It was a colourful tantrum about the precise shade of pink in one of the flower arrangements that finally prompted the father of the bride to seek sanctuary. The womenfolk, up to their necks in tulle and tissue, hadn't even noticed he'd gone and a query about his whereabouts was met with blank stares. Father, it seemed, was persona non grata, writes Olive Keogh.
It didn't take long to find him. His car was still in the driveway and the TV room was empty, so he hadn't gone far. Looking out at his well tended herbaceous border, spilling over with its excess of summer colour, the penny dropped. Potting sheds have long been a place of refuge for troubled gardeners, who find something tremendously soothing about the higgle-piggle of pots in the corner and the damp smell of compost.
The path down the garden wove its way past the herbaceous border into a shaded gravel area where soft blue hostas, flanked by dark green ferns, sent graceful plumes of purple flowers skywards. Beyond this stood a row of scented apricot roses underplanted with lavender and only from there was it possible to see the side of the potting shed peeping out from behind a gnarled old apple tree.
Eyes closed
There, as I suspected, the father-of-the-bride reclined in a shabby deck-chair with a Thermos on the dirt floor beside him and a doorstep of a sandwich propped precariously on a nearby watering-can. His hands were folded across his chest, his eyes were closed and about two feet away the family cairn terrier, evidently equally exhausted by the wedding preparations, lay motionless in a warming shaft of sunlight. From the work bench, an ancient transistor burbled with the latest scores from Trent Bridge.
"I blame those godawful gossipy women's magazines." This vexed explosion, coming from someone who seemed to be asleep, startled both the dog and me: we both jumped.
"They create ridiculous expectations about weddings," he continued, still with his eyes closed. "Life was much easier when we all had less. With less, you have a sense of proportion. With more, nobody seems to know where the limits are. The whole reason for getting married has become subservient to the trappings."
His speech over, the father of the bride sighed and opened his eyes. "I take it you'll eh, change your speech a bit for the wedding day?" I ventured, visualising speedy divorce proceedings and a custody battle over the dog if he didn't. He snorted dramatically and began pouring coffee into two companionably battered enamel mugs. "I just wish it was all over," he said miserably.
Swedish ferry
His experience of the fuss surrounding his daughter's wedding was in stark contrast to a wedding we chanced upon in Sweden recently. We had taken a ferry to go to the island of Vaxholm, one of over 24,000 islands in an archipelago which breaks the flow of the Baltic Sea for almost 40 miles around Stockholm. The ferry was smartly painted with polished floors and shining brasses and it was crammed with Swedes going away for the weekend. The weather was hot and sunny and the blue sky was cloudless.
At first we thought they were a theatre group. A young woman with waist-length raven hair, dressed in a full-length red silk dress, teetered along the shiny wooden deck in impossibly high heels followed by several young men dressed in black suits. They went into a small, enclosed seating area at the front of the boat and were soon joined by various other people whose smart clothes stuck out a mile in a sea of T-shirts and shorts.
One of the young men stood beside us trying to adjust his tie in the window's reflection, his brand new shoes squeaking as he shifted his weight. Our Swedish fellow-passengers stared stonily ahead, but it was more than my curiosity could stand.
"You look dressed for a wedding," I said.
"I am," he answered smiling. "Mine."
The wedding party comprised about a dozen colourfully dressed people. The only one in white was the middle-aged woman who conducted the ceremony and the music was supplied by a cassette player with two tiny speakers propped on a ledge. The bride wore a medieval-style dress in royal blue silk with a gold veil and her bridesmaid was the lady in red. Both had changed on board in the loo and later admitted that keeping their balance while trying to get into long dresses and high heels had not been easy.
Lunch on an island
The bride looked radiant. The groom couldn't stop smiling and their joy and happiness were refreshingly natural. Even the minister was overcome with tears by the time the ceremony was over.
A tray of champagne was served and the party were planning to have lunch on one of the islands before heading back to Stockholm. The young couple were Australian and a Swedish friend had suggested this novel way of getting married.
Just seconds before the bride came swaying along the deck as the boat hit choppy waters, the ticket man arrived to collect the money for our trip. He approached the groom and asked who was paying for his party.
"Oh, I guess I am," the young man said casually, "but would you mind waiting until after I get married?"
OLIVE KEOGH