The Wedding

Getting married and leaving for Africa in one go

Choosing items for our wedding list seemed like a bizarre ritual, in our case, undertaken on one rainy Saturday afternoon in John Lewis.

“This cutlery or that one?” I asked browsing displays of stainless steel knives and forks that all looked the same.

Ben barely feigned interest, wandering over to a display of suitcases.

“Why not something like this case?” He asked looking at some sturdy Samsonite suitcases. “It’s got wheels. There are inside pockets and this one even has an integrated suit carrier.”

“Very handy. I’m not sure that people put things like suitcases on their wedding list though?”

“Well, let’s give it a go.”

Along with suitcases we chose towels, a food mixer and a Denby dinner service complete with mugs and serving dishes. Practical things that wouldn’t break while in transit to Tanzania.

“This plate costs five pounds! Just for one plate! Will someone really want to buy us a plate for our wedding? They’ll think it’s a rip off.”

“I know,” I said, “it seems mercenary but everyone does this. It’s how it works. Awful isn’t it?”

We circumnavigated the cut glasses with decanters, lamps and home furnishings, settling instead on towels, bed linen and a camcorder.

Days before the wedding I packed up an old tea chest with a random collection of household things including a pair of mugs, Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery book, tea towels and a cutlery tree to tide us over the first few weeks that could be sent by air.

Ben had been putting in man hours he didn’t have to get his kit-car finished while we were still working our regular jobs until right before the big day. There was a lot of stress and pressure to get everything done. When Ben arrived on my parents’ doorstep the afternoon before the wedding, I thought he was about to weep.

“I couldn’t get the kit car down here. It didn’t pass its MOT. I knew it was going to be tight but I tried everything, it just wasn’t going to work.”

It was hard to resist saying I told you so but frankly, I was glad to see him.

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.”

“I also lost my car keys, so I’m in Marcus’s car.”

“Oh God, really? Anything else?”

My father made hurried phone calls to fix up an alternative car for us to drive away in and Ben headed off to meet his parents and friends at a local pub. We had the love and support of all of our friends and family but even so, they must have thought we were mad.

The following morning my mum made scrambled eggs for breakfast at home in the kitchen, overlooking the garden and the marquee in light drizzle.

“It’s your wedding day. How do you feel?” My younger sister asked.

“Excited. I can’t believe it!” I said, unable to grasp the enormity of it all.

“And you’re really going to Africa?” She said teasingly, also a little sad.

“Yes. I guess we are going. Can’t believe that either.”

I was determined to remember every minute of the day, mindful of advice that all wedding days go too fast and the bride and groom can never remember much about it. This one was not going to slip by in a blur. In fact the day started with a wobble. I’d arranged to get wedding make-up done at a beauty shop in town. Better for the photos, I’d been told. But as the beautician caked pale foundation over my face I wasn’t sure. It felt like a mask. Making polite conversation, I moaned about the weather.

“It’s just grey out there. I hope it doesn’t rain.”

“Well what did you expect, getting married in February?” The beautician said, a little too waspishly.

“We’re moving to Africa, so there’ll be plenty of sunshine there.” I shot back.

Emerging from the salon, painted faced I wondered, was I really doing the right thing?

The wedding dress, that was made for me by a farmer’s wife, wasn’t a far cry from the designs I’d doodled as a little girl. A straight, long sleeved design with a small train in white silk. The fabric had a raised, woven flower pattern and there was a white fur trim around the sleeves and neckline with classic covered buttons all the way down the back.

My mum pulled a fine V-necked wool vest from her chest-of-drawers and insisted that I wear it. It wouldn’t show. I carried purple irises and yellow daffodils in a prematurely spring-like bouquet and the bridesmaids, Ben’s two tiny nieces, wore little navy mohair cardigans that my mum made, over cream silk dresses with a navy sashes and white, feathery Alice bands that I’d bought from Accessorize.

When everything was ready and the rest of the family had already headed to the church, the house fell silent.

“Would you like a drink?” My father asked as we stood by the front door, about to head off.

Sprigs of gypsophila were pinned in my hair and my veil was long and fine. An inspired find at a wedding hat hire shop. A small glass of sherry stood ready on the military chest waiting by the door. I downed it.

“May I have another one?” I asked.

“No.” He said. “We’d better be off.”

