LITMIR.BIZ

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hors d’oeuvres. Until everyone went into the marquee for the meal, Peaches and Mary were kept busy with a steady stream of washing up.

      The marquee had been set out with twelve tables, each with eight place settings. Each table was named after a precious stone – diamond, ruby, sapphire, amethyst, amber, opal, and so on – and in order to avoid family embarrassments, there was a strict seating plan. Guests were to eat their meal to the gentle sound of a string quartet.

      The top table, at which the family wedding party sat, was tastefully decorated with huge vases of fresh flowers at the front, and the toastmaster was on hand to make sure that everything was done decently and in the correct order. Mariah Fitzgerald knew her daughter’s wedding would be the talk of the golf club and county set for months to come, so Dr Fitzgerald and the best man would not be allowed to move until the toastmaster had given them their cue.

      The catering company had a separate tent on the other side of the shrubbery where a small team of cooks was already busy producing the meal with all the efficiency of an army field kitchen. All the washing up was to be done in the house kitchen and the team of waiters and waitresses would bring in the dirty crockery. They would send it back to Bentalls once it had been washed and repacked in the various boxes.

      Dottie gave her little team a piece from one of her cakes and they sat down for a well earned cup of tea. They had been friends since the war years when they had worked together on the farm. Their friendship had deepened when Mary was widowed. It was ironic that Able had gone all through the war, only to be killed on his motorbike near Lancing. Billy was only just over five at the time and Maureen three and Susan eighteen months. Dottie and Peaches pulled together to help Mary through.

      ‘Well, at least the rain held off,’ Dottie said.

      ‘They say it’ll clear up in time for the Carnival,’ said Mary.

      ‘I could do with this,’ said Peaches, sipping her tea. ‘I still don’t feel much like eating in the morning.’

      ‘Not long now before the baby comes,’ said Mary.

      ‘Seven weeks,’ said Peaches leaning back and stroking her rounded tummy. ‘I can’t wait to get into pretty dresses again.’

      ‘I bet it won’t take you long either, you lucky devil,’ Mary said good-naturedly. ‘I looked eight months gone before I even got pregnant. Five kids later and just look at me.’ She wobbled her tummy. ‘Mary five bellies.’ They all giggled.

      ‘And your Tom loves you just the way you are,’ said Dottie, squeezing her shoulder as she leaned over the table with the sponge cake.

      ‘Our Freda is getting fat,’ said Elsie. Her eyes shone like little black buttons and Dottie guessed this was the first time she’d been included in ‘grown-up’ conversation.

      ‘I wouldn’t say that when Freda’s around,’ Dottie cautioned with a gentle smile. ‘She’d be most upset.’

      ‘I can’t wait for the wedding,’ said Elsie.

      ‘Michael has certainly kept us waiting a long time,’ Mary agreed.

      ‘But I wouldn’t call him slow,’ Peaches said, half under her breath. The baby kicked and she looked down at her stomach. ‘Ow, sweet pea, careful what you’re doing with those boots of yours, will you?’

      Elsie’s eyes grew wide. ‘I didn’t know babies had boo …’

      ‘It’s hard to imagine Michael old enough to get married,’ Dottie said quickly.

      ‘Come on, hen,’ Mary laughed. ‘He’s only two years younger than you!’

      She was right, but somehow, in Dottie’s mind, Michael had always remained that gangly fourteen year old in short trousers who had followed them around on the farm. It was hard to believe he was almost twenty-five.

      ‘I can’t wait to be a bridesmaid,’ said Elsie.

      ‘It’s very exciting, isn’t it?’ Dottie smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll look very pretty.’

      ‘Are you doing the dresses, Dottie?’ Mary asked.

      Dottie shook her head. ‘Not enough time.’

      The older women gave her a knowing look and she blushed. She hadn’t meant to say that and she hoped no one would draw attention to her remark in front of Elsie. She poured Peaches some more tea.

      ‘I think Freda will make Michael a lovely wife,’ said Dottie.

      ‘Oh!’ cried Peaches. ‘This little blighter is going to be another Stanley Matthews.’

      ‘Pretty lively, isn’t he?’ said Mary.

      ‘Can I feel?’ asked Elsie.

      Peaches took her hand and laid it over her bump.

      ‘What’s it like, having a baby?’ Elsie wondered.

      ‘I tell you what,’ laughed Peaches. ‘I won’t be doing this again.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘That’s enough, Elsie,’ her aunt scolded.

      Elsie pouted and took her hand away.

      ‘Who did you say was looking after your Gary, hen?’ asked Mary.

      ‘My mother,’ said Peaches. ‘She can’t get enough of him.’

      ‘Tom’s got all mine,’ grinned Mary. ‘That’ll keep him out of mischief. At least you don’t have to worry about who’s going to look after the kids, Dottie.’

      Dottie bit her lip. Oh, Mary … if only you knew how much that hurt …

      ‘Did I tell you?’ she said, deliberately changing the subject. ‘I had a letter from Sylvie yesterday.’ She took it out of her apron pocket and handed it to Peaches. ‘She’s coming to Michael’s wedding.’

      Peaches clapped her hands. ‘Sylvie! Oh how lovely. She’s so glamorous. I really didn’t think she’d come, did you? We’ll have a grand time going over old times. Remember that time we put Sylvie’s fox fur stole at the bottom of Charlie’s bed?’

      Dottie roared with laughter. ‘And he thought it was a rat!’

      ‘Jumped out of bed so fast he knocked the blinking jerry over,’ Peaches shrieked.

      ‘Good job it wasn’t full,’ laughed Dottie.

      ‘Which one was Charlie?’ asked Mary.

      ‘You remember Charlie,’ said Dottie. ‘One of those boys billeted with Aunt Bessie and me. The one that went down with The Hood.’

      ‘Dear God, yes,’ murmured Mary.

      ‘And is your Reg all right with her staying at yours?’ Mary wanted to know.

      ‘Haven’t asked him yet,’ said Dottie. In truth she wasn’t looking forward to broaching the subject.

      Mary glanced over at Peaches and then at Dottie. ‘Why doesn’t he ever bring you over to the Jolly Farmer, hen?’

      Dottie felt her face colour. She never went with Reg because he said a woman’s place was in the home. Mary’s pointed remark had flustered her. She brushed some crumbs away from the table in an effort to hide how she was feeling. ‘I’ve never been one for the drink.’

      ‘But we have some grand sing-songs and a good natter,’ Mary insisted.

      Dottie took a bite of coffee cake and wiped the corner of her mouth with her finger. They’d obviously been talking about it. ‘I usually have something to do in the evenings,’ she said. ‘You know how it is.’

      ‘You should come, Dottie,’ said Peaches. ‘You don’t have to be a boozer. I only ever drink lemonade.’

      ‘I can’t think what you get up to at home,’ Mary remarked to Dottie. ‘There’s

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