April had tried to thank Vera for being so kind, but the older woman had merely told her she’d been a silly girl to get into such a dilemma, and that no more should be said about it. The early mornings hadn’t proved to be too onerous, and as her time at the exchange was drawing to an end, April was simply grateful to still have a job. As for Bertha, their paths no longer crossed, and any suspicions she might have harboured had been nipped in the bud by Vera’s clever planning.
The two weeks had flown since that emotional meeting with Stan, and although Ethel had made it patently clear that she didn’t approve of April’s subterfuge or her pregnancy, it seemed she was more concerned with Stan’s health. Great changes had been wrought at mealtimes since Ethel had put him on a strict diet, and Stan tried to put a cheerful face on things, but April could tell that he was utterly miserable, and suspected he sneaked a biscuit or two while on his allotment.
Lucinda Downes had returned to Cliffehaven so it was April’s final day at the exchange. It was one of mixed emotions for she would miss coming here each day; miss having something important to do – and even miss Vera Gardener. And yet her plaster cast was due to be taken off today and there was Stan’s wedding to look forward to tomorrow.
A caller came on the line, and as she connected him, Vera came into the room carrying a tea tray. ‘I thought you should have something before you go to the hospital,’ she said. ‘The tea they have in there is like dishwater.’
April thanked her and they sipped the tea in silence until April had to disconnect a call and then put another through. She smiled at Vera as her last few minutes at the exchange ticked away. ‘It will feel strange not coming in any more. I won’t know what to do with myself all day.’
‘I expect Peggy will find something to keep you occupied,’ said Vera. ‘But it’ll be so much easier for you once that plaster is off.’ Her smile was unusually warm. ‘It’s good timing too, what with your Uncle Stan’s wedding tomorrow.’
April smiled back at her. She wasn’t such a bad old stick once you got to know her. ‘It seems Stan’s told everyone that I’m his niece.’
‘You’re family and he loves you,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘And for Stan, family’s the important thing. Everything else can take care of itself.’
April finished the tea, took one last call and removed the headphones. She knew Miss Gardener wouldn’t appreciate any emotional sort of farewell, so stuck out her hand. ‘Thank you again for everything, Miss Gardener. I really appreciate all that you’ve done for me.’
The older woman warmly shook her hand. ‘Goodbye, April, and good luck.’ Before April could reply she’d taken her place before the board and was settling the headphones about her ears. ‘Just make sure you close the front door securely. I don’t want Winston to get out.’
April pulled on her cardigan and headed for the door. Winston eyed her balefully from the front room, and she closed the door firmly on him and sighed. Her working days were over until the baby was born, and after that . . . She shook her head and strode away from the exchange, determined to face whatever fate had in store for her with courage.
Peggy’s day had been filled with chores, and she was grateful to Ron for taking Daisy out, as it meant she could really get on. She’d scrubbed out the bathroom and kitchen, put fresh linen on the beds and even cleaned the windows, for there was something about a lovely June day that energised her and made her want her home to sparkle.
She nodded with satisfaction as she squeezed out the mop, for the hall tiles looked lovely when they were clean, and then carried the bucket out to Ron’s water butt.
‘For goodness’ sake, Peggy,’ said Cordelia from the depths of her deckchair, ‘sit down and draw breath. You’ve been on the go all day.’
‘I’ve still got Daisy’s outfit to iron, and then there’s tea to organise, and the button to sew back on my skirt which I meant to do last night,’ she replied, emptying the bucket and stowing it with the mop in the scullery.
‘You’ll run yourself ragged and be in no state for tomorrow,’ said Cordelia sternly.
‘I’ll be fine. It’s Ron I’m worried about.’ Peggy plumped down on the doorstep and lit a well-earned fag. ‘If he and the others consume as much beer as they usually do on such occasions, we’ll have him rolling home at dawn, and dead to the world until lunchtime.’
‘Then you’d better make sure he has something hearty to line his stomach before he goes out.’
‘Mmm. I just hope Stan doesn’t go overboard after doing so well on Ethel’s diet. It would be a shame after she’s worked so hard to get him well.’
