Chapter 10: Being a Bride – Memorable for all the Wrong Reasons

My wedding day was one of the most disappointing days of my life.

I was 24 when I got married. This is young by today’s standards. In 1972, I considered that I was very late to the party. Nearly all my friends were married or in relationships and had been through numerous boyfriends, beginning when they were about 13 years old. I had only had one boyfriend for a few months in my last year in college and I had never had sex.

The thought of my wedding day had occupied my mind from when I was a teenager. I knew I didn’t want a veil, although I suspect that was because I knew that my mother would want me to have one. Being a child of the 60s, although the free love and abundant sex and drugs had passed me by, the long flowing skirts and permed hair hadn’t. I had an image of what I would look like on my wedding day. I would be wearing a long cotton cheese-cloth dress, the kind you used to be able to buy at Laura Ashley (well known in the UK for her flowing cotton dresses) and would have flowers in my hair. We would be at a small chapel in the countryside with only a few people there, no official photographer and everyone would be off to the Chinese afterwards. Non-traditional and informal. I had been telling my mother and father about this for years so it should not have been a surprise to them when I announced it.

I guess they had already been surprised, not to say shocked, when I announced that I was getting married to Martin. I had met Martin in the school where I was teaching and where he came to do a term of supply teaching. We met in January 1972 and, three weeks later, we decided to get married, which we did five months later. I’m sure there were people, including my parents, who thought I must be pregnant. They were disappointed it was seven years before we had Emily.

Most people thought I had been swept off my feet and was head over heels in love – I hadn’t, and I wasn’t.

I was in love with the fact that I was going to be married and have a husband. He was the only man I had had sex with and the first time was on the floor at my brother’s house – a fumbling, speedy affair – not at all like I had imagined it would be.

But as time was running out (I thought) and Martin and I got on really well and as I was desperate to leave home, it seemed like a good idea. There was no proposal and no engagement ring. Martin went off to Greece in May for a pre-arranged holiday with his best friend. They had been planning this trip for two years and his friend Kevin had saved two years of holidays so they could take this four-week trip. I insisted Martin still went as it seemed to me it would be most unethical to let Kevin down just because he was marrying me. Besides, we had a lifetime ahead of us. So, I was left to make the arrangements. Well, that couldn’t be too difficult, could it, given the simple wedding I wanted?

First of all, the church. I refused to get married in my local Catholic church. I couldn’t stand the parish priest and didn’t much like the church itself. But I did want a Catholic wedding (at least my mother could be happy with that!). So, faced with the fact that there were no Catholic chapels in the countryside I would be able to use, I arranged that we would be married in the church near Martin’s parents that I used to attend if I was staying at his house. It was small and modern, with lots of wood and it was in the round. The priest was lovely.

Next, the date. We announced that we would get married on Thursday August 10.

We chose a Thursday because we didn’t really want anyone there and we thought people wouldn’t take a day off work. We were wrong. They all came, as did many people who weren’t invited to the reception but came to the church anyway. One of my brothers, John, who had been engaged to Wendy for some time, suddenly announced that they too would be getting married three weeks before us. I didn’t care one bit about this, but it turns out I should have cared a lot more! John and Wendy were getting married in the local Catholic church and their reception was a buffet at the local cricket club, where my father was something of a local hero. In terms of the buffet – think ham sandwiches, sausage rolls, crisps, trifle and wedding cake. This was typical for the time but spoke boredom to me from every plate. They were also going to have aunts and uncles who we hardly knew, also traditional.

I refused to budge on the choice of church and had a big row with my parents about the reception and guests.

I wanted to be different and didn’t want to be traditional.

My mother felt that all the relatives who were coming to John’s wedding had to come to mine because the invitations to my wedding would come from my parents, and she couldn’t possibly snub them all. And there was nothing wrong with Farnworth Cricket Club. I reminded her that I had been telling them for years what kind of wedding I wanted.

“Well, we didn’t believe that daft idea,” was her dismissive response.

My father was mostly silent during this row between my mother and myself until I raised my voice and said, “Well, suppose I say they’re not coming!”

At which point my father said, “Well, suppose I say that I’m not coming to your wedding.”

Yes, he really shouted that.

I burst into tears and ran upstairs. My father followed me and came into my bedroom, where I was sobbing and leaning against the bed.

“What you have to remember,” he said, “Is that you are going to be married and leave here. I’ll be left here with your mother.” Enter stage left – emotional blackmail.

Completely outraged, I drove to my other brother’s house and ranted and raved at Daniel. I said I wasn’t giving in to them because I was right. I was an adult and it was my decision.

Daniel looked at me as he handed me some coffee, “You will give into her simply because you are right.”

I paused to take in this statement. “How does that work?” I said.

“Because you can see her point of view and there is a cat in Hell’s chance of her seeing yours. So, you will have to be the one to give in.”

It was the only pearl of wisdom I heard from him in his whole life.