My mum fussed over me outside the church where the bridesmaids were waiting with their mum. Walking into the town church, packed to the rafters with friends and family, made me suddenly catch my breath. I leaned on my Dad’s arm but didn’t cry. It was good to see Ben at the end of the aisle standing by his best friend, give me a wink of encouragement as I paced slowly toward him, congregation beaming on either side. We were so lucky.

The vicar took the copy and paste format from my older sister’s wedding he’d officiated at the previous year a little far; delivering the exact same anecdote of a proposal during a fishing trip in Scotland. The fact was, we’d never been fishing, nor even been to Scotland. We got engaged on a charter plane on the way back from a cheap package to Portugal while sitting next to the loos. During the flight, Ben had taken his time to pluck up the courage, sending a previously briefed air steward back on numerous occasions, armed with a mini bottle of champagne.

“Shall I bring it now Sir?” He kept asking and Ben shooed him away.

“No, no, not yet.”

“You’re only asking me because all your friends are getting married.” I said, un-romantically when the question had been popped. It took me some time to give him an answer.

“I wanted to take you to Kenya and ask you there. But then I realised that was never going to happen. So why wait? Why not now?”

“Is that why you kept rushing to the loo when we were waiting to board? I was wondering what was wrong with you.”

“Yes! I’ve been crapping myself. Literally!” he said.

There was a smattering of applause on-board at the end of the flight when the pilot announced “congratulations to the couple who just got engaged in row thirty-two”, ramming home the slight cliche of the situation.

So when the salmon fishing proposal story was recounted in church, the congregation were confused. Ben and I giggled. My mum was in a state of fury.

“How could the vicar have got that so wrong?!” She said in disbelief.

“I never thought Ben was a fisherman.” Ben’s godfather said, shaking his head, “thought he was more in to cars?”

A quickly fading afternoon light in winter was a challenge for Gerald the photographer. Outside the church was freezing, so instead we did the group photos inside my parent’s house, herding guests in and out of the living room. Shift a bit to the left, a little to the right. The ceiling light was in the way but there was nothing we could do about that. The photographer hurried through his list with the help of Ben’s ushers; Bride’s family. Groom’s family. Ushers, bridesmaids, close friends. Gather. Disperse. Next.

“How do you feel?”

“You are really going.”

“Are you excited?”

Guests and friends asked while I sipped champagne, making the best of one-line exchanges, buoyed by a happiness that was hard to describe.

“Can’t believe we are going.”

“Very excited, yes”. I replied before being swooped off to the next person who wanted a word with the bride.

“Of course, when we lived in Malaya.” An elderly relative began.

I listened politely, glancing over his head to see my friends laughing amid a sea of faces that I didn’t know.

“I once lived in Keeenya,” Another aged guest chimed in. “just after the Mau Mau…Of course it was very different over there then.”

“Yes. But we’re going to Tanzania.” I said, “not Kenya.”

With its socialist, almost communist past, no one had stories of Tanzania.

“Come and talk to great Aunt Isabel and Aunt Francis” my mother-in-law implored, steering me toward a pair of old ladies seated in a corner, dressed in real fur. Ben and I were pulled in different directions by family wanting us to speak to their friends and politely we obliged.

“You’ll fall in love with Africa and never want to come back.” Said a kindly friend of my Mum but I wasn’t ready to think about any of this yet.

“Of course I’ll be back.” I said. “We’re only going for two years.”

After the wedding reception there was a break before a more informal evening party planned for close friends. A good device for shaking off ageing or less welcome relatives. Ben and I went to a country house hotel on the edge of town to change, then returned home to my parent’s house and back to the tent to dance to the best tunes the local DJ could muster, eat sausages and mash and try not to think about being cold. I hugged my friends and we grinned.

“You should have kept your wedding dress on!”

“I know!” I said.

Though pleased with the gold dress and jacket outfit I’d changed in to, also a little sad that the wedding dress had been cast aside too soon.

“What will Africa be like?” they asked.

“I don’t know.” I said. “I literally have no idea! Wish me luck will you?”

“Don’t tell me this is goodbye.” They said.

The evening slipped by fast and I failed to remember every minute after all. Too soon we were waving goodbye from an open topped car, that wasn’t Ben’s kit car, surrounded by a crowd assembled in the yard shouting;

“Goodbye.”

“Good luck.”