‘I’m sure one night off the wagon won’t hurt him,’ said Cordelia. ‘Ethel will soon bring him into line again.’
They both looked up at the sound of the latch on the back gate and saw April waving her hands in the air. ‘Look,’ she called in delight, ‘no plaster.’
‘How does it feel?’ asked Peggy once she and Cordelia had inspected the slightly pale and withered arm.
April laughed. ‘Rather strange, as if my arm’s so light it will just float away.’
Peggy smiled and patted her cheek. ‘It’s lovely to see you so cheerful, dear, but now I must get on with putting the final touches to our tea.’
‘I’ll help you,’ April replied quickly and they went up the steps into the kitchen, leaving Cordelia to bask in the late afternoon sunshine.
Ron stumped home soon after, and Peggy’s concern over lining his stomach was eased by the fact that he’d treated himself and Daisy to fish, chips, peas and pickled onions at the local British Restaurant. He’d washed it down with three cups of tea and four slices of bread and margarine, and was ready for anything – which in itself was rather worrying, for Peggy knew Ethel didn’t want Stan arriving at the church hungover and looking like death warmed up.
Peggy and April got on with making a pie with the scraps of fish Ron had managed to buy from Fred that morning, and once they’d topped it with a generous layer of mashed potato, it was placed in the slow oven to cook through.
‘I’ll look after Daisy for you if you want to go to Ethel’s party,’ said April as they joined Cordelia in the garden for a cup of tea and watched Daisy playing in the old bathtub Ron had converted into a sandpit.
‘I’m not going to that,’ Peggy replied. ‘It’s for the factory girls, really, and not my cup of tea.’ She smiled at April. ‘But thanks for the offer, dear. I might take it up another time.’
‘Please do,’ she replied earnestly. ‘You’ve done so much for me and I want to repay you somehow.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ murmured Peggy. ‘I do what I do out of love, and don’t expect anything in return.’
As April took the tea things into the kitchen Peggy sat in the last of the sunshine and mulled over all that had happened in the past few weeks. The confirmation that Ethel could be downright nasty when it came to girls like April and Shirley hadn’t come as too much of a shock, for Peggy had long suspected Ethel was that way inclined. Thankfully, Stan had managed to keep his mouth shut, but Peggy was concerned by his blindness to Ethel’s faults, and his willingness to sweep any unpleasantness under the carpet and pretend it didn’t exist.
She shifted in the deckchair, her thoughts making her restless. Stan was a loving, open-hearted man who was simply trying to protect those he loved, but keeping secrets from Ethel – especially such momentous ones – was not the best way to begin a marriage.
She finished her cigarette and crushed it beneath her shoe. Ethel had become very frosty where April was concerned, despite the fact that Stan was clearly delighted to have his niece back in his life and wanted them all to live in harmony. Her whole attitude had grated on Peggy, to the point where she simply couldn’t go to that party tonight and laugh and talk and pretend that everything was all right. And yet it was the knowledge that Stan was probably making the biggest mistake of his life that really upset her, and she was dreading tomorrow’s wedding.
‘That tickles,’ giggled April as she stood on the kitchen chair the next morning.
Fran continued to draw a pencil line down the back of her leg. ‘To be sure, April, it will be worth it. But you must keep still.’
April endured her attentions and then gratefully clambered off the chair. The other girls were still waiting for the gravy browning solution to dry on their legs, and they were standing about the kitchen in their dressing gowns with their hair in rollers, rifling through each other’s make-up bags in the faint hope they might find the end of a lipstick or a bit of eye shadow and mascara. Rationing meant that make-up was in short supply and cost lots of coupons, so everyone was in the same boat.
‘Have you got any beetroot, Peggy?’ asked Ivy.
Peggy looked up from where she was ironing Ron’s best shirt. ‘Beetroot? Whatever for?’
‘It’s a brilliant substitute for lipstick,’ Ivy replied with a giggle. ‘And if you’re really clever, you can even use it as rouge.’
‘Well, I’ve heard it all now,’ said Cordelia, having admired her newly stained legs. ‘When I was a girl we used to use strawberries or raspberries to give our lips a bit of colour. Lipstick was very frowned upon, you know.’
