Chris and Ros are exactly the kind of couple that it's a joy to be friends with. They obviously love each other deeply and worry about how the other is with the kind of care you always want a mate's partner to show. Yet a single person will not feel isolated in their company. There will always be ideas for activities, shared jokes and stories and that excitement that comes with good friends. When they face troubles they work hard to solve them together, even when that itself is hard. Many happy years have been spent in the company of either and both of them. The main fraught point between them could be summed up in the word " marriage".
On their ten year anniversary Chris planned a trip down memory lane, visiting sites they've loved and made memories in. Culminating in Central Lobby of the Mother of All Parliaments he produced a ring and asked her to marry him. Which was lovely and she said yes.
On a standard evening in an old haunt when they asked me to be their bridesmaid I was totally shocked. I actually fell off the chair. They are great friends but like all lovely people their list of friends is long. However, they had honourably decided to ensure that as many people they care about as possible had a role. Later that day I assured Ros I'd do very little organisation and mainly see the bridesmaid role as making inappropriate jokes and opening champagne for breakfast on the day of the wedding. Apparently this was fine.
All this was agreed before I travelled. Many advised me not to come back and I deliberated heavily. Then the thought struck me "if I were getting married on another continent Ros and Chris wouldn't ask 'should we go?' but 'how do we get there?'". And coming back was the greatest decision I've made since deciding to do VSO in the first place.
Dresses fitted over the internet require a little adjustment and shopping for underwear and shoes with my enormous back pack, so big it needs its own chair and is therefore anthropomorphised into Alan, was not the happiest I've ever been. And I then travelled the country without seeing the people at the reason of my holiday until the wedding rehearsal which was strange.
The rehearsal came with a reunion of old friends and friends of friends long missed as cameo players in each other's lives. As the only bridesmaid and naturally being a bit bossy I remembered our steps to pass on to the others. We hit the local pub, restaurant and the late night spots of the exotically named Chester-le-Street. My stories of life in The Gambia became perhaps a little incoherent but it was Chris's night, his close friends (except Ros) sharing old jokes and tales.
After a pedicure Flute Helen and I met the Mother of the Bride. Despite my early protestations about organisation I had been asked to find flowers for hair. We traipsed the market, eventually digging some up from a neglected haberdashers and Brenda suggested a tea in the sunshine of Durham Cathedral Square. This segued into meeting everyone in the pub and early-ish nights all round.
Wedding day dawned. Having woken early I jumped on a train to Chester. Me and many, many cricket fans in the way to the Ashes. Handily this meant the road to Ros (in her grandad in law's house) was lined with ushers. Make up, deciding hairstyles and, of course, opening champagne followed. Perhaps unusually for a wedding morning activity the Northern bridesmaids had to explain the concept of a Corned Beef Pie to those of the south. I took the "maid" idea to heart, removing tags, unpicking labels and pinning in dresses. We then practiced walking in so that it was totally seamless and I stole some safety pins from next door, to go in my pocket with some tissues. That's right folks, a dress with pockets.
Arriving at the church Ros looked radiant. Friends peeped out from the pews and the wedding was underway. I sang loudly and frankly a little sharp, Ros and Chris swapped vows and rings and confirmed it all in law. Flute Helen played a hauntingly romantic piece with confident passion and Lisa read a poem comparing Ros to a skoda which made everyone laugh.
The church was visible from the reception at Lumley Castle. The ushers ushed and everyone drank, toasted and chatted. We took our seats for dinner, casting our votes for first dance as we did so. Well how else would such a couple decide the music? The speeches were perfect. Brenda pitched hers to give a background to the embarrassing moment of Ros's childhood. Chris, who I weirdly have never heard speak in public, was a natural, his lilting tone and steady balance between confident respectful teasing and kind information keeping all in the room happy. I was identified as the most travelled guest and thus named "Gambia Helen" which, as there were at least four attendant Helens, was a necessary title. Victoria as the Best Woman presented a hilarious PowerPoint, the pictures also aptly showing how much Ros loves Chris as she looks on adoringly at his zombiefied face on a tube. The closing sentiment that "these are two of my very best friends and I'm looking forward to the future with them" was palpably felt throughout the room.
Disco, drinking and dancing in political masks followed. Everyone was excited that I had pockets, demonstrating that if the ability to carry my own stuff is such a novelty maybe feminism still has a way to go. If Cinderella was allowed to wear a watch and had pockets I think that story might end much better with her having a lovely life running round the world. Still, as an added bonus, the evening was spent pogoing to mid-90s music in a strapless dress that didn't fall down, avoiding bring sprayed with a particularly sugary perfume and explaining my VSO placement by saying "you know the Pulp song 'Common People'? It's that, and I'm the girl". Ros and Chris both looked radiant and content, secure in their joy at taking the first step in a new chapter.
Still, for that chapter to start the wedding must end. As I shared hugs with both Chris and Ros I knew that it was the last of such a moment for a long time. Trotting down the steps like a forlorn but self sufficient Cinderella a few tears escaped from my eyes. It will be next year before I see these good friends again. And what a night of storytelling that will be.
Photos by Berresford, Chadwick, Longworth
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