‘Maurice, Judith,’ smiles John Rudkin at the church door in his morning suit -
Bill’s Boy.
‘Where you hid Anthea?’ asks the wife.
‘Bottom of Winscar Reservoir,’ Rudkin laughs -
Laughs like he wishes it were true.
I say: ‘Which way to cheap seats, John?’
‘Anywhere on the right, but first two are for family.’
‘And what are we?’
He looks confused -
‘Just pulling your leg, Sergeant,’ I say. ‘Just pulling your leg.’
‘Isn’t he awful,’ says the wife. ‘You see what we have to put up with?’
He smiles -
A smile like he wishes us both dead.
I nod at another man in morning dress on the other side of the church. I ask: ‘That Bob’s brother, is it?’
Rudkin shakes his head. He says in a low voice: ‘Not got any family, has Bob.’
‘You’re joking?’ says Judith, her purple glove up over her red lipstick.
‘Mam died couple of years ago.’
I say: ‘His side of church is going to be a bit on thin side then.’
‘Boss filled it out with a lot of blokes Bob trained with and I reckon most of Morley station must be here.’
‘That’s all right then,’ says Judith.
‘See you later,’ I say and turn to my children. ‘Come on.’
We walk down the aisle, nodding to Walter Heywood and his wife -
Ronald Angus and his -
They’re all here:
Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice shaking my hand -
Bob Craven not.
All here but one:
No George -
George still over in Rochdale, over where I want to be.
I hear my name again. I turn round:
Don Foster and his wife, John Dawson and his -
Big smiles and waves and they’ll talk to us later.
In our middle pew, Judith says: ‘That’s John Dawson, isn’t it?’
I nod, thinking:
Other people.
‘You never told me you knew John Dawson.’
‘I don’t.’
But she says: ‘You should see that house…’
(Inside a thousand voices cry) -
Then Clare whispers to her mother: ‘How did they meet?’
Judith looks at me. She says: ‘I’m not sure.’
‘What?’ I say.
‘How did they meet?’ sighs Clare, wincing.
I say: ‘Louise and Bob?’
‘No,’ she sneers. ‘Queen and Prince Philip.’
‘Bob’s a policeman, and -’
‘I don’t want to marry a policeman,’ she spits.
‘Clare,’ says my wife. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that.’
Me -
Her father, I say nothing.
So she says again, louder: ‘I’ll never marry a policeman.’
I look away at Robert Fraser -
Bob Fraser standing at the front of the church, the vicar in front of him, his best man at his side.
I don’t recognise the best man -
Not a policeman -
Not one of us.
The meandering tinkling from the organist stops. He hits all his keys at once and we all stand as Here Comes the Bride starts, turning round to see her -
The Bride -
Beautiful in white, her father at her side -
(Beautiful as the moon, as terrible as the night) -
Proud as punch in his morning dress -
The greys of his suit matching the streak that got him his name, the black his eyes.
Then it’s on with the show -
The celebration -
The hymns:
Lead us Heavenly Father, lead us;
Oh, Perfect Love;
Love Divine.
The readings -
The readings that say -
That say words like:
For the body is not one member, but many.
If the foot shall say, Because I am not the hand, I am not the body; is it therefore not of the body?
And if the ear shall say, Because I am not the eye, I am not of the body; is it therefore not of the body?
If the whole body were an eye, where were the hearing? If the whole were hearing, where were the smelling?
But now hath God set the members every one of them in the body, as it hath pleased him.
And if they were all one member, where were the body?
But now there are many members, yet but one body.
And the eye cannot say unto the hand, I have no need for thee; nor again the head to the feet, I have no need of you.
Nay, much more those members of the body, which seem to be more feeble, are necessary:
And those members of the body which we think to be less honourable, upon these we bestow abundant honour; and our uncomely parts have more abundant comeliness.
For our comely parts have no need; but God hath tempered the body together, having given more abundant honour to that part which lacked;
That there should be no schism in the body; but that the members should have the same care one for another.
And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it.
Now ye are the body of Christ, and members in particular.
I look at my family beside me in the pew -
Paul eyes closed while Judith and Clare dab theirs as Mendelssohn strikes up.
Outside in the churchyard, the groups of coppers gather around their cigarettes again -
The girlfriends and wives off to the side, battling to keep their skirts down in the wind, bitching about the older folk, their kids tugging at their hems and their sleeves, their eager handfuls of confetti slipping through their tiny fingers -
The photographer desperately trying to corral us -
A black Austin Princess sat waiting to take the newlyweds away from all this.
‘He did invite the whole force, didn’t he?’ Judith laughs -
Laughs to herself.
I can see George -
George Oldman stood at the gates with his wife, his son and two daughters.
He sees me coming.
I shake his hand and nod to his wife. ‘George, Lillian.’
‘Maurice,’ he replies, his wife smiling then not.
‘Thought you weren’t going to make it?’
‘He nearly didn’t,’ says his wife with a squeeze on his arm.
‘Any luck?’
He shakes his head. He looks away. I leave it -
Leave them to it:
George, his wife, his son and two daughters.
‘Group shot, please,’ the photographer pleads as the sun comes out at long last, shining feebly through the trees and the gravestones.
I walk back over to pose with my wife, my son and daughter.
Clare asks: ‘Can we go home now?’
‘There’s the reception next, love,’ smiles her mum. ‘Be a lovely do, I bet.’
Paul whispers something to Clare. They both smile -
They are fifteen and thirteen and they pity their mother.
‘Family for the last time,’ shouts the photographer.
Judith looks from the kids to me, adjusting her hat with a shrug and smile -
We are forty-five and forty-two and we hate -
Just hate:
Married seventeen years ago this August at this church, so they say.
We drive in silence down into Dewsbury and up through Ravensthorpe to the outskirts of Mirfield, silence until Clare reminds us that Charlotte next door, her family have a car radio and her dad is only a teacher and, according to Paul, everyone at the Grammar School has a radio in their car and we must be the only family in the whole bloody world that doesn’t.
‘Don’t use that word, please, Paul,’ says his mother, turning round.
‘Which word?’
‘You know very well which word.’
‘Why not?’ asks Clare. ‘Dad says it all the time.’