The tall young man at the back of the church stands with an air of complete assurance, his height lending elegance to his simple grey lounge suit. His hair has a natural curl, cut short and neat, his face a pleasing mix of even featured attractiveness and authority. He scans the interior, walks with swift, long strides up the aisle to the altar where he confers with an obese man, shabbily dressed in faded black sweatpants and crew neck sweatshirt, his hair and beard greasy. This enormous man is pale, his skin the sickly hue of a corpse beside the pink faced young man beside him and, when the exchange is over, he moves away, slowly pushing the bulk of his stomach ahead of him, breathing with difficulty.
The young man hurries to the back of the church, gives instructions to a pre-pubescent boy, and walks forward to stand beside a fidgety dark haired young man in the front pew. The boy gathers up the orders of service, placing one on each seat and the two men stand together, their backs now to the door. They exchange concerned looks as the dark haired man rummages around in his jacket pocket, perhaps for the third time, and brings out the ring box.
Behind them the congregation gather. No-one is comfortable in their clothes; the elderly seem fragile and weary, the young are bright-eyed and whispering, pulling at their straps and hemlines, some men have the shaven stubble heads of Victorian melodrama convicts, some women display wide and deep chest flesh; thighs gleam below micro skirts and one middle-aged woman’s great slab back strains the seams of her plunge-backed, cream and black, too-tight dress.
The choir is singing now and the attractive long-legged young man swings round a couple of times to glance at the wide-open doors.
The choir finish; the organist pulls out all the stops and waits. There is silence. The empty doorway gapes.
The sound of light feet, and laughter, a swirl of blue, another, another. Hair flying in the breeze, flowers and ribbons flash colour; the bridesmaids run past the open doors in the sunlight. A noiseless, sleek black limousine stops.
The enormous man steps out of the vestry, his bulk now covered with golden-brocade. He promenades down the aisle, fills the doorway, speaks to the bride and her father at length, both invisible beneath his vastness. The congregation shuffle in their seats and he returns up the aisle to stand ready to officiate, his too-long hair slicked down against his neck.
The organ blasts. The bride enters the church, her strapless dress tight against her tiny frame, her shoulders burnt Indian brown, and her hair ebony-dyed. She draws close to her fiancé, trembling a little on her high heels, and turns to her bridesmaids. She does not look at her groom, the now solemn-faced tall young man. She is still attentive to her bridesmaids and he glances at the long hem of her dress, kicking aside the train so he can stand closer to her. He stares straight ahead at the priest; he is ready.
She straightens, hands now free of flowers, her face a mask beneath stage make-up. They do not look at one another as the priest begins his reading, intent on their individual discomfort in their unfamiliar clothes, the unfamiliar place and the uniqueness of their situation, this experience they will have only once.
They stand together, their futures stretching out before them, expectant of gravity, wise words and guidance but instead the priest addresses the congregation, over their heads. It is as if the lovers are not there. He tells a story about performing his first wedding as a young, lightweight curate and the ill effects of flash photography on his eyes, blinding him to the rest of the proceedings. As if he is not blind now. He follows this with another rambling request to turn off mobile ‘phones. The couple wait. In this great moment of their lives, when they have come together, to stand before their God, their families and their friends, the great moment of magic and majesty has fled from the tedium of the slobbish priest's soulless inanities.
The priest reads. The matron of honour reads, speaking chosen words to her two friends, beginning to draw the focus back. The choir sings ‘Down In The River To Pray,’ the harmonies blend and, when the gospel song is almost over, the groom’s throat is moving up and down as though he might choke and, as the choir take their seats, his eyes burn red.
Their hands now joined, and placed on the satin cushion, the tall self-assured young man now steadies himself before his bride, shaking one leg as though he has a cramp in his calf. He straightens and answers, “I will.”
The priest asks him to repeat:
“With my body I honour you.”
The groom looks at her and vows it will be so in a voice that has gaps in it.
The pries dictates: ‘All that I am I give to you.’
Silence.
The priest bends his head towards the young man and gently repeats, ‘All that I am I give to you,’
“I know. I know.” The groom shakes his leg again and straightens up, but he is tense. “All that I am I give to you.” A sob in his voice interrupts the phrase.
He looks into her eyes again and now they share a smile, “And all that I have I share with you,”
It’s easier now.
