Free Lonely Teardrops (2008) by Freda Lightfoot

she kept reminding Marc and his large Italian Catholic family.
    Catering for the event had been a community affair. Big Molly Poulson had made the sausage rolls and pork pies, using the finest ingredients Jimmy Ramsay could supply, and Chris George had baked the fancy cakes and bread for the ham sandwiches, which Rose had helped cut and make up. Barry Holmes had volunteered to provide strawberries for everyone, and Papa Bertalone the ice cream to go with them. At intervals along the centre of the tables were trays of chocolates supplied by Lizzie Pringle’s Chocolate Cabin. And there was plenty of sparkling wine for the many guests, shipped in at a discount by Leo Catlow.
    Everyone declared that it was the finest spread anyone had ever seen. It was indeed a feast to gladden the eye, all set out on trestle tables that ran the length of Champion Street, while Terry Hall’s skiffle group entertained the guests with Lonnie Donegan and Buddy Holly hits.  
    A day to celebrate and for everyone to share in the young couple’s happiness.
    Rose could see that her daughter was glad of a few hours off. The last few days had been hectic with all the cutting and styling required for this special day, not to mention a full hour that morning making the bride look beautiful, along with her two bridesmaids, Lizzie Pringle and Amy George. But she’d made a good job of them, as always. No one could deny that her Joyce wasn’t gifted with her hands, even if her tongue was as sharp as a razor.
    Betty Hemley had done the flowers, of course, sweetly fragrant bouquets of freesia and lily of the valley, signifying a return to happiness which surely the bride and groom deserved.
    The church was crowded to the doors with not a spare seat in the house, little attention being paid to which side one should sit. Just as well since Patsy had no family. She’d come to the market as a starving orphan, having run away from her foster parents as she searched for her mother, but had been fortunate enough to not only be taken in by Clara and Annie Higginson who ran the millinery stall, but also right to the hearts of all the market folk, once she’d got over her initial defiance and rebellion, that is.
    Annie had died some months ago but Clara was standing beside Patsy today, pink-cheeked and proud as punch, as loyal as any mother could be, real or not.
    As Rose watched Patsy glide down the aisle in her flowing white silk gown, designed and stitched by her Italian mother-in-law, she couldn’t help worrying how her own granddaughter would cope with a similar problem. At least Harriet knew who her dad was, which was something, and Patsy had survived, so why shouldn’t Harriet?
     
    Once the service was over, Rose stood with her arm linked in Harriet’s, watching as folk clicked their little box brownies to snap pictures of the happy bride and groom. There was a frown on her pale, heart-shaped face, the poor girl not looking half so joyful as the occasion demanded. Feeling the need to ease her worries, Rose squeezed her granddaughter’s arm and whispered in her ear. ‘Stop thinking about it. Put it behind you. Look at Patsy, she’s fine.’
    ‘I know, and I’m still me inside.’
    ‘Course you are, chuck. Yer a real little gem, and allus will be. Just remember, it’s our Joyce’s problem, not yours. Only the future matters for you now, not the past.’
    Easy said, Harriet thought, but she understood what her grandmother was trying to say and nodded bleakly, doing her best to smile.
    Rose was very fond of weddings and surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye. It reminded her of her own to Ronnie Ibbetson, a lovely man if ever there was one. Rose considered that she’d been blessed with a good marriage, to a man who’d come into her life if not exactly like a knight on a white charger, but at least willing to work hard so they could eventually escape the slums of Ancoats.  
    She’d endured a poverty-stricken childhood, far worse than the one her