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- Herausgeber: Honno Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
"This book about learning to love oneself will both sadden and gladden the heart, so prepare for lots of tears as well as uplifting surges of joy." Jon Gower Gwawr, secular celebrant, single and in her thirties, knows all too well how life can change in an instant. Well practiced at keeping her composure, she keeps on smiling, even though her own life is falling apart behind the scenes. A victim of online sabotage, an unknown perpetrator is trying to destroy Gwawr and her business. Prone to unwise relationships, we follow her as she becomes hopelessly embroiled with an attractive client, thwarts the advances of another, and tries to survive as her business dries up and her money runs out. All while finding a way to acknowledge her own, very private, grief. This is a tale of friendship, love, unbearable loss and how we overcome the dark depths to find the light again. We all carry secrets and sometimes only solidarity and the trust of another will unlock them. A heartfelt novel exploring what it means to be human when we are at our most vulnerable. "A highly entertaining and surprising novel, expertly treading the fine line between tragedy and comedy - Rebecca Roberts has a distinct, memorable voice." Fflur Dafydd
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THE RITUALS
AN ADAPTATION OF ‘Y DEFODAU’
Rebecca Roberts
HONNO PRESS
In loving memory of Elizabeth Chamberlain
Gwawr Efa Taylor’s Celebrant Notebook 2018–2019
1. Claire (1979–2018)
“The death of each of us is in the order of things; it follows life as surely as night follows day. We can take the Tree of Life as a symbol. The human race is the trunk and branches of this tree, and individual men and women are the leaves. They appear one season, flourish for a summer and then die. I too am like a leaf of this tree and one day I shall be torn off by a storm, or simply decay and fall – and mingle with the earth at its roots. But, while I live, I am conscious of the tree’s flowing sap and steadfast strength. Deep down in my consciousness is the consciousness of a collective life, a life of which I am a part and to which I make a minute but unique contribution. When I die and fall the tree remains, nourished to some small degree by my manifestation of life. Millions of leaves have preceded me and millions will follow me: but the tree itself grows and endures.”
Herbert Read
Claire was in her late thirties, just a year older than me. The funeral of a young person is always more difficult. Not in terms of the ritual itself, which is largely the same for everyone – but the grief presents itself differently. The funeral of a grandmother who reached her eighties and the funeral of a woman who didn’t see her fortieth birthday are contrasting experiences. One has the feel of a much-loved novel, read until its pages are dog-eared and yellowed before being placed carefully on a shelf and read no more. The other calls to mind an unfinished novella with the final pages ripped out of its spine, jagged remnants of the paper visible to remind you that there will be no tidy, satisfactory conclusion to this particular story.
Iolo, of Huws and Davies Funeral Directors, phoned to offer Claire’s funeral just as I was heading to St Asaph crematorium to conduct a ceremony for an elderly man named Thomas Littlewood. I asked Iolo to text the details to my mobile, saying that I would contact Claire’s family as soon as I’d concluded my current funeral.
I arrived at the crematorium in plenty of time to welcome those who had come to celebrate Thomas’s life; however, just a handful of people attended, and, significantly, they all referred to him as ‘Mr Littlewood’. His neighbours filled the rear seats of the chapel, the front rows left empty for absent family members.
At the very back of the room sat a handful of young women in pale green tunics – Mr Littlewood’s carers during his final years. There had been nobody available to tell me anything meaningful about his life, so by necessity my eulogy was brief. I was grateful to his friendly, garrulous neighbours for stepping up to the podium and helping me to fill the allocated half an hour.
But even with contributions from Thomas’s acquaintances, the long reading by Herbert Read and playing ‘Gymnopédie no. 3’ in its entirety during the period of reflection, I was acutely, almost painfully, aware of the briefness of the ceremony. There was no danger that the funeral would run longer than scheduled today. For some celebrants this would no doubt be a source of pride, as a celebrant who arrives or finishes late will soon find that offers of work from undertakers become thin on the ground, but I felt bad that the ceremony had lasted barely fifteen minutes and that so few people had come to pay their respects.
I felt that Thomas Littlewood deserved a better eulogy than Mrs Jones from Number 5 talking about his pride in his rose garden, with just a handful of the people paid to care for him listening with little apparent sadness. But there was nobody who had really known Thomas available to help me to capture his life more fully. All I could do was work with the scanty information gleaned from neighbours and funeral directors, and show him the same respect as I did for all my clients, regardless of whether their coffin was carried before hundreds of bowed heads or lowered onto the catafalque unobserved by anyone.