The girls giggled and teased her while Peggy hunted out a jar of beetroot she’d preserved the previous year. ‘Just don’t spill it,’ she warned. ‘I’ll never get the stains out.’
April was relaxed and happy amid the bustle and chatter. It reminded her of her days in Portsmouth when everyone was getting ready for a party. She experienced a momentary pang of sadness as she thought of Paula and then determinedly focused on the present. This was her Uncle Stan’s wedding day, and nothing must be allowed to spoil it. She would even attempt to soften Ethel’s attitude towards her, though going by the way she’d been these past couple of weeks, she suspected it might be a lost cause.
Stan opened his eyes and groggily took in the familiar rafters and plasterwork of his bedroom ceiling. At least he’d made it home last night, he thought gratefully, but he did wish he hadn’t drunk quite so much. It was the whisky chasers Rosie had provided at the end of the rowdy evening that had done the damage and now there was an entire band of drummers marching in his head.
He rolled over and struggled to focus on the bedside clock. When he saw that it was almost eleven, he threw back the bedclothes and leaped to his feet. He swayed alarmingly as the room spun and his head pounded, and he sank back down again until he felt steadier.
Dragging on his dressing gown and gingerly making his way down the narrow staircase, he tottered outside to find his day replacement sitting on a garden chair being closely watched by the cat as he ate what looked like a marmalade sandwich. ‘You should be on the platform waiting for the eleven o’clock,’ he said to the elderly man, whose eyes looked huge behind the very thick lenses of his spectacles.
‘And you should be having a wash and shave and preparing for your wedding,’ he replied with a wry smile. He studied Stan from head to foot as he munched his sandwich. ‘It strikes me someone had a real skinful last night.’
‘Yes, well, a man doesn’t get wed every day,’ Stan muttered. ‘Ethel would kill me if she saw me now.’
‘I can’t say I’d blame her,’ he muttered, wrapping the rest of his sandwiches in newspaper and stuffing them in the pocket of the oversized uniform jacket. ‘You leave the trains to me and concentrate on how you’re going to get through the rest of the day alive,’ he said gruffly before plodding down the path to the station.
Stan ran trembling fingers through his hair, yawned expansively and turned back into his kitchen, almost tripping over the cat as it shot past him. There didn’t seem to be any recurrence of his indigestion, which was a blessing, but his head was still pounding. ‘A cup of tea and a couple of aspirin will soon sort me out,’ he muttered.
He silenced the cat’s strident demands by filling its bowl and then set about trying to sober up. Turning on the cold tap, he ducked his head and gasped as the icy water hammered down. He shook his head and dried it vigorously with a kitchen towel and then made a pot of tea. Leaving it to brew a bit while he used the outside lav he then cleaned his teeth in the kitchen sink and gargled with a peppermint-flavoured mouthwash in the hope it might sweeten his breath and unfur his tongue. Feeling a little better, he sat down to enjoy his tea and mull over the night before – or at least what he could remember of it.
Rosie had laid on a terrific spread at the Anchor, no doubt helped by Ethel having raided the factory canteen kitchen, and Stan had well and truly broken his diet. Ron had rounded up all his old pals, including Chalky White, Fred the Fish and Alf the butcher, and they’d supped their beers and reminisced with stories of their youth, the parts they’d played in the last war, and all the adventures they’d had since. Fran had come in to play a few Irish jigs with the help of some of the visiting servicemen, and there had been a great deal of laughter and a feeling of warm comradeship as they’d competed at darts, dominoes and shove-ha’penny in their favourite corner by the inglenook.
Stan smiled at the memory despite his headache. It had been a grand do, but he was certainly paying for it this morning.
Ron was feeling surprisingly sprightly considering he hadn’t got to bed until after two this morning, and had certainly drunk his share of the beer and whisky. He’d risen at five and taken Harvey for a walk – the cat decided she was not going out at that silly time of the morning – and after a brisk walk over the hills, had returned home and cooked himself a large breakfast of egg, Spam and fried bread, followed by a gallon of tea and a stack of toast.
