The Wedding of the Century
Everyone wants to tell you where they were when John F. Kennedy was shot – in fact they insist on it, as if the telling of the tale also gives them a place in history. I don’t have the luxury of retaliation. I wasn’t born back then. But I do remember where I was when Princess Diana was married, and not everyone can say that after all these years.
A quick glance at the Royal family tree would inform you that Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer tied the knot on the 24th of July, 1981. It was the wedding of the decade – what am I saying? – of the century, and no-one could get enough of it. The summer that she traded her job as kindergarten assistant for a temporary slot as fairy tale princess, my sister and I took school holiday jobs as waitresses, dishwashers and occasional ice cream makers at Berty´s. Berty´s was planted squarely on the edge of our seaside town’s gardens, an oasis historically both tranquil and deeply genteel, but now filled to over-capacity with large groups of French and Italian language students. They lay on the grass next to the bandstand, enveloped in clouds of hazy blue smoke, shivering resentfully under Britain’s poor apology for a sun, radios blaring as if the students were afflicted with some specific continental deafness. They brought us that taste of exotic European culture we so sorely lacked. Berty´s never attracted these students, being far more expensive than McDonalds but providing less ambience.
I worked that entire summer for a slave wage. The Royal Wedding was a highlight for all the temporary staff, not because we were monarchists but because we needed a break from our tedious routine; egg and chips for the endless streams of irritable families on holiday and scones with artificial cream and synthetic jam for the vague elderly ladies trying to recapture a time when all the best families holidayed in our town and service still meant something.
All the casual staff had to work on the day of the wedding, with no paid overtime. The owners clearly felt the chance to serve our country was recompense enough. A few of the regular staff were pressed into service and we were ready to do our duty by the nation. A television was brought in so that no customer would be forced to choose between their daily fix of scrambled eggs and a glimpse of ivory satin.
When Diana emerged from her carriage and floated up the steps of St. Paul’s, the restaurant fell temporarily silent. It was impossible to guess how many artists had been involved in such a lavish creation. Carl, the head grill chef, offered his professional culinary opinion that she looked like a baguette in a crumpled paper bag. He was swiftly silenced by George, the assistant manager, who was watching in rapt and tearful silence. James, our section manager, broke in and pointed out to me tartly that the tray of parfaits in the freezer was nearly empty.
On very rare occasions I was allowed to work in the ice cream section. There was an ice cream machine which faced the main street. This was only for the plebeian takeaway ice creams, those poor relations of the glamorous confections that perched smugly inside the freezers. But it took a certain skill to create a solid enough foundation to support the real Everest of ice creams. After the final jaunty swirl of snow, I experimented with new angles for the chocolate flake, usually perpendicular to the cone as though the ice cream was smoking a joint. Obnoxious customers received a portion as minuscule as was consistent with Trading Standards, with the flake inserted at such a shallow depth and angle that it fell out ten paces up the street, though preferably not less.
It was inside the cafe that my artistic bent found its truest expression. When left alone for half an hour, I produced creations worthy of display in the Tate. First came the perfect frosted parfait glass. In went a lavish spoonful from the catering pack of mixed fruit cocktail, tenderly laced with rich, red sauce from a metal container. A squirt of delicate rosy-pink ice cream and another helping of translucent ruby sauce would be topped with an icy whirl of vanilla and finished with a lavish spray of canned cream and a tablespoon of chopped nuts. I produced infinite variations on this theme and it was fascinating to watch which customer selected each glass. I wondered anxiously if they knew how much artistic tenderness and creative fervour had gone into each one.