I have conducted funerals to empty rooms. I know this goes against my atheist principles, believing as I do that a person’s soul or essence dies with their flesh. The dead do not hear the words I say over their coffins, yet on several occasions I have delivered eulogies to empty air, with me the only living creature in the chapel. For some inexplicable, illogical reason I feel that everybody deserves a ritual to mark their passing: a small, final, belated act of compassion for those who most likely lived and died alone. Everybody deserves an acknowledgment that they existed and made their mark, and I find personal comfort in adhering to the old rituals that map out the milestones of our lives.
Mr Littlewood’s mourners departed almost as soon as I’d committed his coffin to the dark interior of the catafalque. It was a relief to step through the crematorium’s double doors and out into the cold February sunlight. The hills on either side of the Vale of Clwyd were a welcome wall of verdant freshness after the greyness of the chapel. It was also a relief to escape from the piano version of Queen’s ‘Who Wants to Live Forever’, which played continuously on a loop before and after the ceremony.
After hearing it so many times I’ve come to loathe that particular tune, but I half suspect this is the purpose of playing it over and over and over. It’s easy for those who work with the dead to focus on the fragility of life – but hearing the piano keys tinkling the same song for the hundredth time makes the idea of eternal rest suddenly seem quite appealing.
I took my leave of the funeral director, pocketing my cheque at the same time. Back inside my car, I reached for my mobile. As promised, Iolo had texted me the details of my next client. Maxine Monroe had also phoned several times – thank goodness I’d left my phone on silent inside the car – despite the fact we were scheduled to speak later that evening. Her voicemail acknowledged this with a pettish ‘I suppose we’ll have to talk about it later’. I decided not to return her call, as all the files relating to her wedding tomorrow were laid out on my desk, ready for final last-minute checks. Instead, I phoned my latest client and arranged to visit him at his home.
Before I left the crematorium, I took a moment to glance in the rear-view mirror and smarten myself up. I’ll always perform the quick check for lipstick on my teeth before visiting the bereaved family. Often they’ll be sitting waiting for me, peeking out from behind drawn blinds or curtains to watch for my arrival. The last thing they need to see is me parking the car and then wiping away mascara smudges and fussing over my hair.
One of the most difficult things about grief is the feeling that your life has just ground to a screeching, shuddering halt, and yet the rest of the world continues to turn relentlessly. ‘Stop All the Clocks’ by W. H. Auden sums up this moment of realisation perfectly, and that is why I chose it for Huw’s funeral. Never will I forget the experience of walking out of the hospice without him, turning the key in the ignition and hearing ‘Do they know it’s Christmas?’ blasting out of the speakers. I came very close to punching the radio. Driving home that evening, the Christmas lights were garishly bright to my eyes, and I winced at the adverts urging me to buy, celebrate and rejoice with loved ones. It was unbelievably painful to see the world carrying on in the face of my own anguish, still rejoicing in frivolity and frolics, so indifferent to the pain that threatened to rip the heart out of my chest and swallow me whole. When I became a celebrant, I recalled that moment with painful clarity and decided to use it as a lesson to enable me to help others.
Good funeral directors and celebrants understand that time needs to slow down in the face of death; the bereaved need time, or at least the illusion of it, to say goodbye and begin to come to terms with their loss. Although in truth each dead person follows a similar path and schedule, every grieving family should feel as though those caring for them have no other claims on their time. They know that I will be there to listen whenever they need me, to help them take the first steps, at their own pace, through the morass that is grief. I don’t want them ever to feel as alone as I did. That is my mission, both corporate and personal.
Even after six years in the role, I still marvel at how readily people welcome me – a stranger – into their midst and share their memories of the person who has died. They talk to me freely when they are at their most vulnerable and trust me to perform the last ritual for their loved ones.
According to Iolo, my client today was not a family, but a lone widower. Usually I recommend that more than one person attends the planning meeting. The person who was closest to the departed is normally the one who speaks least, which is understandable given the circumstances. This is why it helps to have a family member or good friend there to answer the more practical questions, check dates, make cups of tea, and so on.
But in the case of Claire Price, when Iolo phoned to offer the work he cautioned that I shouldn’t expect or invite contributions from the wider family.
‘She wasn’t in contact with her birth family at all,’ he explained. ‘Her husband doesn’t want them near the crematorium. I don’t believe he’s even informed them of her death. A difficult situation, a lot of bad feeling. Tread carefully – I know you will.’
I drove through the centre of Meliden, parked my car just off the main road and walked up the hillside to a row of old miners cottages. The weather had grown colder since leaving the crematorium, the sky darkening from blue to slate grey, with the swollen clouds threatening further snow. I shivered despite being wrapped in my black woollen coat. Standing outside the cottage, I hesitated, noticing the two cars parked side by side: a dark green Landrover Defender and a smaller cherry red Citroën. The thin layer of snow on the roof of the Citroën told me that it had not been driven for several days.
I tapped lightly on the door and it was opened immediately, as though Mr Price had been standing by the window, waiting and watching.
