We married on Saturday, 12 May 1984, at Fareham Register Office.
Mum had been awake before me. I knew this because the kettle was already boiling and she had put my dress on the front bedroom door, away from Dad, Peter and anything they might carry past it.
The dress was cream, calf-length and bought from a shop in Fareham after three Saturdays of looking. Mum had preferred one with more lace. I had preferred one with none. We met in the middle, which was becoming useful practice for marriage.
Dad had washed the Cortina the evening before. On the morning, he checked the tyres and oil. We were travelling less than six miles, but Dad believed mechanical failure was most likely when somebody had dressed properly.
Peter arrived early and brought his camera. He had been asked to take informal photographs. Mum repeated the word ‘informal’ in a way that meant she expected them to be good.
Alan was already at the register office when we arrived. He wore a dark suit and a tie I had chosen because his first choice had a pattern that moved when viewed from a distance.
He looked relieved when he saw me. I was pleased by this and chose not to ask what he had thought might happen.
The registrar checked our names and asked whether all the details were correct. Dad leaned forward as if he had been invited to help. Mum pulled him back by the sleeve.
The ceremony was short. I knew it would be, but the speed still surprised me. We stood where we were told, repeated the words and signed the register. My hand shook enough to make the final letter of Carter larger than the others.
Alan signed in the same careful writing he used on engineering forms.
When the registrar said we were married, everybody smiled and moved at once. There were handshakes, kisses and instructions about photographs. Peter took us outside and positioned us near the entrance. Mum noticed a parking sign behind my head and made him start again.
Dad stood beside me for one photograph and asked whether the car was locked.
‘Yes.’
‘You sure?’
‘Alan locked it.’
Dad looked at Alan.
‘Yes,’ Alan said.
That settled the first matter of our marriage.
We had the reception in a function room at a hotel in Fareham. There were close family, relatives and friends from work. We had chosen a meal that most people would eat and a cake that Mum said was large enough without being wasteful.
The seating plan had taken longer than the ceremony. Two relatives who were not speaking had been placed on opposite sides of the room. Both found each other within five minutes and spoke for most of the afternoon.
Peter gave a short speech. He said I had spent years telling him what to do and Alan now had the benefit of that experience. Mum told him afterwards that this was not the tone she had expected.
Dad’s speech was shorter. He thanked everyone for coming, welcomed Alan and told us to look after each other. Then he sat down before anybody could expect a story.
Alan stood. He thanked our parents, the guests and the hotel staff. He had written notes but lost his place after the first paragraph. He put the paper down and said he was pleased I had turned up.
People laughed. I did as well.
‘I knew she would,’ he added.
That was better.
After the meal, photographs and cake, people began leaving in groups. Mum collected cards and checked that nothing had been left behind. Dad carried boxes to the car. Peter asked whether we wanted the photographs quickly or properly. We said properly, which meant several weeks.
Our rented flat was waiting, though we had not moved everything into it. Alan carried me over the threshold because somebody at the reception had said he should. The entrance opened onto a shared hall, and he nearly put me down when a neighbour came through the front door.
‘Carry on,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen weddings.’
Inside, there were two chairs, a bed, a kettle and several boxes. Mum had left milk in the fridge and a note explaining which food needed using first.
We opened three cards, then another four. One contained money and no name. We spent years trying to remember who had handed it to us.
Alan asked whether being married felt different.
I said I had changed my name and eaten two helpings of pudding. He said it was early yet.
On Monday we were going to Shanklin for four nights. Until then, there were boxes to move and people to thank.