NOTES ON
1961 - Mick and
Phyll's Wedding
http://comp.uark.edu/~dsears/photos/Eileen65mick
There
is a lot to say about these pictures.
Cousin Mick had been a bit of a hero to me as a boy, he was older, he
was active in so many ways. He had a
motorbike. He also kept a small Woolworth
note book in which he had pasted nude playing cards – I thought that was so
brave, so grown up. And he met
Phyll. So unlike him, so quiet, so
sophisticated, and so Greek. She had a
strong accent, which made her cute. Her
name was Phyllis, but no one ever said that.
She was always Phyll. Suddenly
they got married. Since she had no
church in England, they married at St. Peter’s, our local parish church on
Buckland Hill, just off London Road. At
the wedding something momentous happened, I first saw Helen, Phyll’s sister,
looking gorgeous in her pink gown with her hair newly styled. At 15 I did not recognize the feelings, just
a mysterious attraction, just an all-consuming fascination, just a total preoccupation. Mick and Phyll set up home in Chatham and
occasionally we went to visit.
Occasionally I saw Helen. But I
was too scared to say anything, too scared to ask too many questions about her. So I listened intensely whenever Phyll
mentioned her sister, and I determined that I should learn as much about Greece
as I could, as if knowing about her home would somehow make me closer. Then one day I learned that she had married
her legal guardian in England, a man old enough to be her father, a man I had
taken a dislike to at the wedding. He later
swindled Roger out of money by offering to spray paint his car in a colour no
one wanted. My stomach churned at the
news that they were married, but I could do nothing but regret my inactivity. Eventually I moved on, transferring my
attentions to chemistry, astronomy, and space exploration.
I
think Malcolm also felt the first stirrings at about this time, because he
joined the choir of St. Peter’s and this brought him into contact with Angela,
daughter of the vicar of St. Michael’s - the parent church to St. Peter’s. Angela was eventually to become his wife.
Every one of the many weddings I went to before my own was just like Mick and Phyll’s. A service in the church, photographs outside, and then a reception in the church hall catered by the family. The church hall – also used for boy scout and girl guide meetings, the women’s institute, and Sunday School – was pretty Spartan, and the tables consist of boards on trestles with sheets of paper for tablecloths. It was basically afternoon tea, sandwiches, sausage rolls, cakes, and of course, a huge wedding cake. There were kegs of beer and crates of soft drinks, loud music, and the partying would go well into the night, the bride and groom disappearing at some point for their honeymoon. The women in the family, the Mum’s and aunties, did the catering. My own wedding was the first time I heard of commercial catering at a wedding.