.... Five past three, and still no sign. Bride's prerogative, I suppose.

 

My head is pounding like a jackhammer hard at work. Just one to steady the nerves quickly became an all-nighter, but a stop-off en route this morning for the hair of the dog is proving a lifesaver.

 

Oh Lord, this sweltering heat is unbearable. I blame my mother and her colossal Child of Prague statue. Irish lore claims it possesses the power to halt the rain if placed on the doorstep the night before the big day. In the early hours of this morning, the damn thing nearly got decapitated when I stumbled over the threshold in a drunken stupor.

 

Father flicks his wrist to cast a curious eye over the hands of time. He glares at me while tapping impatiently at the watch face. Then he inhales and exhales a heavy, exaggerated sigh.

 

I quickly look away and let my focus fall firmly upon Christ on the cross.

 

Where the hell are you?

Is this payback for my rehearsal lateness?

 

Vows were exchanged that day in preparation for today, except they weren't made between me and you. You and Father were furious, neither of you buying my excuse of bumper-to-bumper traffic from the Midlands. My tardiness prompted some stern words on punctuality from Padre, and his disciplinary lecture travelled in only one direction as he gave me the stink eye.

 

With my eyes firmly fixed on Jesus, I ask my best man, using the skills of a ventriloquist:

 

"What time is it?"

 

"Five past," he announces, with little to no tact.

 

I give him a look that says, What the fuck?

 

All I get in return is a shrug, a stupid grin and a loud:

"WHAT?"

 

I shake my head in disgust and quickly return my attention to Jesus, not without catching the wide-eyed look of disapproval from the devil dodger.

 

I'm boiling beneath my morning suit as the sun blasts its heat through the panes depicting the Stations of the Cross. Somehow, the light reflects those stories onto me and everyone in attendance, like a film projector throwing images onto a silver screen.

 

I fear a stain on my collar under such extreme pressure, so I loosen my tie and fan it out.

 

The meeting-the-parents moment was a piece of piss compared with this painstaking wait. But you were by my side that day, ready to step in if the third degree got too much for me.

 

In fairness, your mam is a lovely lady.

I glance to my left and there she is, sitting pride of place in the top pew in a salmon-pink suit, with a wide-brimmed hat to complete the ensemble. She catches my eye and throws me a warm smile of reassurance.

 

I smile back.

 

Your mother is sitting alone, waiting for your sisters to arrive in their royal-blue dresses, carrying great sprays of white lilies and coronations. Your vision, of course. Everything coordinated with the groomsmen's waistcoats and buttonholes.

 

Mine is different from the others, a pinkish colour, not unlike your mam's satin suit.

 

She gives me a little nod, as if reminding me to stand up straight and behave myself.

 

I do.

 

This whole wedding malarkey feels a little like a theatre performance, where we all play our roles like actors on a stage. Maybe that's a big part of my panic. I missed the practice run.

 

Thank God my bride stuck with the traditional vows of love, honour and obey. Those I remember off by heart, so it should only be a matter of repeat after me.

 

Now, living by them vows might be a whole different story if she asks me to trade in my GL1800 Honda Gold Wing for a people carrier someday soon, when our beautiful babies arrive.

 

Obeying that may prove impossible.

 

That motorbike is my baby.

 

And that bike is like a precious family heirloom. She's brought many a thrill to us both in our courting days, you riding pillion with your arms wrapped around my waist. The heat between our legs, the wind in our hair, conquering the open roads into majestic sunsets and glorious sunrises.

 

The children's choir begins.

As a baby bawls out of pure boredom.

I foolishly turn to find the source of the ferocious screams, only to be met by the protective stare of a clearly very tired, hot and fed-up first-time mum.

 

I quickly look away.

 

I scan the garden of floral frocks with matching feathery headpieces. I don't even know who I'm looking for anymore. All I know is that I want to see you.

 

Five minutes.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Twenty-five is taking the Mick.

 

The two Fathers are now hopping. The one behind the altar looks like a raging bull ready to pounce on the red flag, which, unfortunately, is me.

 

Meanwhile, me auld lad is sweating like a whore at Sunday Mass and probably dying for a fag.

 

A whisper runs through the congregation.

Then another.

The poor bastard has been stood up.

The bitch is a no-show.

Our so-called family and friends have gone from hero to zero in no time. From Ya poor bastard, tying the knot, said in jest upon arrival, to calling my bride-to-be a bitch because she's running late.

 

Right?

 

I look over at your mam for reassurance. She's beginning to look distressed by the delay and all the muttering around her.

 

That's when I man up.

 

You're not by my side yet, but I've got your back because you've always had mine.

 

I make a full one-eighty-degree turn to face the flaming fire of fury among our family and friends....

 

.... Mother of God, what is this fool going to say now? He's clearly half cut.