“Good riddance.”

and “We’ll miss you.”

Still buoyed by adrenaline, we left.

Back at the hotel, when Ben fell asleep, the reality of our situation hit me like a juggernaut. I began to cry stifled then wracking sobs. We were leaving. Feelings of loss that I’d pushed to one side to be tackled after the wedding, came rushing to the fore. Why was I going? Leaving friends? Family? Everybody? What the hell was I doing? Was this my dream or someone else’s?

I woke up the next morning exhausted, with a cracking headache and puffy face.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Ben asked.

“I just feel so sad. All of that saying goodbye. I’ve been crying all night.”

“Well that’s not a great sign. But don’t worry. It’ll be an adventure.” He said and I rallied.

There were muted goodbyes with Ben’s family who came over coffee at the hotel before heading home. Logistics needed to be sorted. Bags to be left here, keys to be handed over, followed by promises from family members that they would come and see us in Tanzania as soon as we were settled. The two blue Samsonite suitcases from our wedding list were already packed. My Dad kneeling on the hard shell case while I shoved in corners of disobedient clothing protruding from the sides a couple of days before.

We made an appearance in the marquee for my parents’ drinks party that they’d organised for the day after the wedding, in order to make good use of the marquee. Ben looked stiff in a new blazer and chinos. The awkward attire of a husband. An adult. My godmother Maggie grabbed my arm and gave it a squeeze.

“Good luck.” She said. “You’ll be fine.”

After more drinks and polite conversation, we finally we left for the airport but the journey was far from smooth. There was heavy traffic on the M25 outside London and the taxi nearly broke down. While sitting in traffic, smoke started seeping out from under the bonnet. The engine was clearly overheating and the driver was rattled.

“I’m not sure we’ll make it,” the driver said, “I think I’m going to have to pull onto the hard shoulder.”

“Don’t stop!” Said Ben. “Switch the heaters to high. It’ll draw the heat out from the engine bay. Works every time.” He persuaded, “Keep driving! It’s not far now mate.”

There was no plan B for missing this flight. I wound down the window to escape the blast of heated air. Traffic finally eased, the temperature gauge dropped and we were on our way but time was ticking.

“What time did you say our flight was?” I asked Ben, realising that I’d left all the honeymoon planning up to him.

He kept looking at his watch. “We’ll be fine.” He said.

The taxi drew up to the Heathrow drop off point and we fell out of the car.

“Cutting it a bit fine aren’t you? We’ve been here for hours!” Exclaimed Richard when we got inside. A welcome friendly face and one of Ben’s best friends who was waiting for us at the airport as we shambled up to Departures with far too much luggage.

Richard and his wife Clare were grinning, armed with our new camcorder. Richard been tasked with taking footage of our wedding.

“I hope the tape’s alright.” Richard said, “Clare and I watched it last night and I think that I got most of it. The tape ran out just around the first dance.”

“Did you get the speeches?” Ben asked, particularly proud of his.

“Yes, got all those.” Richard said. “With Marcus’s poster of you in the gorilla suit. I got all that.”

We hugged, said goodbye hurriedly to our friends and approached the check-in desk, handing our documents to the waiting stewardess who was wearing a grey pillbox hat with a swathe of a matching chiffon scarf that tucked under her chin. There was no queue.

“It’s our honeymoon.” Said Ben, the idea only just occurring to him that we might get some special treatment.

“If we’d known that before we would have upgraded you.” The stewardess said.

“Might an upgrade still be possible?” I asked, optimistically.

“No sorry. Business class is full. You should have let us know earlier.” Even the stewardess seemed disappointed not to be able to help. “You see, you’ve checked in quite late. We’re about to close.”

“Never mind.” I said, squeezing Ben’s hand. “It doesn’t matter.”

“We can put you in the front of economy? But I’m afraid that’s the best we can do.” She said kindly.

“That’s fine.” We answered. “Thank you.”

On the other side of passport control, once I’d bought a couple of magazines, we’d phoned home and Ben had had a quick look in Dixons, we found our gate and sat down. I looked at my wedding ring feeling excited.

“It’s going to be a long journey I’m afraid.” Ben said. “We’re changing in Abu Dhabi.”

“I know but we’re going to Zanzibar! And to live in Tanzania. I can’t believe we’re really doing this!”

“Christ, I know.”