning to the word recycling,’ says Andrew, the best man, getting out of the car and spotting a large ram on a particularly grassy grave.

  ‘Don’t,’ says Alice. ‘You have now totally put me off my main course tomorrow.’

  ‘OK then,’ says Dave, pulling the large metal key out of his bag. ‘Let’s crack on, shall we? Just to say to you that obviously the church will look very different tomorrow. The florist will have done her stuff and the place will be packed.’ He opens the heavy wooden door and a rush of cold air blasts out.

  Inside, the church is a good solid traditional venue. There’s a stone font to the right as you enter, a reasonable-length aisle and rows of wooden pews. The pulpit sports a large lectern with a bronze eagle. The altar is small, with a large ornate gold cross, with three relatively simple stained-glass windows above it.

  ‘Welcome to St Mary’s,’ says Reverend Dave. ‘It will be a bit warmer tomorrow, with the doors left open.’

  ‘Nice church,’ says Andrew. ‘Do you think everyone will fit in?’

  ‘The church has capacity for 150,’ I say. ‘So there will be standing room only at the back. If possible, it would be good to have the elderly sitting and the younger guests standing.’

  ‘Well then, I am at the back,’ announces Alistair, shoving his shades to the back of his head as he ambles up and down the aisle.

  ‘Actually, you are with your daughter,’ I correct him. ‘And then you are in the front pew on the left. Bride to the left and groom to the right.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Dave. ‘Though I like to encourage the families to mix, just in case there is too much segregation, particularly when it is a mixed marriage. The last thing you want is a black side and a white side. Or one side in morning suits and the other one not. But this one is probably well mixed anyway, isn’t it?’ He looks from Alice to Richard.

  ‘You might think that,’ mumbles Andrew, walking towards the altar.

  ‘Right then,’ smiles Dave, breezing on. ‘So imagine the place is full, there are flowers everywhere—’

  ‘On the side of the pews?’ Alice checks with me.

  I nod. ‘Sweet peas and lilacs.’

  ‘So the ushers have done their ushering, your parents are over here on the right, Richard—’

  ‘Not together,’ Richard corrects. ‘Mum is on her own and Dad and Bev are in the row behind.’

  ‘OK,’ nods Dave. ‘And your family, Alice – your mum and dad are there on the left.’

  ‘On their own?’ asks Alice.

  ‘No, with Trish,’ says Alistair.

  ‘Trish is not in the front row,’ insists Alice. ‘She is not family.’

  Her father stares at her and then smiles. ‘Whatever you want, baby, it’s your big day. Trish won’t mind, she’ll sit where I tell her.’

  ‘OK then – you take your father’s arm. The left one. You are on his left. He’s on the right, and then . . . the bridesmaids?’ Dave looks around and spots the surly Grace and the chubby Liberty. He seems relieved. ‘No tots then?’

  ‘Sadly, no,’ says Alice, looking round at the motley crew about to follow her down the aisle.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ smiles Dave. ‘I can’t bear a tot at a wedding. They run loose and you can’t control them. These days they usually belong to the bride and groom, so no one wants to discipline them. No one is in charge. People don’t know how to behave in church any more and they think it is fine for a three-year-old to run up and down the aisle and rock the flower arrangements until the stems come tumbling down. But anything that distracts the couple is a bad idea. Having said that, I had a big bride poured into a small dress the other day and that proved to be more distracting than a whole nursery of small children!’ He laughs.

  ‘I know what you mean!’ chuckles Alistair.

  Liberty’s cheeks blush the same unfortunate colour as her tight T-shirt.

  ‘So, music,’ picks up Dave. ‘The Queen of Sheba – is it a CD, or have you hired the organist? I would say her repertoire is small, but I think even she can stretch to Sheba. The CD player is a bit dodgy, that’s all.’

  ‘We have a string quartet and a soprano,’ I say.

  ‘Singing “Ave Maria” during the signing of the register?’ he asks. I want to say no. But he is right. That’s exactly what the clients have asked for. You can come up with suggestions until you are blue in the face, but what the client wants the client gets. So I just smile. ‘Excellent,’ he nods. ‘All very traditional. I had a wedding the other day, not in this church but in St Peter’s up the road, where the bride said that she wanted to come up the aisle to the Robin Hood music—’

  ‘“Everything I Do” by Bryan Adams,’ says Alice.

  ‘That’s the one,’ he nods. ‘But sadly the organist didn’t understand that, and when the bride came down the aisle, she pressed Play and out came “Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen. Robin Hood, Robin Hood, with his band of men!’’’

  Richard bursts out laughing. ‘I’d pay to see that,’ he says.

  ‘Right then,’ says Dave. ‘So you come down the aisle. Nice and slowly. I can’t tell you how many brides have bolted to the altar and have been left standing there for five minutes waiting for the music to finish. It is not a race. The slower the better, and you two –’ he nods towards Grace and Liberty, ‘you take your cue from the bride. So the slower she walks, the slower you do. Now Richard, do you want me to nod when Alice is near? I have had quite a few grooms burst into tears when the bride comes down the aisle.’

  ‘Have you?’ Andrew looks confused. ‘How bizarre.’


  ‘They can’t cope with her in all her finery. Do you want to look? It is strange not to. Although I know a Scottish vicar who was so overcome with the sound of the bagpipes that he forgot to nod at the groom. And the bride was furious that he didn’t look at her. So I would suggest halfway down, and then you can compose yourself should you want to cry.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ laughs Andrew, slapping Richard on the back. ‘You’re not the crying type.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what happens on the day,’ says Dave. ‘I had one groom stammer so much while saying his vows he wet himself at the altar.’

  ‘Christ,’ mutters Alistair, shaking his head like a man who has recently had to get in touch with his prostate.

  ‘Fingers crossed that doesn’t happen to you, Rich!’ laughs Grace.

  ‘OK, we are all here.’ Reverend Dave spreads his arms out in front of him. ‘Alistair, you hand over Alice to me, and then I hand her to Richard . . .’

  ‘Like chattels,’ says Grace.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ says Dave.

  ‘Don’t you think marriage is an outdated institution propagated by the male patriarchy, whose only intention is to keep women in their place?’ she asks, shaking her head slightly.

  ‘Or indeed a coming together of two people who love each other,’ replies Dave in a jaded voice. ‘So Alistair, you are there . . . and then I make my welcome address. I hate telling people not to throw confetti and take photos in church, so could you all spread the word beforehand—’

  ‘But we have organic biodegradable rose petals,’ I interrupt.

  ‘Oh,’ he sighs. ‘I am sure those are fine. But no photos inside the church, because once they start . . . I had some bloke with a perm, medallion and open-neck shirt walking backwards down the aisle last week, snapping the bride like she was J-Lo on the red carpet. And then he plonked himself between her and me and I nearly punched his lights out. Anyway, the photos are very boring. You don’t move for ages. So then we do the vows. With or without “obey”?’ he asks Alice.