‘I, Michael George, take thee, Janina, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward . . .’

Janina. Janina? Wexford had supposed her name was Jennifer. What sort of parents called a daughter Janina? Turks? Fans of Dumas? He leaned forward to get a good look at these philonomatous progenitors. They looked ordinary enough, Mr Ireland apparently exhausted by the effort of giving the bride away, Jenny’s mother making use of the lace handkerchief provided for the specific purpose of crying into it those tears of joy and loss. What romantic streak had led them to dismiss Elizabeth and Susan and Anne in favour of – Janina?

‘Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. Forasmuch as Michael George and Janina have consented together in holy wedlock . . .’

Had they been as adventurous in the naming of their son? All Wexford could see of him was a broad back, a bit of profile, and now a hand. The hand was passing a large white handkerchief to his mother. Wexford found himself being suddenly yanked to his feet to sing a hymn.

‘O, Perfect Love, all human thought transcending,

Lowly we kneel in prayer before Thy throne . . .’

These words had the effect of evoking from Mrs Ireland audible sobs. Her son – hadn’t Burden said he was in publishing? – looked embarrassed, turning his head. A young woman, strangely dressed in black with an orange hat, edged past the publisher to put a consoling arm round his mother.

‘O Lord, save Thy servant and Thy handmaid.’

‘Who put their trust in Thee,’ said Dora and most of the rest of the congregation.

‘O Lord, send them help from Thy holy place.’

Wexford, to show team spirit, said, ‘Amen,’ and when everyone else said, ‘And evermore defend them,’ decided to keep quiet in future.

Mrs Ireland had stopped crying. Wexford’s gaze drifted to his own daughters, Sheila singing lustily, Sylvia, the Women’s Liberationist, with less assurance as if she doubted the ethics of lending her support to so archaic and sexist a ceremony. His grandsons were beginning to fidget.

‘Almighty God, who at the beginning did create our first parents, Adam and Eve . . .’

Dear Mike, thought Wexford with a flash of sentimentality that came to him perhaps once every ten years, you’ll be OK now. No more carnal lusts conflicting with a puritan conscience, no more loneliness, no more worrying about those selfish kids of yours, no more temptation-of-St-Anthony stuff. For is it not ordained as a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication, that such persons as have not the gift of continency may marry and keep themselves undefiled?

‘For after this manner in the old time the holy women who trusted in God . . .’

He was quite surprised that they were using the ancient form. Still, the bride had promised to obey. He couldn’t resist glancing at Sylvia.

‘. . . being in subjection to their own husbands . . .’