The house was in chaos as six females dashed about, bickered over whose turn it was in the bathroom, and who’d pinched the last of the hairspray, so he and the animals had taken themselves off to the peace and quiet of the basement bedroom, glad to be out of it all.
Ron brushed back his thick, greying hair, smoothed his shaggy brows down with a wet finger, and regarded his reflection in the fly-spotted dressing-table mirror he’d balanced on his chest of drawers. Peggy had pressed his suit and tie and he was wearing a freshly ironed white shirt. His shoes had been polished to a shine, but unfortunately he couldn’t find a matching pair of socks, but as black was very similar to dark blue, he didn’t think anyone would notice.
He winked at his reflection. ‘Ach, to be sure you’re still a fine figure of a man, so y’are,’ he said. ‘The ladies had better watch out today.’
Queenie paused mid-wash of her glossy coat and eyed him with disdain, and Harvey snorted as if he didn’t approve of Ron’s showboating.
‘You’ll be minding the house today,’ Ron informed Harvey sternly. ‘Weddings are no place for a fine fellow like you.’ He grabbed his freshly brushed dark blue fedora – it was actually Jim’s, but as he was in India, he’d surely not mind him borrowing it – and hurried upstairs to the kitchen.
‘I’ll be off to Stan’s,’ he said to Peggy who was wrestling Daisy into her best dress while she threw a tantrum. ‘We’ll see you at the church.’ Before Peggy had time to reply or think up some sort of job for him to do, he ordered Harvey to stay in the kitchen and firmly closed the scullery door behind him.
Upon his arrival at the stationmaster’s cottage, he didn’t bother to knock, but strode straight in. There was no sign of Stan, although the teapot and china on the draining board revealed that he’d made it out of bed at some point this morning. ‘Stan! Stan, where are you?’
‘Up here trying to get these blasted buttons done up,’ he yelled back.
Ron plodded up the stairs to find Stan out of breath and red-faced as he stood in the middle of the room in his shirtsleeves, his best suit trousers at half-mast. ‘To be sure that’s not a pretty sight at this time of day, Stan, my old friend,’ he muttered, taking in the glaring white underpants and equally white thighs.
‘I thought they’d fit now I’ve lost almost half a stone,’ he moaned. ‘What am I going to do, Ron?’
Ron hauled up the trousers and tried to get them to meet beneath the overhang of Stan’s belly, but it was patently clear he was not going to get those fly buttons done up. ‘I’ll hold onto the waist and you do up the ones you can,’ he suggested.
Stan struggled and fumbled, but he couldn’t get more than one button done up.
Ron eyed the situation and thought for a moment. ‘Have you got any elastic, and some safety pins?’
Stan was sweating from the effort of trying to hold in his stomach and do up the buttons. ‘If I have, they’ll be in Barbara’s sewing box,’ he gasped, tilting his chin towards the top of the wardrobe.
Ron stood on a stool and after fumbling about for a bit located the sewing box. He rifled through it, and found a length of broad knicker elastic and a handful of rusting safety pins. ‘Right,’ he said, advancing on Stan, ‘I’ll fasten the elastic to the waistband with some of these pins, and use the others to try and keep you decent at the front.’
‘You’re a real pal, Ron,’ sighed Stan.
‘Aye, to be sure, Stanley Dawkins,’ he muttered through a mouthful of safety pins, ‘it’s only a real pal who’d be willing to be on his knees pinning flies together when good drinking time is being wasted.’
‘Watch what you’re doing down there,’ warned Stan in alarm as Ron wielded scissors and pins.
‘If you stood still it would be easier,’ grunted Ron. ‘To be sure, Stan me old pal, ’tis a good thing these trousers have broad seams, so it is.’ Having pinned the elastic firmly to the outer edges of the chasm left in the waistband by Stan’s stomach, Ron folded open the seams of the fly so it covered the white expanse of his underwear and began to pin them firmly together. When he’d finished, he rested back on his heels to survey the result.
‘How does it look, Ron?’