In front of me stood a man whose clothing echoed the drab colours of the Landrover: khaki combat trousers, walking boots and a dark grey sweater – the hardy, practical clothes of someone who spends most of his time outdoors. I supposed he was in his mid-forties, but the fine and not-so-fine lines around his eyes and mouth suggested years of working outdoors without bothering to apply sunscreen. A landscaper or gamekeeper, perhaps?
‘Mr Price? I’m very sorry to hear of your loss. I’m Gwawr Taylor, the non-religious celebrant.’
I extended my hand and he shook it politely. The skin of his fingers and palms was calloused, confirming my guess that he worked with his hands. He jerked his head in the direction of the cottage’s living room.
‘You’d better come in.’
He went straight through into the small kitchen at the rear of the building and I remained standing on the threshold of the living room, waiting for his return. Sitting uninvited in one of the two armchairs in front of the fireplace may have looked slightly impertinent. I glanced around the room, which was masculine and rather old-fashioned with its wooden floors, cream walls and solid oak furniture. The walls were hung with watercolours depicting the British countryside and its wildlife, the sort of generic paintings which decorate the walls of rural pubs and hotels. There was very little in the way of personal possessions. The room’s sparseness made me wonder whether they were renting the cottage.
The single framed photo was positioned on top of the writing bureau, showing Mr Price and his wife together on the summit of Pen y Fan. From what I could see she was an attractive woman with dark hair and bright eyes, several years younger than her husband. Her waterproof coat and walking books were stored neatly behind the front door, the boots placed directly underneath the coat. For the briefest moment, I felt as though she was standing directly behind me, her presence filling the garments. A shiver ran down my spine, so I took a step into the living room and looked closer at the photo of them together. Instinct told me that she and her husband were similar characters, active and outdoorsy, happier at the top of a mountain than sitting in front of the TV. I examined the photo more closely, this time noticing how her broad smile contrasted with the sadness in her eyes.
Mr Price came back into the room carrying a tray with a teapot, a flower vase and two mugs. The use of a vase to serve milk suggested he might not be used to offering hospitality.
‘You can serve yourself, can’t you?’ he asked curtly. ‘I’ve had enough of making tea for people. They come to try and make me feel better, but I just feel as though I’m running a cafe.’
I did the honours, and, after placing a steaming cup of tea in front of him, I reached into my briefcase and took out my notebook.
‘I’m going to ask you a lot of questions, Mr Price. I ask so that I can build up a clear picture of Claire in my mind, but obviously, if there is anything you’d rather not discuss or have included in her eulogy, then please let me know.’ He nodded. ‘What was your wife’s full name, Mr Price?’
‘Claire Louise Price,’ he answered. ‘Claire with an i.’
‘When and where was she born?’
‘That doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to mention her background. At all.’
I paused in the middle of the sentence I was writing, raising my eyes to meet his.
‘It’s usual to include some biographical details as part of the eulogy,’ I suggested cautiously.
‘No,’ he answered decisively. ‘I’ll tell you, but I don’t want this going any further than these four walls.’
In reply I closed my notebook and placed it on the coffee table in front of me.
‘Claire spent her whole life trying to get away from her family and what they did to her. I don’t want you to make out that there was anything good about her childhood. Her parents were awful people. When she was alive she didn’t want to talk about her past, and I’m not going to betray her now she’s gone. For years she was abused, and they stood back and let it happen. That was at the root of all her problems, but they blamed her for the abuse, they kicked her out of their house. The abuse was the …’
He broke off and rose suddenly from his chair, almost knocking over his cup, and went into the galley kitchen. It offered nowhere for him to hide, but he turned his back on me and I understood that he needed a moment alone to compose himself. I remained seated, but, after a minute or so, I said, ‘I’m very sorry that she suffered. Of course, this conversation is confidential and I won’t include anything you don’t wish to be included.’
He left the kitchen and stood behind his armchair, squeezing the back of the chair until his knuckles turned white.
‘How wouldyou like to remember Claire?’
He turned to look out through the window, at a garden that was full of greenery despite the bite of winter.
‘I want people to remember how she had to stop and pet every cat or dog she saw. That she’d watch Children in Need and empty her bank account with tears in her eyes. She wanted kids of her own, but it never happened. She used to go into the garden and talk to her plants as though they were children. When it all became too much for her she’d go for a long walk in the woods “to get wisdom from the trees”. She was impulsive, crazy, childish at times, but truth be told that was one of my favourite things about her. For our wedding, she composed a song for me and sang it in the register office, strumming along on her old guitar with half the strings missing. You should have seen the registrar’s face.’
He paused, smiling at the memory, unaware of the fact that I’d retrieved my notebook and begun scribbling down his words.
