‘I do like her. I wish I had her as a granny,’ I said wistfully.
I didn’t have any proper grannies. Dad’s mum had died when I was still a baby. Mum’s mum lived in Spain somewhere with a new husband, but she’d never seemed very interested in me. She’d never got on with Mum either.
‘Maybe Miss Bloomfield wishes she had a little granddaughter just like you,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, try a bit of toast and honey if you really can’t finish your cornflakes.’
I did my best, and then went to have my bath. I washed my hair too. I wished I could style it properly. I couldn’t help remembering the way Mum sometimes played hairdressers with me and gave me elaborate topknots. I brushed my damp hair and fiddled around with it this way and that, but it didn’t work. In the end I just let it hang down to my shoulders, and gave my fringe an extra brushing so it wouldn’t go all kinky. At least it was soft and shiny.
Then I put on the raspberry-pink underwear and the raspberry-pink dress and the raspberry-pink shoes, and stood back and looked at myself in the mirror.
‘Do I look OK, Dad?’ I asked, running to show him.
‘Oh, darling! You look as pretty as a picture!’ he said.
‘So do you, Dad. Well, as handsome as a picture,’ I told him.
He was wearing his office suit because he didn’t have any other, but he was wearing a new shirt – a pink new shirt, with a navy and pink tie.
‘I didn’t want to let the side down. I’m the father of the bridesmaid after all,’ said Dad. He looked at his watch. ‘Well, shall we set off? You can’t really do anything wearing that beautiful dress. We don’t want you getting it all creased. We’re going to be very early, but Miss Bloomfield said she’d like a bit of moral support. Pop your jacket on, sweetheart.’
‘Dad!’
‘It’s quite chilly outside. Though thank goodness it isn’t raining.’
‘There’s absolutely no way you can wear a denim jacket over a bridesmaid’s dress!’
‘You can take it off when you get to the church.’
‘No! You have to look right the moment you step outside the house. Do you think Miss Bloomfield will be wearing her fleece over her bridal outfit? I think not!’
‘Well, you’re both going to get goose pimples,’ said Dad, but he didn’t argue further.
We drove over to her house. Dad had cleaned the car specially last night and fixed some white satin ribbon in a cross over the bonnet like a real wedding car. I was bothered about crushing my silky dress, so I sat very still in the back with the skirt spread all around me and then eased myself out of the car.
‘There! You still look pretty as a picture,’ said Dad. He had his hands over his eyes, pretending to be dazzled by my beauty.
We walked up the path to Miss Bloomfield’s house. We knocked. We knocked again. We looked at each other. We knocked a third time.
‘Perhaps she’s a bit deaf,’ said Dad.
‘But she answered her door almost immediately before,’ I said. I pushed open the stiff letterbox. I saw part of the hallway, but it was empty. ‘Miss Bloomfield!’ I called loudly. ‘Miss Bloomfield, it’s me, Tilly, and my dad.’
There was a muffled sound. I waited a few seconds – and then Miss Bloomfield came towards the door. She was wearing something large in faded blue. It looked like a dressing gown.
She opened the door, but only a chink. ‘Hello, Tilly. Hello, Mr Andrews,’ she said. Her voice was husky.
‘Oh, Miss Bloomfield, aren’t you very well?’ I asked.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I – I won’t invite you in just in case you catch anything. I think I’d better go straight back to bed.’
‘But you can’t! It’s your wedding day!’ I said.
‘I don’t think there’s going to be a wedding,’ said Miss Bloomfield, and a tear trickled down her pale cheek. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She tried to close the door, but Dad gently held on to it, stopping her.
‘Let us come in and make you a cup of tea,’ he said softly. ‘You look as if you could do with one.’
He went inside, holding Miss Bloomfield’s arm, helping her along to the kitchen. I followed them, my heart thumping. No wedding! So I couldn’t show off my raspberry-pink bridesmaid’s dress after all. Then I noticed the slump of Miss Bloomfield’s small shoulders and I felt horribly guilty. It was far, far worse for poor Miss Bloomfield.
Dad sat her at her kitchen table. He put the kettle on and found the willow-pattern teapot and the matching cups and saucers. He looked at me and made a little waving motion, indicating that I should go over to Miss Bloomfield. I shuffled towards her shyly, not quite knowing what to do.
