1983

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.’

‘No, he doesn’t.’

‘Yes, he does,’ shouts Paul. ‘And worse.’

‘Well, your father is an adult,’ says Judith -

‘A policeman,’ spits Clare.

‘We’re here,’ I say.

The Marmaville Club:

Posh mill brass house turned Country Club-cum-pub, favoured by the Masons -

Favoured by Bill Molloy.

I get Judith a white wine. I leave her with the kids and the other wives and theirs. I head back to the bar -

‘Don’t forget you’re driving,’ shouts Judith and I laugh -

Laugh like I wish she was dead.

At the bar, a whiskey in my hand, there’s a hand at my elbow -

‘Isn’t that a Mick drink?’

I turn round:

Jack -

Jack bloody Whitehead.

‘What?’ grins Jack. ‘Didn’t think the Chief Superintendent would stoop to inviting scum like me?’

‘No,’ I say, looking around the room. ‘Not at all.’

Mr and Mrs Robert Fraser stand in the doorway to the dining room, waiting to greet their guests:

‘Uncle Maurice, Auntie Jane,’ says the Bride.

‘Auntie Judith,’ corrects the Groom.

‘Smart lad,’ I say, shaking his hand. ‘You should be a copper.’

We all laugh -

All but Paul and Clare.