 

I'm oh so familiar with that after-effects look. You had to go and marry a man like your daddy. Is that why you're late?

 

Second thoughts! Nah, you'd never bring such shame on our family. Probably caught behind an auld farmer on a tractor. Your father and I would've preferred you to marry a man with road frontage, but it was a carpenter that caught your eye. I suppose the chances of finding a farmer in San Francisco were slim to none. If there's no land to inherit, then away with you to London or the land of Lady Liberty to make a living. The Golden Gate was your destination, where you met your man in Molly Malone's on the corner of Nineteenth and Sunset.

 

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what's he going to say?

 

And you'd think he'd have got a proper haircut for the day that's in it. His mother catches my stare and gives me a sinister smile, as if she can read my thoughts of criticism. I fear my daughter will have her hands full with this in-law and her precious pet of a son.

 

I smile back and quickly return my attention to the man of the hour, who is clearly shitting a brick, standing there gobsmacked like a deer in headlights.

 

God only knows what will come out of him.

 

Where are you? When I left the house with your younger brother, you were pretty much ready after a morning of mayhem and madness.

 

Please God, you haven't bolted.

 

Hardly. You went to such lengths to organise this day. One would even think you weren't the bride as you ran around like a blue-arsed fly this morning, making last-minute touches. I smile at the earlier image of you in your petticoat, pinning white ribbons and bows on freshly washed family cars to achieve a picture of nuptial bliss.

 

Of course, if I could get a hold of you right now, I'd whip you a new one for keeping Father waiting. Your pursuit of perfection is playing havoc with his patience, though he seems to be projecting all his hostility towards your soon-to-be husband.

 

Or not.

 

If you don't get your arse in gear.

 

And this Godforsaken heat is not helping. I feel like Miss Piggy in this so-called salmon suit. I wanted to wear navy, but oh no, you might as well be caught in the black trap as wear navy, was the consensus among the family. And this was no black-and-white theme, according to you. A rainbow wedding was the vision for your dream day.

 

I live in black because it gives the appearance of a leaner me, but big is beautiful were your exact words, and all eyes will be on the mother of the bride. So pretty in pink was picked to match your man's waistcoat and your tiger lilies.

 

I fear all eyes will be on me, alright, but not for the right reasons. The heat of the sun beats the beads from my body, forming what feels like a wet patch in the region of my derrière. It'll be highly visible by the time I rise to stand beside your father and give your hand in marriage.

 

Maybe a bigger emergency will overshadow mine.

 

I'm such a mean mother to even think such a thing.

 

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn my head slightly to lend an ear to my son in the pew behind.

 

"What is going on?"

 

I shake my head, knowing no more than he does, and look back at the bridegroom. He's straightening his waistcoat as though preparing himself for whatever comes next.

 

That's when I hear...

Da-da-da-daaa...

I turn quickly towards the threshold.

No bride.

 

I shoot a what is the meaning of this? look towards the organist and singer. Two hands of apology go up for the false start.

 

But then I see the royal-blue silhouettes in the archway.

My four daughters.

They're here at last.

Hope.

 

That's when I hear the familiar giggle of my granddaughter, another victim of the pink fiasco, though she seems full of folly, swinging around like a little princess in her silk chiffon frock. White rose petals tumble from the ball of ribbon around her wrist with every twirl.

 

My gorgeous first and only grandchild, Samantha. Ssm for short. Such a wonderful joy it is to be a grandmother. And please God, many more will follow if we ever get this show on the road.

 

And then she spots me.

In her innocence, she screams at the top of her little lungs:

"Hey, Granny! She's coming soon. She had to go potty!"

The icebreaker we all needed.

 

Everyone bursts out laughing at her antics. Even Father chuckles at the cause of your delay.

 

My eldest daughter, in her role as maid of honour, moves to mediate the misunderstanding.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for the delay, but the bride drank a little too much tea this morning and had to make a quick trip to the Ladies just as we were leaving the house. As you can imagine, the gown had to come off before such a visit, which was no easy task, believe me — many hooks and eyes. So, all I can say to her bridegroom: good luck with that tonight."

 

Roars of laughter bellow through the church.

 

The best man will have his work cut out for him to beat that speech.

 

Father is even in stitches as he gives my future son-in-law a sneaky wink. The groom smiles back, and I'd say he takes it as a sign of good faith — that perhaps their history can finally be forgotten, and they can move forward on a happier note and get this knot tied.

 

He smiles, and I'd say on the inside he's thanking God my daughter has stepped into the fray to save the day.

 

I wonder what he was going to say.

Never mind.

Eve made her mother proud.

 

"Now, if you can bear with us..."

 

Evie is interrupted by her giddy daughter screaming:

 

"She is here! She is here! She's here, here, here..."

 

"Here am I."