‘The registrar wasn’t happy that she’d added to the ceremony. That’s why I asked for you – I didn’t want someone who’d use a template and just tick the boxes. And I didn’t want a religious service either, although that’s what her hypocrite parents would push for. Claire didn’t believe in God.’
He went over to the fireplace, retrieved a piece of paper propped up behind the mantlepiece clock and placed it on the coffee table directly in front of me. ‘Copy this. It’s the song she sang. I want you to read this in the crematorium. I want you to do that and two other things too: avoid mentioning her past, and end by saying that I’m going to take her ashes to the woods and scatter them there, so that she’ll become part of the forest she loved. I’m not going to tell anyone where she’s going. Maybe then she can finally find peace.’
His eyes were dry, but a sudden lump in my own throat made answering him difficult. After swallowing hard, I managed to reply, ‘Of course, Mr Price. I’m sure we can do all of this.’ I looked back down at my book and continued writing, although in truth I was just scribbling down a reading I already knew by heart, buying myself time to blink away the unwanted tears filling my eyes. By now I’d become used to hearing about people’s pain, but there was something about Mr Price that, despite his gruffness, was unexpectedly touching. Claire had been fortunate to find someone who knew and loved her so well. Mr Price was brusque and gave the impression of being someone with a very short fuse – but his tender and protective love for his wife shone in his eyes with a sincerity I’d rarely encountered.
He sat once again in his armchair. ‘And there’s one more thing, Gwawr,’ he told me. His accent suggested that he was from the north of England and his tongue tripped clumsily over the unfamiliar vowels of my Welsh name. ‘Could you possibly put a couple of bouncers on the door, stop her family from getting in?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not …’ I began, before noticing the shadow of a smile. He was pulling my leg.
‘Don’t worry, I’m kidding. If they try to come near her again I’ll scare them off myself.’
I paused and looked down at the notebook in my lap, trying to decide whether I should do what was right for me, or what was right for my client. Then I remembered Iolo’s intense kindness as we arranged Huw’s funeral and I knew that there was only one course of action.
‘Mr Price.’
‘Wayne,’ he corrected. Ironic that he was beginning to warm to me just as I was on the verge of losing him as a customer.
‘Wayne. It sounds to me as though you don’t really want a traditional funeral, or a service that would be open to the public, including your wife’s family.’
‘There’s no alternative, is there? She wasn’t religious so she wouldn’t have wanted a church service, but we have to go to the crem and have some sort of ceremony, don’t we?’
‘Well, actually, no you don’t. There’s such a thing as a direct cremation. The undertaker could take her to the crematorium without any memorial service and then give you her ashes. You’d be free to conduct your own ceremony in the woodland, without anyone else present.’
‘Really?’
I saw the relief in his eyes and found myself smiling. I’d managed to save him from the strain of dealing with, and possibly coming into conflict with his in-laws, and of following a ritual which would have been quite meaningless to him. Of course, in suggesting this I’d also given him reason to dispense with my own services.
He thanked me, offering to pay me for my time despite my services no longer being required. Naturally, I refused his offer of payment, even petrol money, insisting that I lived close by and so the visit hadn’t cost me anything more than half an hour of my time.
‘If you need any help with your forest ceremony, don’t hesitate to get in touch,’ I said, offering him my business card. He looked down at the rectangle of white card, tiny in between his fingers:
Gwawr Efa Taylor, Celebrant
Non-religious naming ceremonies, weddings and funerals Cymraeg / English / Bilingual
‘G-waw-yr Epha …’ He shook his head, frustrated. ‘Claire and I tried to learn Welsh a few years back. As you can tell, I didn’t get very far. Claire’s pronunciation was much better than mine, so please forgive me for butchering your name, Ms Taylor.’ This time, it was he who held out a hand to shake. ‘Thank you.’
I’d just lost £200, but truth be told I felt some relief that I’d avoided a funeral that might have been simmering with undercurrents of tension and ill-feeling. Funerals are difficult enough as it is, without the threat of unwanted guests causing conflict.
Back home, I phoned Iolo to inform him that Mr Price’s plans had changed and he would no longer be needing me. Iolo had already booked a slot for the funeral at the crematorium, so he would have been within his rights to be frustrated at the sudden change of plans; however, if I’d inconvenienced him, he was gracious enough not to mention it. I have never heard or seen Iolo be anything less than professionally good-humoured, but I think he’s also one of those rare people with a naturally kind and sunny disposition.
‘Well, if Wayne wants a direct cremation, that’s exactly what he’ll have,’ Iolo said. ‘I’ll phone him now. Thank you, Gwawr. A pleasure working with you, as usual. And if I may say, well done you for suggesting the option. Not many celebrants would be willing to lose their fee.’
‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of weddings coming up soon,’ I told him, before adding, rather boldly, ‘And I know you’ll send me more work when you’re able to.’
‘Of course, I always choose you. Look after yourself. Ta-ta now.’
‘Bye, Iolo.’
Iolo’s a good sort. A devout chapel goer himself, he’s always ready to recommend a secular celebrant if the family aren’t religious. Some funeral directors find it more convenient to urge people to use their local minister rather than seek out a celebrant. The truth is that anyone can call themselves a ‘celebrant’. There is no legal requirement to undertake training or register with a professional body as I have done. It’s understandable why some undertakers are wary about using unlicensed freelancers as an unprofessional officiant can reflect poorly on the reputation of the entire company.
During training, my tutor emphasised over and over that our reputation was our calling card, and that safeguarding it should be our main concern. Good timekeeping, professional behaviour and respectability were our weapons. We were never to let our guard drop, not even for a moment; people in the funeral and wedding industries talked and, once lost, a reputation is almost impossible to regain.
After such an intensely emotional and slightly disheartening day, I wasn’t really in the mood to be going over the details of Maxine and Darren’s wedding for the umpteenth time, but the wedding was tomorrow so I had little choice but to wash my face, force a cheery smile and log on to Facetime. I rang Maxine, but it was her husband-to-be who answered the call.
‘Gwawr! Hello gorgeous! Cheers!’ he laughed, raising a can to the screen as though lifting his glass in a toast, grinning in a way that he probably imagined portrayed him as a rather endearing ‘cheeky chappy’. I found his smile lecherous and suspected that he was well on his way to being very drunk. ‘Just having a few sly pints because Max decided to lock me in the bedroom on my last night of freedom. She wants to make sure I behave and that I show up tomorrow, like the good little lad that I am … She knows me too well!’ He laughed awkwardly and, when I didn’t join in with his laughter, he looked off camera and yelled, ‘Hunny bunny, Gwawr is on Facetime!’
I heard Maxine’s voice, shrill and disagreeable, telling him that she was in the middle of her spray tan. A moment later, however, her wedding planner popped up on screen, clutching a notebook and pen. I thought she wanted to run over a few details, but no, the list in her hand was actually a list of diktats. It was difficult not to appear defensive as she lectured me about the importance of punctuality, wearing the pre-approved outfit, refusing to speak to any press outside the gates, etc. In the six years I’ve served as a celebrant I have conducted over fifty weddings and received nothing but excellent feedback. I know how to behave professionally. I am the consummate professional.
I tried to appear good-humoured and attentive to her commands, but my face must have shown my displeasure, because as soon as the wedding planner left the room Darren began to snort with laughter.
‘I don’t know why you’re looking so fed up,’ he laughed. ‘You only have to put up with Maxine and her bloody circus for one day. I’m the one who has to live with her!’
It was on the tip of my tongue to reply that it wasn’t too late for him to change his mind, but I swallowed my words and endeavoured to soften my expression, telling him that maybe he should finish his beer and get an early night, ready for his big day tomorrow.
‘I’m going to bed soon myself,’ I told him, eager to end our awkward conversation.
‘Pity you’re not here, keeping me company tonight,’ he answered, with a blatant wink and the same lecherous smile. I ignored that last comment and ended the online meeting as quickly as I could, hoping that it was just the beer talking and that tomorrow I wouldn’t be faced with a recalcitrant groom being dragged up the aisle by his best man. As Darren was a fairly well-known public figure I’d become aware of his reputation as a bit of a ‘lady’s man’ and a ‘Jack the lad’ – I just didn’t expect him to start blatantly flirting with the very person who was going to be conducting his wedding ceremony.
Never before had I conducted a wedding where I’d been so utterly convinced that the couple should not be getting married. But I was their celebrant, not a marriage counsellor or therapist. I would perform the ceremony, take their money and leave them to their infidelity, insecurity and almost inevitable separation.
I snuggled into my pillow, hoping to slide effortlessly into sleep and so escape the butterflies churning inside me and the images spiralling like a kaleidoscope inside my head: the dry-eyed, almost indifferent mourners in the crematorium earlier this morning, the anger and raw pain in Wayne’s eyes, and the lascivious smile of drunken Darren.
2. Maxine & Darren (2018)
Hi Gwawr,
Please find below a few reminders from Maxine. Nothing personal. We’re sending it out to everyone involved.