She gave a little snorty sniff and then murmured an embarrassed apology. My arm went out automatically and I patted her shaking shoulder. She felt very small and frail underneath the bulky blue quilting.
‘There now,’ said Dad, pouring boiling water into the teapot. He stirred the tea leaves around. When he poured the tea, it came out a very pale lemon colour.
‘Oh dear. I don’t think I gave it time to brew. Tilly and I make do with tea bags and mugs at home. It looks very weak.’
‘So do I!’ said Miss Bloomfield, trying to make a little joke. She fumbled in her dressing-gown pocket and then dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled lace hankie.
‘So the wedding is definitely all off?’ Dad asked gently.
‘Maybe. No, definitely. I just don’t know,’ said Miss Bloomfield helplessly.
Dad looked at his watch. ‘Well, we’ve got just under an hour for you to think about it,’ he said.
‘What’s happened, Miss Bloomfield?’ I asked, unable to bear not knowing any more. ‘I thought you were so looking forward to marrying Mr Flower.’
‘I was, I was,’ said Miss Bloomfield, having to dab her eyes again.
‘Did you have a terrible argument?’ I asked.
Dad shook his head at me. ‘Tilly, it’s none of our business,’ he said.
Miss Bloomfield was nodding. ‘Just last night. I can’t believe it. We’ve never had a cross word before. We’ve been such friends, Albert and me, always getting on fine and dandy. And we were getting on so well last night too. We had an early supper at his house, so I could then help him pack for our honeymoon. It was fish and chips, from the shop up the way. We generally have that when we eat at Albert’s, though it’s always a little greasy and tends to give me indigestion. So I said that I’d cook him a nice piece of steamed plaice with new potatoes in the future, and I’d make sure he had good home-cooking. He got a bit shirty and said he’d always thought of steamed fish as invalid food and there was nothing wrong with bought fish and chips – it was his favourite meal.’
‘Oh, that’s exactly the sort of argument Matty and I have. She’s my best friend,’ I said. ‘But we always make up afterwards.’
‘But this was just the start, you see. He said my cooking was all very well, very prettily done, but he actually preferred takeaways, especially Indian meals. Well, I took umbrage at that, because I can’t bear curries. They play havoc with my tummy and make the house reek for days, and I said as much. Then I had a bit of a sulk myself because I pride myself on my cooking, but I tried to stay pleasant. I said I’d go into his bedroom to start on his packing and he said he’d do it himself. So we had the silliest argument about that.’
‘Yep, just like Matty and me,’ I said.
‘It was a bit of a shock when I saw the state of his bedroom. So untidy! Newspapers and old socks and dirty coffee mugs every which way, and the bed not even made properly. And his so-called packing! He’d just flung his shirts in the bottom of his case where they’d get all creased and shoved his shoes on top, would you believe! So I tipped it all out and started folding the shirts properly, and he came in, and instead of being grateful said I was being childish. So I got a bit waspish then, and he said very unpleasantly that he was being hen-pecked before he was even married.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Dad.
‘I
was so upset I blurted out that maybe we should call the whole wedding off in that case, and I stormed out of the door. I thought he’d run after me. Or at least call round at my house ten minutes later. But he didn’t. And I certainly wasn’t going to go grovelling to him. I hardly slept all night, worrying. And then this morning I tried phoning but he didn’t reply. So he obviously doesn’t want to make up.’ Miss Bloomfield burst into fresh tears. ‘And now it seems so silly. I don’t know how I could have spoiled all my chances over a plate of fish and chips! I’d eat nothing else for the rest of my days if only I could share my life with Albert.’
‘I’m sure he’s feeling just as wretched as you,’ said Dad. ‘Why don’t you give him another ring? Or even get dressed and pop round?’
‘I’m not going to go running after him!’ Miss Bloomfield insisted, shaking her head so that her curls bobbed about. ‘If he really wanted to marry me, he’d be round here knocking at my door, wouldn’t he?’
And at that very moment there were three loud knocks on the door.
‘Aha!’ said Dad. ‘Right on cue!’
‘It won’t be him. I’m sure it won’t be him. It’ll probably be the postman, or one of the neighbours, or – or—’ Miss Bloomfield gabbled.