I conceded. I would allow these people I didn’t even know to come to my wedding, but I was determined that it would not be a buffet at Farnworth Cricket Club. Instead, Martin and I found a really nice hotel/ restaurant in the countryside and got an estimate for a three-course meal for about 80 people.

If I had to have people there I didn’t know, I would ensure that I wouldn’t have to go round chatting to them.

We would have a very nice sit-down meal. It was not cheap. If I couldn’t have ‘informal’, I would have formal and expensive. I gave the estimate to my father. He looked at it for a long time then walked out of the room. I don’t think he spoke for about a week! It was only the second time in my life I had seen him speechless. The first time was when I crashed his car, with him in it, when he was teaching me to drive. I don’t think he spoke for three weeks that time!

The church was fine, the meal was going to be okay. Now, the dress. I had seen the dress I wanted on a girl at a party. It was white, cotton and long, with a white embroidered pattern in it. It was exactly what I wanted. I managed to track the girl down through multiple enquires and phoned her to ask her where she got the dress. It was, indeed, a Laura Ashley dress. The nearest Laura Ashley shop was almost two hours’ drive away, so I phoned them. I had the make and size. Yes, they had one in stock. No, they wouldn’t let me send them a cheque and post it to me. No, they wouldn’t keep it for me. I drove there the next day but they had sold it. I had to find something else and went shopping with my bridesmaid (I was still angry at my mother and refused to let her be involved in any aspect of my personal preparations, thus depriving her of her dream wedding of her only daughter – not something I am hugely proud of now). I chose a cream dress with enormous puff sleeves. It needed altering but I subsequently decided I hated it anyway. I cancelled my order. The wedding day was approaching and I still had no dress so, finally, on my own, I bought the only wedding dress I will ever have. White, little angel sleeves, waisted, round neck, completely plain with a chiffon overlay and a frill round the bottom which was slightly shorter at the front than the back. Not at all the sort of dress that I liked or have ever worn since! But I had to have something.

Next, the headdress.

My flowers-in-my-hair idea wouldn’t work at all with the dress I now had, so I decided to wear a hat.

What was I thinking? I never wear hats. They don’t suit me. In fact, I look ridiculous in them, borne out by my daughters years later who used to insist we visit the hat departments in stores if we were out shopping so I could try on hats and they could laugh. But if it wasn’t going to be a veil or flowers in my hair it was going to have to be a hat. I chose a white hat with a dome and a wide brim which curled all the way round made of whatever you make hats out of and a chiffon overlay. It looked awful. Of course, on my wedding day everyone said it looked lovely, but they would say that wouldn’t they? Martin wore a brown suit. He never wore suits, so we both looked ungainly and slightly ridiculous on our wedding day which was the only one either of us ever had.

My vision of how I would look on my wedding day was now tarnished and distorted. I thought I could rescue some of it with the flowers. I wanted to hold a simple basket with wild flowers and ferns spilling out of it and hanging down. I visited the local florist and told her what I wanted and took my hat and asked if she could put some of the flowers on the hat as well. I went to collect the hat and flowers on the morning of my wedding. The basket was small with a very long handle. Standing up in the basket was a stiff card covered with silver foil which was about 12 inches high. Stuck onto the front of the foil were individual carnations in dyed, crazy, unnatural colours. I looked at it in horror. It was colourful that’s for sure, just not at all what I intended.

All my girlhood dreams about my wedding day were now shattered.

On my way to the church in the car with my father we both sat in silence. The only thing I could hear was a voice in my head, “It’s not too late. You can stop this right now. Your father can tell them at the church. Yes, they will be upset but, as you’ve said, you will only ever get married once in your life. Do you want this to be it? Better end it now, rather than later. And your father doesn’t like him very much anyway. You’re not in love with this man. He is nothing like the ideal man you had imagined for yourself. He isn’t romantic in the least. He’s anti-Catholic. He is aloof and honest to the point of being insulting. Stop the car now. Now!”

I didn’t stop the car. There was a smaller voice coming from my heart and whispering in my ear very slowly, “You are supposed to be with this man.”

So, I married him.

The Church wedding service was as expected, there’s not a lot you can do to ruin that. As Martin and I walked out of the church, our four parents followed us to kiss and hug us and offer their congratulations. My mother cried. I expected that. Martin’s mother didn’t cry. I expected that, too. Martin’s father cried. I expected that. Then my father hugged me tightly and started sobbing into my shoulder and wouldn’t let go. I had not expected that. It was only the third time in my life I had ever seen my father cry. This emotional, wordless outpouring was more than I could bear and I insisted on driving straight to the reception and said we could take photos there. And so, all the people who had taken a day off work to come and wish me well, came out of the church to find that there was no bride and no groom. It was only when I saw friends’ photos later and saw the people who had bothered to come to the church, who I hadn’t seen at all, that I felt bad. I assume that the meal was fine because it is completely unmemorable.

