Green Smarties

The 31st October 1970 dawned cold and wet. The weather during the previous week had been like an Indian summer – but my wedding day was not.

Having spent the night at my parents’ home, I washed my hair and lay luxuriating in the bath.

The bathroom was at the front of the bungalow in line with the main door.

Suddenly someone was hammering on the glass and set the doorbell in motion which dated back to1933 and had a clockwork mechanism. If it was not wound up nothing would happen at all when pressed, alternatively if it was wound up – as it had been on this occasion – it kept on ringing until someone thumped it. We had opened the door on many an occasion to be greeted by a traumatised visitor who said ‘Honestly, all I did was press it…’

The bell had been fully wound on that day, and was determined to run its course until my flustered father answered – he was trying on his suit.

To my consternation I heard the voices of my soon to be husband and his brother David, the best man.

I sat bolt upright in a panic sending a tidal wave of water toward the taps, which gathered momentum as it returned and swept over the side of the bath.

‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ I yelled ‘it’s bad luck’. I sang loudly to try and drown out the sound of his voice.

I heard laughter, and then infuriatingly my father invited them both in. I was now trapped in the bath and afraid to leave in case I caught sight of Peter.

Fuming I waited and waited, but there seemed to be a leisurely coffee morning taking place in the living room.

Eventually my mother knocked on the bathroom door ‘Are you all right dear?’ she asked.

‘No’ I replied crossly ‘The water’s stone cold, my hair is wet. Get rid of them so I can start getting ready.’

I heard my mother’s footsteps disappear down the hallway – a pause – and then male laughter as they all came back towards the front door. I sang loudly once more to drown their voices and eventually heard the front door click shut after their exit.

Emerging from the bathroom, hair limp with steam, face red with annoyance, I asked ‘What did they want – was it urgent?’

‘Oh no,’ said my father with his usual good nature. ‘They had an hour to spare so came over to be sociable’.

The day had not started well. In fact the whole week had not started well.

Peter had arranged for us to have eight days honeymoon touring Devon and Cornwall, starting with two nights at the old coaching inn at Cerne Abbas near Dorchester. A few days before the wedding however, he informed me that his week’s leave had been cancelled owing to some urgent Navy trials and that he would have to be at sea at 6.00 a.m. on the Monday morning after our wedding. Therefore our honeymoon would be just one night and day at Cerne Abbas. Still it was better than nothing.

At 1.55 p.m. on the 31st October, the bridal car arrived. My father took one look at my face and handed me a brandy – an unusual step for a man who never kept drink in the house except for Christmas. He took another look at me and swallowed one himself. He later confided he thought I might change my mind about the wedding, and as he had waited long enough to offload me he did not relish the thought of me running back down the aisle and making a bid for freedom before the ceremony.

I climbed in the back of the car alongside my father. ‘It would bloody well rain on my wedding day.’ I said peering through the misted glass and watching the droplets of water chasing each other down the car windows. My father looked a bit shocked – he did not swear and had not realised I had already been infected by the Navy.

‘Remember what granny used to say?’ I continued, referring to his mother who was Dorset born and bred. She used to recite the old country superstition “so many drops, so many whops” referring to domestic violence. But at that precise moment, Peter was the one in danger of being on the receiving end of a ‘whop’.

My father gave a long suffering sigh.