Hair style, make-up and dress MUST NOT deviate from that which has already been pre-approved by Ms Monroe. No spray tans and non-human hair extensions. Manicured nails only please.You are reminded of the confidentiality agreement which prohibits you from talking to the press.No social media posts AT ALL. Cameras (including those on phones) are to be left in cars. PRESS PHOTOGRAPHS ONLY.Anybody wearing white, even as an accent colour, will be asked to leave.Maxine is 5’ 9”, so will female members of the bridal party who are taller than her please avoid wearing heels.Unless you are a member of the bridal party, DO NOT attempt to speak directly to Ms Monroe. Address any concerns or compliments to her assistant.Best, Lisa (assistant to Maxine Monroe)
My efforts to sleep were in vain. I lay in bed until the early hours of the morning, listening to the beating of my heart and thinking about Claire Price. One of the hardest things about working in the funeral industry is the constant reminder that one day my own heart will cease beating and I will end up in a box, having kind words spoken over my lifeless form. Nonetheless, I plough on through the bouts of depression and try not to focus too much on my mortality, because I daren’t stop working. Or more truthfully, I cannot stop working.
The cost of owning and maintaining a home falls entirely on my shoulders. I also work alone, like most celebrants, and as such there is no partner or employee to lighten the load when times are tough. I’ve had to learn to work according to other people’s schedules, their caprices and demands, to put aside my own illnesses and bad days and exhaustion, because I’ve learnt that if I refuse offers of work then wedding arrangers and funeral directors will look elsewhere, and they will rarely give you a second chance.
I find that I need the light and laughter of weddings and naming ceremonies to counteract the sorrow and solemnity of funerals. For that reason, I find work at its most difficult after Christmas, as fewer people marry and more people pass away during the cold winter months. Lying in bed that night, the light and promise of spring seemed a very long way off. Not even the prospect of a big, glamourous wedding on the morrow could cheer me up.
Had I been conducting the wedding of anybody other than Maxine and Darren then no doubt the prospect of putting on a brightly coloured dress, spending the morning in the company of hundreds of happy people and proclaiming the magic words ‘You may kiss the bride’ would have been enough to raise my spirits. But that morning, as I put on my best, most expensive dress and checked the ceremony arrangements for the final time, my stomach was churning and I felt drained from having slept so poorly. I hoped the groom wouldn’t be too badly hungover, or say or do anything too inappropriate, because the last thing in the world I wanted was for my most high-profile wedding to date to go wrong.
Now, I’m not a fan of the term ‘bridezilla’, or the current social media trend for ‘wedding shaming’ clickbait. I would never, ever complain publicly about my clients – but, of all my brides, Maxine was the one who most deserved the title of bridezilla.
Maxine Monroe (not her real name) was a soap opera actress and her fiancé Darren a footballer. They lived on the riverbank near Chester city centre. Rather than marry in one of the city’s grand hotels they had chosen to get married in their back garden, which was nearly the same size as a small nature reserve. People often hire celebrants such as me for weddings if they want to marry at a location which has a personal significance to them, or at an unlicensed venue.
Every one of my ceremonies is bespoke and therefore completely unique. Therefore, I was more than a little disappointed when I realised that neither Maxine nor Darren was interested in the contents of the ceremony itself. Darren didn’t bother to attend a single planning meeting, and I’d only manage to speak to him briefly a few times over Skype. He played for a team in a European league so spent most of his time away from home, only coming back to England to see his fiancée once a month. Maxine and her wedding planner were responsible for all the arrangements and, early on in the planning process, it became apparent that their focus was on her dress, the flowers and any potential publicity opportunities.
It was a marquee wedding, but the ceremony itself was being held outside under a gigantic white canopy. Ice sculptures were scattered around their garden and, to delight guests, Maxine had arranged for a snow machine to create an artificial winter wonderland. She had originally planned for snow to fall upon guests during the ceremony itself, but the snow machine was too noisy. Landscapers had created a car park at the rear of the property, and there was a new gravel path leading to the marquee at the water’s edge. To avoid dirtying her white, pearl-encrusted Louboutin heels, Maxine had arranged for a white stallion and carriage to transport her the few hundred yards between her dressing room and the marquee. The bridesmaids and her father would make the short journey on foot.
Mam had joked that I should add ‘celebrant to the rich and famous’ to my business cards. Without a doubt this couple was rich, but Maxine had been unemployed since she had left her soap opera the previous year, publicly declaring her intentions to go and work in Hollywood. In an uncharacteristically cynical mood, I found myself wondering whether their nouveau riche wedding was a way of proving her continued relevance. Talking to her wedding planner always gave me the uneasy feeling that the big day would be more akin to a circus than a wedding. The dress, the press, the guests and the wine list seemed to be the main preoccupation.
Nonetheless, there was no denying that being selected to conduct a celebrity wedding was an achievement of sorts. My local newspaper had featured an article (which ended up being an excellent free advertisement) about how I was developing a reputation as the ‘celebrant of choice’ and had been ‘personally hand-picked by Maxine Monroe’. I noticed that my Instagram and Facebook followers increased every time she tagged me in a pre-wedding post. It was the sort of exposure money simply couldn’t buy – and I knew this because my local rival, Sara Deane of Personalised and Perfect Wedding Ceremonies, couldn’t resist making a few passive-aggressive comments when we’d last met at a wedding fair. Sara Deane Marketing Queen was jealous of me! No matter how frustrating Maxine and her wedding planner were, no matter how lecherous and unpleasant Darren was, I hugged that knowledge to myself. I was going up in the world.
