I thought I’d seen all the dodgy organs I needed to at my Hen do.
We’re just back from a gloriously sunny weekend in the ‘Shire. Mom and Rob had accrued even more chickens, (most of whom Josh had named after my Hens), the fields surrounding their house were a beautiful lush green, lambs were gambolling in the fields, the flowers were blooming and Bernard was hurtling around in his tractor and sawing up logs. Spring was definitely in the air. We love our weekends there, it’s like a little oasis of bliss and calm for our hectic London lives.
The main reason we were visiting though, was to hear our Banns being read at the church we are to be married in.
Now, this was something of a milestone for me amidst all the preparations – not only because it’s quite an important preliminary to our actual ceremony, but also because I was mildly concerned that our rather relaxed vicar would completely forget to do it. Which would be a small disaster, seeing as in some cases, a marriage will only be legally valid if a reading of the banns has taken place.
So given the scatty nature of Reverend Patterson you can understand my nerves.
But, God must have taken time out of his hectic schedule of sorting out recent natural disasters, global warming and what-not to watch over the very important matter our wedding, because miraculously, it was all ok.
The vicar who greeted us on Sunday morning (it was Rev Patterson’s right hand vicar I believe) not only knew about us, but was expecting us and had already done the first of the three readings last week.
I was genuinely gobsmacked. Not to mention massively relieved. Rev P’s slapdash attitude was a clearly a cunning rouse to maintain the ‘local friendly countryside vicar’ manner. In reality he’s actually incredibly organised and on the ball. He probably conceals a clipboard in his cassock and has a meticulously completed wallplanner in his vestry. Hooray. Huge sigh of relief.
Little did I realise how soon this theory would be dispelled.
We all took our seats and the vicar began the Holy Communion service. But before he did anything, he very kindly read our Banns first – “just in case I forget to do it later!” he chortled, in a very vicar-ish kind of way. (cue nervous laughter from me.)
And to be fair, he made a lovely job of it. He announced our names, asked if anyone had any objections (thankfully no-one burst through the door a la Benjamin Braddock in the The Graduate) and he said a prayer for us. And my folks, my fiance’s folks (who’d come all the way from York to attend) and me and my hubby-to-be had a slightly dewy-eyed moment. In just one month we would be here making our vows and promises to each other. All the talk and discussion of marquees and bunting and hog roasts and teapots and such like doesn’t really matter. This was all about me and Paul declaring our love to the world.
But then we were all brought back to reality with a bump when the organ kicked in for the first hymn.
As we stood to sing, (out of tune and out of time) we all noticed something a bit bizarre about the music. There seemed to be one long bum note playing continuously in the background. Now I’m no expert at organ playing, so maybe this was a crude attempt at adding some sort of bass line?
We thought nothing of it, until we reached the end of the hymn, and the long bum note continued long after we’d all stopped singing. The vicar had to wait until it had decided to stop before continuing with his sermon.
Maybe it’s a technical hitch, I thought. You know, old wooden instruments probably need warming up a bit after sitting for so long in a cold, draughty stone building.
But lo and behold, the same thing happened in the next hymn. And the one after that. Upon hearing it a fourth time, I realised it sounded very much like the low, agonised wail of a mating walrus. Which isn’t the ideal accompaniment to All Things Bright and Beautiful is it?
Either the organist was deaf and was inadvertently resting his elbow/hymn book/cup of tea on that one note throughout each hymn, or something was seriously wrong with the organ.
Turned out it was the latter. But you know, even though it was rather reminiscent of a trapped animal/stuck elbow, I really didn’t mind too much. It sort of added to the character of the whole thing. A wonky organ was the perfect match for our wonky vicar.
But some of the locals in the congregation – including the incredibly posh Kennedy family who sort of own this tiny church and most of the surrounding land – heartily disagreed and promised it would either be fixed or substituted in time for our wedding. Which I thought was very sweet of them. (I love Mr Kennedy – he is the archetypal posh country gent, whose interests include blowing up huge drums of diesel and petrol, shooting small animals or mending chainmail for museums. So just your average, run of the mill bloke next door really. He even offered to stick gunpowder in the organ to sort it out. Bless him.)
After the service, the organ player asked us who will be playing at our wedding. I told him Rev Patterson had mentioned Cecil might do it.
The man looked flummoxed. “But I‘m Cecil, and I know nothing about it."
And bang went my theory of the Reverend being secretly super-organised.
Worryingly, Cecil then rolled his eyes and mumbled "This is so typical of Hugh" while rummaging for his diary. Thankfully he was free, so we booked him on the spot.
Cecil went on to apologise for the wailing organ, and said it was very embarrassing as a musician to play such a poor sounding instrument. He assured us he would sort it or bring his own to play. Which again I thought was very kind. (And then I felt bad for initially thinking he was just bit rubbish and was leaning on his keys. Sorry Cecil!)
We had a quick chat about our hymn choices and he seemed pleased that we wanted the traditional ‘Here Comes the Bride’ music for me to walk up the aisle to, and the Bridal March for us to exit the church as man and wife. (eeek!)
I think he was of the same school of thought as Mom who said, quote, “I don’t get why people choose bloody Celine Dion. Or Westlife."
So all in all, it was mostly a successful day.
Banns read, tick.
Organ player, tick.
Organ, well, not quite ticked. But maybe it will be when the Kennedys blow it up.
Chance of our vicar remembering to turn up, questionable.
Is there such thing as a back-up vicar?
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