1983

‘I’ll lock up,’ nods the wife, pushing the children towards the door.

I go out. I open up the garage. I drive the car out, the family car -

The Triumph Estate.

I get back out. I lock the garage door.

‘It’s open,’ I tell the wife and kids as they stand around the car wishing we were all somewhere else -

Someone else -

Other people.

We get in the family car.

Clare asks me to put the radio on.

‘We haven’t got one,’ I reply.

She slouches down in the back. Paul whispers something to her. They both smile.

They are fifteen and thirteen and they hate me.

I glance in the rearview mirror. I say: ‘Leeds have got Arsenal today, haven’t they?’

Paul shrugs. Clare whispers something to him. They both smile again.

They are fifteen and thirteen and I hate them and I love them.

My wife Judith says: ‘Hope they get a bit of sun for the photos.’

And her -

I hate her -

Hate her in her hat too big for the car.

Ossett Parish Church has the tallest steeple in Yorkshire, so they say. It stands black and tall for all to see, across the golf courses and the fields of rape and rhubarb.

We park in its shadow on Church Street, Ossett -

The whole road lined with cars in both directions.

‘Big wedding,’ says Judith.

No-one says a word.

We get out and walk down the road and into the churchyard where groups of coppers are gathered around their cigarettes in their court suits -

Girlfriends and wives all off to the side, battling to keep their hats on in the wind, talking to the older folk, ignoring their kids.

‘He invite the whole force, did he?’ laughs Judith.

I lead the way through the men and their greetings, dragging the wife and kids along -

‘Sir,’ says one.

‘Inspector,’ says another.

‘Mr Jobson.’

‘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 -