Having reached the Cheshire mansion, I walked around the garden to familiarise myself with the layout and then spent a good ten minutes watching a groom trying to coax the recalcitrant white stallion out of its warm horsebox.
Rather than get in the way of the florists and musicians, I made my way to the altar where I was left kicking my heels for almost an hour. Maxine, her mother and the wedding planner were all busy, but Darren came to greet me and ask whether I needed anything. He showed no signs of last night’s heavy drinking. Standing in front of me, he looked like a young boy expecting a scolding from his parents. Although his tuxedo was designer and he was immaculately groomed, he looked slightly overawed by the splendour of his surroundings and the sea of elaborate hats bobbing about which gave the garden the feel of the royal box at Ascot. Darren was a working-class lad born and bred over the border in Flintshire, and I personally think he would have been much happier with a hotel wedding, just one photographer and a handful of close friends and family to celebrate with him.
When I asked where his best man was, he told me Maxine hadn’t been willing for one of his old school friends to fill the role. He was equally unwilling to contemplate Maxine’s brother (‘the dickhead’), so she had forbidden him from having a best man at all.
As guests began to take their seats, Darren and I went to stand together in front of the altar to await Maxine’s arrival. Darren glanced at his diamond-flecked wristwatch.
‘Only fifteen minutes to go,’ he said under his breath. He spoke in Welsh, presumably because he knew that I could understand him, while the vast majority of his guests would be unable to do so.
‘Time for one last quickie …’ he whispered. His eyes met mine. ‘We could pop to the stables, if you fancy it?’
In my six years of conducting weddings, the best man has lost the wedding rings, a bride has fainted at my feet, a dog has urinated on the groom’s leg, and I’ve even had a heartbroken usher quietly confess to me that he’d loved the bride since their high school days. But never had I experienced an offer of sexual intercourse from the groom less than fifteen minutes before he was due to get married. Nothing on my training course had prepared me for this eventuality. I continued to stare into Darren’s eyes. He met my gaze boldly. No, he absolutely was not joking.
‘I think maybe you’re having a last-minute wobble,’ I told him coolly and turned my head away so that I was looking out over the guests’ heads rather than in his direction.
‘It’s only a bit of banter,’ he replied, but there was an odd tremor in his voice. ‘Most girls would be flattered.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ I said and we lapsed into a painfully awkward silence. It wasn’t possible for either of us to leave, but he took a step backwards so that we were no longer standing side by side.
His cheeks were still flushed pink ten minutes later, but I couldn’t tell whether the reddening of his complexion was caused by embarrassment or anger. His face only resumed its natural colour as he watched Maxine step daintily out of the Cinderella carriage, and suddenly his skin looked ashen. In that second, I saw everything clearly: Darren did not want to be Mr Maxine Monroe. He’d been swept along by Maxine’s plans, and now he wanted out. He couldn’t say ‘I don’t’ in front of the assembled guests, so he’d tried to sabotage his own wedding.
Thankfully, everybody else was too enraptured by Maxine’s beauty and elegance to notice the doubt in Darren’s eyes. She looked like a character from a fairy tale in a couture dress designed and made especially for her. A red velvet robe covered her white shoulders. The theme of Winter Wonderland suited her perfectly, as the silver and snow illuminated her fair skin and the brightness of her blue eyes. She wore her hair long and loose, with a silver crown on her head. Her dress was covered with thousands of diamantes, glistening like stars in the weak rays of the February sun. Even I, who could not bring myself to be more than professionally polite to her, couldn’t help but admire her beauty.
The weather had been kind to us and the heaters scattered around the venue meant coats were unnecessary during the ceremony. Darren sweated profusely, while Maxine removed her red velvet mantle and passed it to her pageboy, resplendent in matching britches and a quaint little hat. She stroked the neck of the white stallion, smiling for photographs. Her bridesmaids arranged her train and she began walking at an almost glacial pace towards us, her head held high like the Ice Queen. Whether she delighted in knowing all eyes were upon her, or whether she wanted to make it easier for photographers, I’m not sure. But as she neared the end of her triumphant procession, Darren turned to glance at me, and I saw such a look of defeat on his face that I almost felt sorry for him. This was Maxine’s day – he was a mere accessory in this wedding.