The trousers now had more metal in them than an armoured tank, but it all seemed to be holding, and luckily Stan’s stomach masked the makeshift repairs. ‘You’ll pass muster as long as you don’t eat anything or go for a pee,’ he replied. ‘And whatever you do, don’t sit down too quickly. You’ll put too much strain on that lot and risk getting stabbed if the pins give out.’
Stan hitched his braces over his shoulder and gingerly tested the trousers out by doing a few gentle knee bends. ‘Thanks, Ron. I wish I’d tried them on when Ethel told me to, and then I wouldn’t have this worry. It’s no wonder my indigestion is playing up again.’
Ron made no comment, for he suspected it had more to do with the lashings of beer and the mound of Rosie’s delicious food he’d got through the previous night than worries over his attire. He waited for Stan to slip on his suit jacket – which mercifully fitted as long as he didn’t try and fasten the buttons – then followed him down the stairs.
Dipping into his own suit jacket he held out a brandy flask. ‘Take a sip of this,’ he advised. ‘It’ll settle your stomach and put hairs on your chest.’
Stan grimaced and shook his head. ‘I had enough booze to sink a battleship last night, Ron. That would be a step too far.’ He reached over to the vase on the window sill and plucked out the two perfect red rosebuds he’d picked the previous day.
With the rosebuds safely pinned into their buttonholes the two old friends grinned at one another and awkwardly embraced. ‘Thanks for getting me home last night,’ muttered Stan. ‘I’d never have made it on my own.’
‘Ach, get away with you. That’s what friends are for.’ Ron regarded Stan with affection and could only hope that his old pal wasn’t about to make a terrible mistake by getting himself hitched to Ethel. Deciding Stan was old enough and ugly enough to know his own mind, he gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. ‘Ready?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ he replied, his nervous fingers running over the phalanx of safety pins.
‘Then let’s be off. Don’t want to keep your bride waiting, do we?’
Stan put on his best black hat and chuckled. ‘No fear.’
They left the cottage and set off at a comfortable pace for the church. It was just past one, so even if there was a malfunction with the pins they’d still have plenty of time until the service at two-fifteen.
‘Are you nervous?’ asked Ron as they ambled past the children’s playground.
‘No. Ethel’s the one for me, and I can’t wait to marry her.’
‘I wish it was that easy for Rosie and me,’ Ron said dolefully. ‘But perhaps, one day, you’ll get the chance to be my best man.’
‘I’d be honoured,’ Stan replied and then drew to a halt. ‘I want to say how much I value your friendship, Ron, and how very grateful I am for all you and Peggy have done for my little April. She’s going to find the next few months tough going, but I know you’ll watch out for her.’
Ron felt a bit embarrassed and shrugged. ‘No need to get soppy, Stan. She’s one of us now, and we’ll do right by her.’ He glanced across at his friend. ‘You’ve done very well to keep things to yourself regarding the baby’s colour,’ he said solemnly. ‘So don’t get carried away with the wedding and such and spoil everything, will you?’
‘I know when to keep my mouth shut, Ron – there’s too much at stake to get careless. I just wish Ethel would accept her. It would make life so much easier,’ Stan sighed.
‘She’ll come round eventually,’ soothed Ron, although he had grave doubts about that. Ethel was not the sort of woman to suddenly change her mind about anything.
They walked on and soon came to the rather ugly Victorian church which stood amid the surrounding houses in a bleak plot of land that had been concreted over. There was no churchyard or lychgate, merely a grey stone memorial to the dead from the first war which was adorned with a single and very weathered wreath.
They shook hands and chatted to their friends who were standing round the side of the church away from prying eyes so they could smoke and pass round brandy flasks. Ron saw Peggy, Cordelia and the girls talking to Bertie as Daisy tottered about between their legs, and he nudged Stan. ‘Your April looks well in that outfit Peggy lent her. She’s a pretty girl, Stan, much like her mother was at that age.’
‘Thankfully she’s nothing like her mother,’ rumbled Stan, who’d succumbed to a drop or three of brandy to bolster his courage. ‘And once all this is done and dusted, I shall be telephoning my sister and giving her a piece of my mind.’
Ron was about to reply when the vicar appeared and the guests began to filter into the cold, gloomy church. ‘How are you holding up, Stan?’ he asked, shaking his hand. ‘I hear you had quite a night of it at the Anchor.’
