When everyone had gone, Polly stood in the middle of the kitchen. It looked as though it had been ransacked.
Bel, who had thought of just about everything, had left a little nip of brandy in a sherry glass on the table, along with a mint next to it.
Polly knocked it back in one go, before popping the mint imperial into her mouth.
She took a deep breath.
It was finally happening.
She was marrying Tommy.
She was marrying the man she loved.
A man whose love had taken her completely by surprise that day in the yard two and a half years ago.
Feeling a little dizzy and short of breath, she sat down on the kitchen chair. She jumped on hearing the blare of George’s horn. His arrival was followed by the shouts and jubilant cries of the neighbours’ children.
She stood up.
She didn’t think she had ever been this excited, nervous and happy all at once.
Picking up her bouquet, she walked to the front door and stepped out into the brilliant sunlight that had appeared late morning. Its rays seemed to reflect the white of the snow that was clearly determined to stay put.
George was standing ramrod straight. He had the passenger door open and was looking every bit the high-ranking and highly decorated army officer that Lily had wanted to show the world.
Arthur was sitting in the back, the window down, chatting to the rosy-faced children who had gathered round.
Polly took a deep breath, hooked the length of her veil over her arm, hitched up her wedding dress and carefully walked the few yards to her carriage.
Before driving off, George adhered to the age-old custom of throwing pennies from the car as they made to leave.
Only, George, being George, was throwing silver rather than copper.
His argument being that it was Christmas, after all.