The Heaven Ticket

Today Amelie was christened at St Bartholomew’s church. For months we were playing around with the idea of renting a function room and inviting more people, but sadly we have very little disposal income due to nursery fees. So it was only a small affair, immediate family members a couple of friends. We chose St Bartholomew’s because it sat at the foot of Ripponden village. Tucked away on a cobbled road, it has that typical rural charm of having aged well under the ferocity of the elements – character, they call it. There are a lot of people in Ripponden with character. The vicar, a red headed woman with a Eastern European lilt, had attended our home a couple of weeks previous to explain the ceremony and to go through a few formalities. She seemed nice enough and Amelie appeared comfortable enough to pick at the laces of her Nike trainers throughout the visit. As my religious beliefs stretch only so far as to accept a supreme architect and very little else, Carla agreed to have Amelie christened Protestant, and not a Catholic like she. And while I like to think of myself as well prepared and bright, I confused Christian for Catholic, and as such spent most of the time silently cursing my wife for duping me into following the Catholic route instead of the Protestant.

I must admit, I was a little worried Amelie would play up most of the day. She woke up at 5.30am, and fortunately, after a short drive in the car at 8am, she fell back to sleep for an hour. She must have known something was happening because as soon as we dressed her in the ivory Christened dress, she didn’t stop smiling. We had bought her a little hand band too, white with a large white flower on the top. Her shoes were ivory with an embroidered pattern. In the full outfit she appeared much older. A proper little girl. I couldn’t stop smiling back at her in those first few minutes. Carla and I had our pictures taken with Amelie (separately of course), and then we made our way to the church.

For October the skies were surprisingly clear. The church looked impressive and as family and friends arrived, I couldn’t help but feel so very proud that the weather had been kind enough to allow a respite from the usual grey skies and rains, and that I was there, holding my baby daughter, the prettiest girl on the planet, in my arms for all to coo at. Mass lasted an hour, in which two other baptisms were conducted. There was a small play area for children at the back of the church where Amelie spent most of her time drawing on her face with crayons and banging a small wooden chair against the exposed polished floorboards. But considering it was strange venue, with voices united in pious harmony, she was well behaved. She didn’t even flinch when the vicar anointed her brow. We were encouraged to have complimentary tea and biscuits, but we declined and returned to the cottage. There we popped champagne bottles and toasted out little girl’s big day (something Amelie missed having fallen asleep in the car on the way home). My father said he felt like he’d won the lottery with all the champers, and seemed content to take the lion’s share. We stayed at the cottage for about an hour before moving on to the Malt House where we had arranged a sit down meal. I could go into great detail about this, but my lasting memory of it all will be being there among friends and family, and seeing their faces so very happy for us all. Amelie remained the princess throughout, and didn’t demand attention, or affection from any of the guests, yet her beauty and innocence alone demanded it.