‘
And if any man knows of any just cause or impediment let him speak now or else hereafter forever hold his peace.’
Then ensued perhaps the most self-conscious of all silences, beating that at a football stadium for a just-deceased, long-forgotten footballer, or at a Remembrance Service where more than eighty per cent of those present had not personally known anyone killed, had, for the most part, not seen even as much as a sepia-tinted photograph depicting achingly young features under a precariously-perched cap.
But this time the silence was short-lived and quickly broken. Broken firstly by movement at the back of the church, which only a few had the nerve to turn their heads to investigate. Broken secondly by a languid voice, not loud (it did not need to be) but clear, which spoke into the silence.
‘I do.'
A voice which, judging by the gasp of the stoutly silk-wrapped woman sitting in the front pew to the left of the bride (the vivid cerise a serious mistake which she already regretted) was known to her, and unwelcome.
A less perfect silence as the man stood, stepped out of the pew, bent to lay down his hymn book and then proceeded to walk up the aisle, as leisurely as if he was strolling along some greensward on his way to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.
By now the bride and groom had turned to look, confusion on their faces, hands clasped, which he noted with regret. So they were genuinely fond of each other. Those guests stood at the end of each pew were debating the etiquette of photography under the circumstances. Those second in, part hidden, had no such qualms and an almost confetti shower of flashes followed the man down the aisle. By the time he was within ten yards of the altar those at the front had set aside manners, etiquette and any sense of decency and were making sure to capture on their mobile phones his near-expressionless but well-structured face.
The vicar, regrettably, was trying to contain his excitement. He had conducted some seven hundred weddings, all bland, all blank. This one he would remember. Enquiringly he looked at the man now stood at the left shoulder of the bride who had, with the groom, turned back to face the front again.
‘An impediment …? You know of a just cause …?’
The man nodded gravely and this time there was no doubt he was deliberately mocking ‘I do.’
‘Then perhaps … ‘ The vicar looked round. Lack of need had cause him to forget the required procedure. Was it usual to state it at the altar or should he take them into the vestry … but before he could decide the man straightened slightly and slightly more loudly said ‘The groom is my son. The bride my daughter.’
As gasps winnowed through the church, like a breeze across a cornfield he then turned his head and looked at the cerise-clad woman. ‘As for you, you brainless, selfish cow … did you not think to tell them?'
This is my response to a
challenge on Thinking Ten:
Aldeburgh on the Suffolk coast, pebble beach in black and tan and
skies of palest blue and silver-grey, the sea slip-liquid putty with
edging of crocheted lace, ever re-patterning itself. Regent Cottage
itself blood-orange brick, white paint and door matched to the sky.
Julia has rented it to allow us a family holiday close to but not
inconveniencing the family at Blacksmith’s Cottage - three small
children take up a surprising amount of space.