Lit only by firelight, we lay squished in raging teenage mush on the scratchy sofa. The Devon rain fell against the long french windows, from over the moors and down the steep wooded valley – the hard, full rain that dribbles down necks and drips into pockets. Woodsmoke forever in the air, only the hardiest locals ventured to the pub, dodging the mightly puddles and slippery leaf-strewn paths.
Darkness filled the house – the home of ghosts, of dead black cats buried under the floorboards, of things that moved around, of cold sweats for any who stayed, waited and watched. They worried the dog; overcome, a fearful trembling gripped her while she furiously barked into the hall's night emptiness.
I asked. She said yes.
We found a jewellery maker who liked us and welcomed our sketches: £68 – way beyond our means.
I had friends – churchy friends who ran a youth club. They were nice: welcoming and a bit silly. Penniless, I would hang out with them when not walking across Exmoor or spending whole evenings before the TV – those long, gloomy winter evenings. I must have mumbled something about not having money for an engagement ring.
The next day a small white envelope addressed in an unrecognisable hand lay on the doormat: it held the exact money. So there is a God!
For such a small, generous gesture was a great beginning – lives that couldn't possibly have been imagined; jobs, cars, flats, babies, moving, fun and sadness all lay before us. Distance proved no problem to the lettered throbs of heartfelt gush that ate up the miles. It seemed an eternity before we moved to the same town and then to the same flat. Parents were unsure – sometimes unfriendly – and stipulated the completion of the final two year's higher ed before anything else!
That done, wedded bliss commenced Sunday 1 Nov 1987 in an autumnal St Albans – a central location where neither of us had lived. The day had our vows, proper hymns and sermons, a hand-made raw silk white dress, both families, hundreds of photos and a filling tea-total vegan reception. It ended in a long and content drive down the dark A21; we wanted to do it all over again.
From Mrs Guest's warm house, in a Hawkhurst readying itself for another Weald winter, we laughed and walked the fields and planned and lived in a constant state of rampant horniness.
Next morning it was up early and off to work. We promised ourselves a conventional honeymoon – one day. But for that we'd have to wait 25 years.
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