‘I’m fine,’ he insisted, anxiously running his fingers over the safety pins before hurriedly drawing his jacket over his stomach. ‘But I’ll feel a whole lot better once Ethel gets here.’
The vicar muttered platitudes and gently eased him towards the church door as the organist played something soothing and the guests found somewhere to sit and gossip while they waited for the ceremony to begin.
Ron gripped Stan’s arm and firmly steered him towards the front pew. He was concerned that his old friend was sweating quite heavily and his breathing had become ragged. ‘Are you all right, Stan?’ he asked quietly.
‘The nerves have got to me at last,’ he confessed. ‘I think I’ll have another nip of brandy, if you don’t mind.’
Ron wasn’t convinced that more brandy would help. ‘Sorry, Stan, the flask’s empty after Chalky took his last nip,’ he fibbed.
‘Never mind,’ he replied, smiling fondly back at April and the other girls who’d slid into the pew behind them, ‘I don’t really need it.’
Ron turned round to greet Peggy and Cordelia, who were just sitting down with Daisy between them, and as he looked at all the women in his life he felt blessed. They were a grand bunch, and the prettiest in the church.
He was distracted by a hubbub at the back of the church which was swiftly followed by a great crashing of chords as the organist began to fumble her inexpert way through the wedding march. ‘This is it, Stan,’ he muttered as they stood. ‘There’s no escape now unless it’s through the vestry.’
Stan looked a bit green around the gills and shot him a sickly smile. ‘I couldn’t run even if I wanted to.’
Ron steered him towards the vicar who was standing by the altar steps, and although he could feel Stan trembling, his colour was a mite better and a quick glance confirmed that the elastic and pins were holding.
Ethel made a regal entrance on the arm of the rather handsome Fred Gough – an older man who’d retired some years ago from the RAF and was now in charge of maintenance on the factory estate. She wore a pale blue silk dress and coat she’d had made from a purloined parachute which had been dyed to match her satin shoes. Her little veiled hat was a darker shade of blue and she carried a posy of roses gleaned from Stan’s allotment. Ron nodded in approval, for Ethel had a terrific pair of legs and certainly scrubbed up well.
He glanced at Stan, who was watching her progress down the aisle with unashamed adoration, and breathed a sigh of relief that he seemed to have recovered from whatever had ailed him momentarily, and would get through the service.
Ruby shot Ron a naughty grin as she followed her mother up the aisle, and Ron noted that she too was looking very fetching in what had clearly once been a ball gown of stiff, pale pink taffeta which had been cleverly converted into a most attractive knee-length day dress that Rosie would have loved to own. The outfit was enhanced by a jaunty straw hat decorated with flowers and she carried a posy of Stan’s roses.
Ron rarely set foot in a church these days unless it was for something like this, and he was grateful that the service didn’t drag on for too long. The happy couple took their vows; he managed not to lose the ring or drop it as he handed it to Stan, and then the congregation sang ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ while the register was signed. Before he knew it, there was another crashing of chords and he was walking beside Ruby as the wedding party made their triumphant way back down the aisle.
The church bells rang out joyously, and the happy couple posed for photographs on the church steps. Peggy and Cordelia, who always loved a good cry at weddings, dried their eyes and happily chattered to the other guests as Daisy tottered back and forth to gather up bits of confetti and try to eat them.
Ron took himself off to a quiet corner to enjoy his pipe and let them get on with it, thankful that his Heath Robinson attempt to keep Stanley decent for the day was still holding together. He wished Rosie could have come, for occasions like this weren’t the same without her at his side, but she would be busy at the Anchor making sure everything was prepared for the afternoon reception, and he would see her soon enough.
Doris had refused to lend Stan her car for the occasion and Bertram’s was in the garage being repaired after he’d run into a lamppost in the blackout. Peggy’s car had been put into storage for the duration, and as hard as he’d tried, Ron couldn’t get hold of any tyres to replace the old ones which had been chewed by mice and were as flat as pancakes. Having no other option, and thankful that it was a lovely fine day, everyone set off to walk the short distance to the Anchor.