There were three more loud knocks.
‘Why don’t you go and see?’ said Dad. ‘Or he might give up and go away.’
Miss Bloomfield literally jumped up, for all she was an old lady. She ran into the hall, her old slippers falling off in the process. We followed her and Dad gripped my hand as she opened the door. I clutched him back.
Please let it be Mr Flower! I wished as hard as I could.
Chapter Eleven
IT WAS MR FLOWER, hardly visible behind an enormous bunch of purple irises and a giant pink balloon with the words Forgive Me! in silver lettering.
‘Oh, Albert!’ Miss Bloomfield gasped.
‘Dearest Iris. Will you?’ He bobbed the balloon. ‘I am so, so sorry. I can’t understand what got into me. I don’t know how I could have been so silly. And, tell the truth, I’m heartily sick of takeaway food and I can’t wait to eat your delicious meals every day. Just call it pre-wedding nerves.’
‘I was so silly too, storming out like a hysterical young girl. But I did so hope you’d come after me.’
‘I thought I would only make it worse. I couldn’t stand the thought of any further cross words. I was so upset with myself I hardly slept.’
‘Me too, me too!’
‘And so I thought I’d rush out to the shops first thing this morning to give you a surprise. I had to go to three florist shops to find the irises, but I’d set my heart on getting them.’
‘So that’s why you didn’t answer your phone!’
‘You phoned me?’
‘To beg you to forgive me. And when you didn’t answer, I thought the wedding was all off, so I didn’t even bother to get dressed this morning. I didn’t know how to get hold of little Tilly here, and I couldn’t face telling all our friends that the wedding was off. I just went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head.’
‘But . . . is the wedding off?’ asked Mr Flower. ‘Please say you’ll still marry me, Iris.’
‘If you’ll still have me, Albert,’ she said.
Dad looked at his watch. ‘Then you’ll have to get a move on! You’re due at the church in ten minutes!’
Miss Bloomfield gave a little shriek. She looked down at her old dressing gown and then ran one hand through her tousled silver curls.
‘Oh my Lord! What must I look like!’ she said.
‘You look truly beautiful,’ said Mr Flower gallantly. ‘I’m a very lucky man.’
‘Why don’t you stroll to the church, Mr Flower, while we let Miss Bloomfield get ready. You can explain if she’s a little late. I’ll drive her and Tilly to the church,’ said Dad.
‘You’re a gentleman, sir,’ said Mr Flower, and he gave Dad a funny little salute.
Then he scurried off, while Miss Bloomfield rushed to the bathroom. I tied the Forgive Me! balloon to a table leg and then went to find a jug big enough for the flowers.
‘I’ll fill it, Tilly. You don’t want to risk splashing your pretty dress with water,’ said Dad.
‘Oh! My dress! They didn’t even say they liked it!’ I said, holding out the raspberry-pink skirts sadly.
‘I think they only had eyes for each other,’ said Dad. ‘But I keep telling you that you look absolutely gorgeous. Good enough to eat. Ooh, yum yum, a wonderful girl-sized raspberry lolly. Let me eat you all up before you melt!’ said Dad, smacking his lips.
I giggled. ‘Oh, Dad, I do like it when you’re funny!’
‘Then I’ll try to be funny more often,’ he said. He looked at his watch again. ‘How long do you think it will take Miss Bloomfield to get ready? Your mum used to take hours, remember?’
I nodded. ‘And then sometimes when we thought she was ready she’d suddenly change her mind and re-do her hair and put different clothes on.’
‘Well, let’s hope Miss Bloomfield’s not the same, or she really will miss her own wedding,’ said Dad.
‘No I won’t!’ she called. We heard her coming out of her bathroom and tearing into her bedroom. ‘I’m not going to miss this wedding for all the tea in China.’
‘Or all the coffee in Brazil,’ said Dad.
‘Or – or all the water in the tap,’ I said.
‘Two minutes and I’ll be ready!’ Miss Bloomfield shouted.
She was as good as her word. She was wearing her pink-and-white outfit with very pretty pink shoes with little heels, just like mine.
‘We’ve got the same shoes, nearly!’ I said delightedly.
