Taking a breath, I pushed open the door. It emitted a loud, ominous creak. A woman in the back pew turned and glared fiercely at me, inadvertently whacking the young child next to her over the head with a wreath of plastic grapes on her hat. I assumed she was the mother of the bride; they shared the same build.
As inconspicuously as possible, I crept down the aisles, crouched double, desperately scanning the lofty hall for an empty seat, while the guests stared at me with looks of mild indignation. Even the bride and groom turned to look. The vicar looked offended. I was tainting the Lord’s graciousness. Only the organ player carried on with unceasing determination. I doubted the unwanted attention was fully from me turning up late, but also because I was the foreigner, invited to the wedding out of the kindness of the couple’s hearts so I could study English culture. I was showing them up.
To my uttermost relief, I spotted an empty space, right at the other side of the room. I shuffled down the row to the end, muttering apologies as the entire row had to stand up allowing me access.
I reached my seat and sat down next to a young man with a chubby, boyish face and a bottle of half-empty champagne partly concealed in his lap. His cheeks were rather flushed. He turned and grinned roguishly at me. I averted my eyes and stared determinedly at the bride and groom. The bride’s cheeks looked as if they had been rouged with red paint. The organ had just finished playing, and the vicar was shuffling some papers.
“We are gathered here today…”
The speech continued. I pretended not to notice the man next to me sneaking swigs from his bottle. His face grew steadily pinker and pinker. I tried to concentrate on the vows. I contemplated taking notes, but that could be considered irreverent.
“If anyone here knows of any impediment why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony,” continued the vicar, “may he speak now.”
For a second there was silence, then the man next to me lurched suddenly to his feet, champagne bottle still in his hand. Foam spewed from the top and showed down on me like very damp confetti. The guests instantly began muttering. One voice from the back cried, “Look at that man!” Somebody shrieked with gleeful horror. The man’s face was now positively peony. He had an slightly insane gleam in his eyes.
“Gillian,” he cried. “I love you.” He hiccuped loudly.
*
The best man escorted him from the church for a lie down. The ceremony was on hold. Everywhere there was anxious muttering and ill-disguised excitement. It turned out the man was the bride’s brother-in-law. A woman sitting in front of me turned and knowingly informed me there was a nutter in every family. Two in her own.
The bride looked shaken. The groom was consolingly patting her on her hip; he couldn’t reach her shoulder. The organ player started up again, a melancholy tune which I later learned was called ‘Spring is Here’. The guests were pacified.
After a long delay, the best man returned, without the brother-in-law, and the ceremony began once more. The vicar glared at everyone, as if daring another interruption. Thankfully, there was none, and the vows were made. The bride’s mother was sobbing uncontrollably into a pink hankie. Everyone rose for a hymn. Unfamiliar with the tune and the words I stood silently, feeling foolish, while the woman in front of me boomed out the verses with gusto, deafening those around her. I hummed a bit.
After the ceremony, we all congregated in the Royal Crescent Hotel for dinner, followed by a disco. I shuffled along in the queue, eyeing the dishes. One dish in particular, a huge vat of fish eggs, seemed to be very popular. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I helped myself to a spoonful. It sat quivering on my plate like lumpy black jelly.
There was a seating plan; I was placed next to the bride’s father. He was very talkative and not one to be deterred.
“Have you tried the caviar?” he asked, indicating to the black slime on my plate. “It’s good. A delicacy. Try it, try it.”
He stared at me intently while I slowly raised a forkful of the stuff to my mouth, where I paused, unable to bring myself to shovel the black goo into my mouth. I shouldn’t have. It allowed the fishy aroma to get up my nose. Nearly gagging, I forced it into my mouth. I chewed. It had the consistency of frogspawn. I fixed my mouth into a tight smile.
“Delicious,” I said thickly, as it bubbled around in my mouth like cold gum.
His face broke into a delighted smile. “I knew you’d like it,” he beamed. “Here, try this too. A Scottish dish, you know. It’s called haggis.”
*
After the meal, it was time for the disco in the adjoining room. Discos were new for me. We didn’t have such things in Mongolia. I secretly suspected it would be rather fun. I did worry a bit about my dancing technique; when I dance people tend to anxiously ask me if I’m having a seizure; but after a few tipples at the buffet table I felt well prepared.
As I entered the disco I was momentarily blinded by the flashing strobe lights. A smoke machine was billowing out huge clouds which further impaired my vision. The music throbbed through the room. I thought I felt one of my eardrums rupture. On a normal day I would have hurriedly left, but the drinks had done their bit. I searched the room looking for a suitable dance partner. Then I noticed there seemed to be only two age groups hitting the dance floor: the pre-teens and the pensioners.
The youngsters were tearing about the room, screaming happily, and swinging one another round by their arms. One young lad made the mistake of letting go whilst engaging in this activity, and went spinning off into a cluster of middle-aged women drinking martinis, who squawked with alarm and flapped their arms. One fell over.
The grandparents’ style of dancing was more serene but still rather inappropriate. Most of them were waltzing round the room while the heavy metal thundered in the background. A few couples were tangoing. They were all croaking in delight.
I fitted in neither age group. I therefore could not dance. Feeling a bit disappointed, I headed for the sidelines. Suddenly there was a commotion. A scuffle by the smoke machine. I could make out two shadowy figures through the fog. One seemed to be lunging for the other’s ankles. He managed to scramble free and sprinted, albeit in an unusually wobbly fashion, down the room. As he emerged from the fog, I recognised him as the bride’s brother-in-law. His hair was wild, his shirt untucked and his jacket was hanging off one shoulder. He seemed in a state of frenzied jubilation. I wondered briefly how he’d managed to get back into the wedding. Then he caught my eye. I quickly looked away. Not quickly enough. Recognition dawned. His face lit up. He bounced over to me.
“Hello,” he said. “I remember you. Would you care to dance?”
Somebody dived at him from behind with a primal roar, knocking him forward. It was the vicar. They both crashed headfirst into a table of sweetmeats. Food splattered those nearby. The candle toppled off the table and instantly set ablaze to the curtains. Several people screamed. One man whipped off his jacket and started hitting at the flames with it. It was not long before the jacket was ablaze. Uproar followed. There was a mad rush for the doors.
The bride’s mother, screeching like a banshee, tripped over a chair and was trampled by a hoard of screaming women. The best man was doing a mad dance, batting at his tie which was wreathed in flames. His wife yanked madly at it, shrieking insanely, while he choked and spluttered as it got steadily tightly and tighter. Eventually somebody emptied a pitcher of orange squash over his head, and he stood dripping and bedraggled but no longer on fire.
Somebody was shoving me towards the exit. I felt maybe I shouldn’t have had so many drinks. I was just in time to see a portrait of Queen Victoria burst in flames before I toppled out of the door onto the wet grass.
The heavy metal could still be heard booming from inside. I was lying face down on the ground. I breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of damp peat and grass. I watched with interest as a ladybird scuttled past my eye. I’d never seen one in such close proximity.
There was the whining siren of a fire engine approaching. I wondered vaguely if all English weddings were this much fun.