Ron waited until everyone had left and then quickly ducked home to collect Harvey. He wouldn’t be missed.
He arrived at the Anchor at the same time as Stan and Ethel, and noted that the rest of the guests were strung out up the road with Cordelia and Peggy bringing up the rear with Daisy in her pushchair. He waited for them and winced as he heard the wheels squeaking.
‘I did ask you to oil them, Ron,’ Peggy chided without rancour. ‘They’re making the most appalling racket.’
Ron promised he would see to them later and then helped Cordelia down the steps and got her settled in her chair where she had a good view of everything. He looked around for Rosie, but she was fussing over everyone and so he helped himself to a glass of beer and waited until he could get her alone.
He finally caught up with her as she went out the back to get more sherry glasses. He slid his arm around her waist and gave it a squeeze. ‘Hello, my darling,’ he murmured appreciatively. ‘You’re looking especially lovely this afternoon.’
She giggled and kissed his cheek. ‘That’s more than can be said about you last night. I didn’t think you’d make it out of here, let alone escort Stan home and get back to Beach View.’ She smiled into his eyes as she wiped her lipstick from his smooth cheek. ‘But you do look handsome today, and I admire your close shave. Very kissable.’
He pulled her closer and kissed her to shouts of encouragement from the rest of the party. ‘We’ll continue this conversation after that lot have gone home,’ he said with a wink.
‘I doubt you’ll be in a fit state for anything much by then,’ she teased, ‘but we’ll see.’ With that she hoisted up the carton of glasses and shot off.
Rosie had done them all proud, thought Ron as he finished his meal. Following the delicious pea and ham soup there had been roasted chicken and potatoes with spring greens and leeks, followed by bread pudding which had been drenched in fruit, demerara sugar and thick custard. Wine and beer had flowed, and there were even a few bottles of champagne set aside for the toasts and the cutting of the magnificent cake which took pride of place on a side table. How on earth Ethel had managed to filch that much icing, fruit and marzipan was a mystery.
Remembering suddenly that he was expected to give a speech, he urgently patted his pockets for the slip of paper he should have brought with him. There was no sign of it, and he gave a sigh of annoyance as he realised he’d left it on his bed. He’d just have to wing it – like he did most things these days.
The chatter and laughter grew louder as the alcohol began to take effect, and as cigarettes and pipes were lit and people surreptitiously eased their feet out of tight shoes and loosened belts, it was time for the speeches. Fred Gough who’d given the bride away was clearly delighted to share a bit of the day’s limelight, and seemed to enjoy the sound of his own voice. Everyone was getting restless by the time he proposed a toast to the bridesmaid.
The applause was generous, perhaps out of relief that he’d finally shut up, and then it was Ron’s turn.
He stood and smiled at everyone. ‘I’ll not be making a long speech,’ he said. ‘Because I left it back at home.’ This was greeted with laughter. ‘I just want to say that I’ve known Stan man and boy, and if I was to tell you about the things he got up to over the years, we’d be here all night.’
As everyone chuckled, he smiled beatifically at the radiant couple through an alcoholic haze. ‘I’m delighted that he’s found such happiness with Ethel, and I wish them a long life and happiness together.’ He raised his glass. ‘To the bride and groom.’
Stan swept Ethel into his arms for a smacking kiss and made her hat slide over her eyes. This was greeted with laughter and a few ribald remarks about their wedding night.
Stan rose from the table and waxed lyrical about his love for Ethel, his pride in Ruby, and the joy with which he’d welcomed April back into the family fold. He blithely ignored Ethel’s glower at this and thanked Rosie for a wonderful spread; his friends for their dubious influence the night before; and Ron for the excellent way he’d handled being his best man.
He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Ethel, Ruby and April – and all the rest of you wonderful, wonderful friends. I salute you.’
The glass was almost at his lips when his hand faltered and his smile faded into a frown. The glass shattered on the flagstones and Stan clutched at his chest with a look of utter astonishment. He staggered and the astonishment turned into a grimace. And then, with a deep groan, he slowly toppled like a felled tree and landed with an almighty crash on the floor.