‘Mine pinch my poor old feet – but who cares? Us girls have to suffer to be beautiful. And, Tilly dear, you really do look beautiful in that lovely frilly dress. My, my! I’m so lucky to have you as my bridesmaid.’
‘You look beautiful too, Miss Bloomfield,’ I said. She really did. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were flushed pink, and she’d put a dab of lipstick on her smiley mouth. Her curls were fluffed out so that they looked like a silver halo round her head. She clutched her pink rosebud bouquet as if it were a pretty handbag containing her life savings.
‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, dears,’ she said. ‘Am I very late, Mr Andrews?’
‘Better late than never,’ said Dad, offering her his arm.
He escorted us both to the car. Old folk were leaning out of their windows, watching.
‘Good luck, Iris! Have a happy day! My, you look a picture! He’s a lucky man!’ they called cheerily. Miss Bloomfield’s cheeks went even pinker as she gave them a wave.
Then we drove to St John’s Church and Dad helped us both out of the car. There was an elderly lady waiting in the porch in a navy lace dress that was a bit too short. She had matching dark-blue eye shadow and too much very red lipstick. She looked a bit like Princess Powerful when Matty had scribbled on her with felt pen.
‘Oh my, there’s Julie dolled up to the nines!’ Miss Bloomfield murmured.
Julie was going through a little pantomime, tapping her wrist to indicate the time and waving her hand in the air to suggest Miss Bloomfield should hurry up.
‘Wherever have you been, Iris?’ she hissed as we got closer. ‘It’s ten past twelve! We’ve been hanging around for ages. How could you keep poor Albert waiting? He’s still in great demand, you know. He might have chosen one of us instead!’
Miss Bloomfield gave her a sharp look which clearly meant As if!
‘It’s the bride’s prerogative to be a little late for her wedding,’ said Dad.
‘And who are you?’ asked Julie. ‘And who’s this lovely little bridesmaid?’
‘They’re family,’ said Miss Bloomfield firmly. ‘Could you hold my bouquet for me, Tilly?’ Then she looked at Dad. ‘I wonder, would you escort me down the aisle, dear?’
‘I’d be delighted to,’ he said.
They edged round Julie and I
followed, giving my raspberry silk skirts a quick fluff. Organ music started up and we processed forward, little Miss Bloomfield hanging onto Dad’s arm, me following two paces behind. I kept my head up, walking slowly, concentrating hard on not turning my ankles in Matty’s pink heels. My hands were suddenly damp with nerves and I had to hang on tight to the rosebud bouquet.
The wedding guests were all in the first three rows, craning round to see Miss Bloomfield. They all smiled and nodded their heads appreciatively because she looked so pretty in her pink and white. Then they looked at me – and smiled even more! They muttered to each other.
‘What a little darling!’
‘Did you ever see such a poppet?’
‘Such a beautiful dress – and she sets it off a treat!’
I felt my heart thumping hard with joy beneath my raspberry-pink silk bodice. They thought I looked lovely. Me!
Mr Flower stood at the front of the church, gazing at Miss Bloomfield as if she were an angel stepped down from the stained-glass windows. He took her hand and she looked up at him radiantly.
I sat down in the front pew beside Dad. He gave me a wink and a little thumbs-up. Julie came tiptoeing elaborately up the aisle and sat beside us. She bent forward to whisper to me, her violet perfume making my nose tickle.
‘What a pretty frock, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs Robinson. My husband passed away three years ago. I’m Iris’s dearest friend. I offered to be her matron of honour but she said she wanted to keep things very simple. She didn’t breathe a word about a little bridesmaid. So, are you Iris’s great-niece?’
Dad leaned forward, his finger to his lips, because the vicar had started his Dearly Beloved speech. Julie subsided huffily. I wriggled forward on my seat, listening to the words. I imagined Mum standing beside Dad at the altar, with me as their bridesmaid. I could see Dad there, I could see me – but Mum was very hazy. I couldn’t picture her in a smart pink-and-white outfit. I knew she’d never wear a proper long white bride’s dress. Mum wore short dresses or tight jeans, the last things to wear at a wedding. And it wasn’t just Mum’s clothes. I couldn’t get her face to assume the right expression. I’d never seen her looking up at Dad as if he were the most wonderful man in the whole world.
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