“Within the love of God,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”
When she makes her vows to him, she stares up into his eyes, holding his gaze in hers, her brown eyes huge and dark with intensity and meaning. They hold this look between them that only they can share, this look that travels deeper than flesh, deeper than the knowledge they have of each other and deep into that place which we think we have forgotten but which we know so well; it is home.
The young man hurries to the back of the church, gives instructions to a pre-pubescent boy, and walks forward to stand beside a fidgety dark haired young man in the front pew. The boy gathers up the orders of service, placing one on each seat and the two men stand together, their backs now to the door. They exchange concerned looks as the dark haired man rummages around in his jacket pocket, perhaps for the third time, and brings out the ring box.
Behind them the congregation gather. No-one is comfortable in their clothes; the elderly seem fragile and weary, the young are bright-eyed and whispering, pulling at their straps and hemlines, some men have the shaven stubble heads of Victorian melodrama convicts, some women display wide and deep chest flesh; thighs gleam below micro skirts and one middle-aged woman’s great slab back strains the seams of her plunge-backed, cream and black, too-tight dress.
The choir is singing now and the attractive long-legged young man swings round a couple of times to glance at the wide-open doors.
The choir finish; the organist pulls out all the stops and waits. There is silence. The empty doorway gapes.
The sound of light feet, and laughter, a swirl of blue, another, another. Hair flying in the breeze, flowers and ribbons flash colour; the bridesmaids run past the open doors in the sunlight. A noiseless, sleek black limousine stops.
The enormous man steps out of the vestry, his bulk now covered with golden-brocade. He promenades down the aisle, fills the doorway, speaks to the bride and her father at length, both invisible beneath his vastness. The congregation shuffle in their seats and he returns up the aisle to stand ready to officiate, his too-long hair slicked down against his neck.
The organ blasts. The bride enters the church, her strapless dress tight against her tiny frame, her shoulders burnt Indian brown, and her hair ebony-dyed. She draws close to her fiancé, trembling a little on her high heels, and turns to her bridesmaids. She does not look at her groom, the now solemn-faced tall young man. She is still attentive to her bridesmaids and he glances at the long hem of her dress, kicking aside the train so he can stand closer to her. He stares straight ahead at the priest; he is ready.
She straightens, hands now free of flowers, her face a mask beneath stage make-up. They do not look at one another as the priest begins his reading, intent on their individual discomfort in their unfamiliar clothes, the unfamiliar place and the uniqueness of their situation, this experience they will have only once.
They stand together, their futures stretching out before them, expectant of gravity, wise words and guidance but instead the priest addresses the congregation, over their heads. It is as if the lovers are not there. He tells a story about performing his first wedding as a young, lightweight curate and the ill effects of flash photography on his eyes, blinding him to the rest of the proceedings. As if he is not blind now. He follows this with another rambling request to turn off mobile ‘phones. The couple wait. In this great moment of their lives, when they have come together, to stand before their God, their families and their friends, the great moment of magic and majesty has fled from the tedium of the slobbish priest's soulless inanities.
The priest reads. The matron of honour reads, speaking chosen words to her two friends, beginning to draw the focus back. The choir sings ‘Down In The River To Pray,’ the harmonies blend and, when the gospel song is almost over, the groom’s throat is moving up and down as though he might choke and, as the choir take their seats, his eyes burn red.
Their hands now joined, and placed on the satin cushion, the tall self-assured young man now steadies himself before his bride, shaking one leg as though he has a cramp in his calf. He straightens and answers, “I will.”
The priest asks him to repeat:
“With my body I honour you.”
The groom looks at her and vows it will be so in a voice that has gaps in it.
The pries dictates: ‘All that I am I give to you.’
Silence.
The priest bends his head towards the young man and gently repeats, ‘All that I am I give to you,’
“I know. I know.” The groom shakes his leg again and straightens up, but he is tense. “All that I am I give to you.” A sob in his voice interrupts the phrase.
He looks into her eyes again and now they share a smile, “And all that I have I share with you,”
It’s easier now.
“Within the love of God,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”
When she makes her vows to him, she stares up into his eyes, holding his gaze in hers, her brown eyes huge and dark with intensity and meaning. They hold this look between them that only they can share, this look that travels deeper than flesh, deeper than the knowledge they have of each other and deep into that place which we think we have forgotten but which we know so well; it is home.
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