I went upstairs to change into my going-away outfit, which consisted of a maroon mini skirt which was extremely short (to be fair, my legs were my best physical attribute). The skirt waved at the bottom with a broderie anglaise trim round the bottom edge. There was a matching maroon top with short sleeves and a similar trim round all the edges and down the front of it. Underneath this was a white frilly blouse with huge sleeves which billowed out from the short sleeves and had a big, fussy frill all the way down the front of it. At the time, I thought I looked great, even though I actually looked like a glamour girl who had burst out of a Christmas cracker – all sparking and overdressed – teetering about on platform shoes that she could hardly walk in. Martin changed into his trademark jeans and went to get the car, which he had hidden in a garage round the corner, asking the owner to stop anyone from ‘decorating’ it.

I stayed at the venue, drinking wine and waiting to be driven off into the sunset for my honeymoon. Surely this part of the dream would come true!

My brother Daniel came into the room where I was packing my things. He was serious and slightly pale. He told me to sit down and said, “Martin has been bitten by a dog.”

I laughed, “Don’t be ridiculous!”

He took me to the window and, sure enough, there was Martin sitting in the passenger seat holding his leg up with blood running down it. Our guests were starting to gather round. Apparently, the garage owner, had put a chained dog to guard the car. Our friends were in the office trying to persuade him to take the dog off when Martin walked up to the car holding his wedding suit. They shouted and waved to Martin to tell him to keep away but he just waved back. As he tried to open the car, the dog came tearing round the car and bit his leg cleanly, in and out. Luckily, it didn’t bite and tear or the damage would have been much worse.

So, instead of being driven away on my romantic honeymoon, the first stop was the emergency department at the hospital to treat Martin’s leg.

The next stop was my parents’ house for me to change my clothes. When I had gone out to pack the car, I had gathered up Martin’s wedding suit, which he had dropped in oil at the garage. Martin hadn’t noticed and I didn’t realise until I saw that the frill on my whole blouse and my top were now covered with black oil. My going away outfit was as ruined, as my wedding day was turning out to be.

It was approaching 10pm when we reached Hereford, where we were spending our honeymoon night, and the light was fading fast. We tried a number of places which were full, including the biggest hotel, which we decided to splash out on but, unfortunately, there was a big conference and all the rooms were taken.

We finally found a pub/ restaurant which had some bedrooms. Martin hobbled in and then came back to the door and beckoned me in. I followed him in, shedding confetti at every step, to the amusement of the men sitting sniggering at the bar. The landlord went ahead of us, up the stairs, followed by Martin.

Halfway up the stairs, Martin turned round and quietly said to me, “It’s single beds.”

I stopped dead on the stairs, “I’m not sleeping in single beds on my wedding night!”

“It will be okay.”

The landlord ahead turned round. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” said Martin, “We’re just coming.”

I repeated, “I’m not sleeping in single beds on my wedding night.”

“We’ll push them together, it will be fine.”

“Yes, we’re just coming,” Martin said to the landlord, who had stopped to ask us again if everything was okay.

We got to the room and the landlord opened the door. I peered round Martin to look. There were two single beds right enough, with a floor to ceiling wardrobe in between them. My mouth dropped open.

“Thanks very much,” said Martin. “That’s fine.”

I was tired and dejected. The last of my dreams was disappearing before my eyes.

“Well, let’s just go downstairs and eat,” I said. I suddenly realised how hungry I was.

The landlord looked at his watch, “Oh, we’ve just stopped serving,” he said.

“Okay,” I snapped. “Then we’ll go out and eat.”

The landlord thought for a minute and said, “Okay, I’ll wait up for you.”

We hobbled down the street, Martin trying to cheer me up, saying things like, “You’ve got to admit, it’s funny.”

I was trying not to cry, saying, “I dare say in time I might see the amusing side to this but right now I can’t.” Everywhere was shut, except the local Chinese restaurant. We had to painstakingly climb three flights of stairs and eat our wedding night meal in a near empty restaurant where the only occupants were local drunks who were bending over their plates as they shovelled food into their slavering mouths.

Well, I guess I got my Chinese meal…

Now, I can see my pattern of having expectations which ultimately end up causing me pain and which could have been avoided. Certainly, I had expectations about my wedding day which were probably based on romantic teenage magazine fantasies. I had expectations about my mother and father, probably based on stories of happy families I must have read growing up. I had expectations about my husband and my marriage – all unmet and increasingly painful to recognise. My head knows that all emotional pain is caused by expectations not met. Yet my heart constantly leads me astray and I am driven by desires.

My wedding day stories are funny now and it might have been that this early catalogue of evidence about expectations causing pain could have been a wake-up call to save me from future pain. But it wasn’t – and it didn’t.

Photo

My wedding dress and hat!

Questions For Reflections

What childhood dreams did you have about your life that never came true? What expectations do you have of the person you are in relationship with? How important is ‘being in love’ to you in an intimate relationship?

A Blessing While You Reflect

“May you have the courage to listen to the voice of desire

That disturbs you when you have settled for something safe

May you have the wisdom to enter generously into your own unease

To discover the new direction your longing wants you to take”

From John O’Donohue: Benedictus