The ceremony was brief, in accordance with Maxine’s wishes. I confess that for once I hoped that somebody would step forward at the last moment to object, but nobody did. Had Darren been allowed to choose his best man then perhaps he might have saved the day. As it was, Darren muttered an unenthusiastic ‘I do’ and in no time at all it was over and I made the declaration, ‘You may kiss the bride’. Rather than ruin her perfect red pout, Maxine presented her cheek to Darren and received a peck of a kiss from her new husband.
Turning to me she said, ‘Thank you for everything, Gwawr. It’s a real pity you didn’t get someone professional to do your hair and make-up, but we can always use Photoshop.’ I stood there mutely, unsure how to respond. ‘Well, do you need anything else from us?’ Although she was smiling, her meaning was clear: time for me to go. And for once I was glad to retreat from the celebrations, to seek out my little Peugeot and hurry back to Rhuddlan. Leaving was tricky, owing to the large number of expensive cars parked carelessly around the grounds of their mansion. My car was the oldest in the car park by some stretch. Truly, as Mam said, I was now celebrant to the rich and famous … and I felt sorry for them all.
What a relief it was to arrive home and exchange my dress and jacket for an old pair of jeans, and to spend the evening in the company of my reading group rather than as a wedding guest. I would prefer beans on toast with my reading group a thousand times over a ten-course gourmet menu served in the froideur of Maxine’s ice palace.
Perhaps a reading group is a rather ambitious description of our crew. Once a month we’ll go to a pub or to each other’s houses to eat, drink a glass of wine and discuss the odd book. CDRC (Clwb DarllenCymraegRhuddlana’rCyffiniau, or the Rhuddlan and District Welsh Reading Group) was founded by Tanya. After attending Welsh for Adults evening classes for five years and obtaining her A-levels in Welsh language and literature, she decided she was confident enough to stop her formal education. But Tanya missed the camaraderie of the classroom, and so she started a book club to give her an opportunity to continue talking Welsh socially. She persuaded her friends Cassie and Megan, who had learned Welsh themselves, to begin reading Welsh novels. We were a small but enthusiastic bunch of literary critics.
I was the last founding member to join. I saw an invite to join a Welsh-language book club on the Facebook page of our local Menter Iaith, a community Welsh language initiative. The doctor had just suggested that I would benefit from a new hobby to get me out of the house, so impulsively I messaged Tanya, signed up and took myself off to the library to avail myself of the novel we would be discussing. That was five years ago and, since founding the club, Tanya has moved to live on Prestatyn hillside, Cassie has moved to Mold and Megan to Abergele. I’m the only member still living in Rhuddlan, therefore our definition of ‘district’ is very wide indeed, but we are bound together by a love of good books, good wine, and, if I’m brutally honest, a good gossip.
Tanya opened her front door humming the tune, ‘Here comes the bride’.
‘Here comes the celebrant …’ she sang, grinning broadly. From behind her back, she produced a glass of wine and offered it to me before I’d even had the opportunity to remove my coat.
‘You look as though you need it,’ she said. ‘Come and sit. Cassie and Megs are waiting for you. I’ve made us pasta. Homemade pesto.’
I reached into my shopping bag and produced a small cardboard box. ‘I’ve brought chocolate eclairs.’
‘And lots of gossip about Maxine Monroe I hope?’
I shook my head, even though I was dying to tell them about what had happened between Darren and myself.
‘Sorry, but you know my rules about confidentiality.’
‘Fine,’ she answered, pretending to pout. ‘I’ll just have to read it in the newspaper like everybody else.’
‘How did things go?’ Megan asked.
‘As well as could be expected,’ I replied enigmatically and then changed the subject by asking, ‘How are things at the hospital?’ Megan is a doctor and Cassie is a solicitor, but Tanya doesn’t fit neatly into any box. She works part-time in a Cylch Meithrin, in the same local Welsh-language nursery group I attended as a toddler, as a clerk in two primary schools, and she teaches yoga. I’m always amazed that she has any time at all to read.
‘Same as ever. Over-worked and under-paid. But tell me more about this fantastically expensive wedding,’ said Megan, as Tanya carried the bowls of pesto pasta into the dining room.
‘It was no better or worse than any other ceremony I’ve conducted – except they spent a lot more on clothes and decorations. Oh, and hired a horse and carriage, and a snow machine.’
I didn’t dare tell them what had really happened, as I’d signed a non-disclosure agreement threatening legal action if I revealed any details of the wedding. I’d benefited from Maxine’s huge social media following, but I also knew that if I displeased her she could drag me through the mud just as easily as she’d raised me up with her free publicity. Unlike her, I couldn’t afford to keep a lawyer on speed dial.
As we finished the meal Megan asked, ‘Gwawr, do you ever get fed up of being single and working with loved-up couples?’
The question was so unexpected that I took a long moment to give it serious consideration.
‘Sometimes, yes, I suppose I do.’
