Free The Soldier's Bride by Maggie Ford Page B

a halfway decent wedding.’
    It was good to see a small measure of relief creep into those grey eyes. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said firmly, and just as firmly put aside all thoughts of David’s proposal of marriage. That could wait for the time being. There were more pressing matters, and at least planning Lucy’s wedding inApril gave her something other to think about than Mum’s fast dwindling health which was frightening them all.
    There was little to do regarding Lucy and Jack’s wedding after all, subdued affair that it was, accompanied by quietly flowing tears from almost all those who attended, hearts full of commiseration not only for their sad loss but the timing of it. Three weeks to the day Lucy was due to walk in joyful triumph up the aisle of Holy Trinity Church in Old Nichol Street, her mother’s funeral service had been conducted in that same church, the coffin borne along that same aisle before being put into the ground in East London Cemetery at Manor Road.
    Ill luck had followed upon ill luck. The day after Mabel Bancroft died, Vinny gave birth to a boy. The shock of not being at her mother’s bedside as she passed quietly away made Vinny so ill she wasn’t able to attend the funeral either, and weakened by grief of it all, she was still confined to her bed by the time Lucy’s wedding arrived.
    The absence seemed to heighten the loss of her mother and Lucy broke down in the middle of her vows and had to be given a seat for a little while to recover herself.
    ‘We should have postponed the wedding,’ Letty gulped, tears streaming down her cheeks as much from her own distress as Lucy’s. She felt David’s hand tighten almost painfully on hers, dabbed them from her cheeks and lifted her head bravely, her back long and straight, just like Mum’s.
    All around her, relatives were still in black in respect of a dear one recently gone from them, and as Lucy stoicallygot up from her seat to resume her vows in a small trembling voice, the church echoed to the sniffling of the women and the damp surreptitious blowing of noses into men’s handkerchiefs.
    Beside Letty in the front pew, her father made no sound at all, but she could see his tears running silently and steadily down his narrow cheeks. She had to admire the way he had conducted his daughter along the aisle, his stance upright as he gave her away to Jack. It was only when he finally eased into the pew that he sagged at all. Letty held his hand a great deal of the time, endeavouring to give him what small comfort she could find to give.
    The guests returned to the flat for the wedding reception more from a sense of duty, it seemed, than to celebrate a marriage. The wedding breakfast was strangely far more subdued than the funeral lunch three weeks previously. Then even Dad had chuckled at Uncle Charlie’s dry wit, the full impact of his loss having not quite hit him until later; not hit anyone until later, Mabel Bancroft, a dear sister, aunt, mother, was gone from them forever.
    Unfortunately for Lucy, it took her wedding to bring it home. Whatever had stimulated each to react so perversely to grief on the day of the funeral was missing on this day. Food hardly touched, they talked in whispers. There was no laughter, not even from Uncle Charlie. Congratulating Lucy and Jack on what should have been their happiest day, voices faltered, tears were sniffed back, words like ‘Oh, my dears,’ were uttered waveringly in place of ‘So happy for you both’.
    Lucy spent more of her time in her old bedroom beingcomforted by her new husband than in the parlour. By five o’clock they left very quietly for their new home, accompanied by tearful good wishes, Lucy again breaking down knowing her mother was not there to cry over her. The guests left as soon afterwards as politeness allowed.
    The house gone suddenly silent, Dad went to the bedroom he had once shared with his wife, closing the door softly without saying a word.
    Letty, taking him a cup of