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  ‘I do like her. I wish I had her as a granny,’ I said wistfully.

  I didn’t have any proper grannies. Dad’s mum had died when I was still a baby. Mum’s mum lived in Spain somewhere with a new husband, but she’d never seemed very interested in me. She’d never got on with Mum either.

  ‘Maybe Miss Bloomfield wishes she had a little granddaughter just like you,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, try a bit of toast and honey if you really can’t finish your cornflakes.’

  I did my best, and then went to have my bath. I washed my hair too. I wished I could style it properly. I couldn’t help remembering the way Mum sometimes played hairdressers with me and gave me elaborate topknots. I brushed my damp hair and fiddled around with it this way and that, but it didn’t work. In the end I just let it hang down to my shoulders, and gave my fringe an extra brushing so it wouldn’t go all kinky. At least it was soft and shiny.

  Then I put on the raspberry-pink underwear and the raspberry-pink dress and the raspberry-pink shoes, and stood back and looked at myself in the mirror.

  ‘Do I look OK, Dad?’ I asked, running to show him.

  ‘Oh, darling! You look as pretty as a picture!’ he said.

  ‘So do you, Dad. Well, as handsome as a picture,’ I told him.

  He was wearing his office suit because he didn’t have any other, but he was wearing a new shirt – a pink new shirt, with a navy and pink tie.

  ‘I didn’t want to let the side down. I’m the father of the bridesmaid after all,’ said Dad. He looked at his watch. ‘Well, shall we set off? You can’t really do anything wearing that beautiful dress. We don’t want you getting it all creased. We’re going to be very early, but Miss Bloomfield said she’d like a bit of moral support. Pop your jacket on, sweetheart.’

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘It’s quite chilly outside. Though thank goodness it isn’t raining.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no way you can wear a denim jacket over a bridesmaid’s dress!’

  ‘You can take it off when you get to the church.’

  ‘No! You have to look right the moment you step outside the house. Do you think Miss Bloomfield will be wearing her fleece over her bridal outfit? I think not!’

  ‘Well, you’re both going to get goose pimples,’ said Dad, but he didn’t argue further.

  We drove over to her house. Dad had cleaned the car specially last night and fixed some white satin ribbon in a cross over the bonnet like a real wedding car. I was bothered about crushing my silky dress, so I sat very still in the back with the skirt spread all around me and then eased myself out of the car.

  ‘There! You still look pretty as a picture,’ said Dad. He had his hands over his eyes, pretending to be dazzled by my beauty.

  We walked up the path to Miss Bloomfield’s house. We knocked. We knocked again. We looked at each other. We knocked a third time.

  ‘Perhaps she’s a bit deaf,’ said Dad.

  ‘But she answered her door almost immediately before,’ I said. I pushed open the stiff letterbox. I saw part of the hallway, but it was empty. ‘Miss Bloomfield!’ I called loudly. ‘Miss Bloomfield, it’s me, Tilly, and my dad.’

  There was a muffled sound. I waited a few seconds – and then Miss Bloomfield came towards the door. She was wearing something large in faded blue. It looked like a dressing gown.

  She opened the door, but only a chink. ‘Hello, Tilly. Hello, Mr Andrews,’ she said. Her voice was husky.

  ‘Oh, Miss Bloomfield, aren’t you very well?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘I – I won’t invite you in just in case you catch anything. I think I’d better go straight back to bed.’

  ‘But you can’t! It’s your wedding day!’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think there’s going to be a wedding,’ said Miss Bloomfield, and a tear trickled down her pale cheek. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She tried to close the door, but Dad gently held on to it, stopping her.

  ‘Let us come in and make you a cup of tea,’ he said softly. ‘You look as if you could do with one.’

  He went inside, holding Miss Bloomfield’s arm, helping her along to the kitchen. I followed them, my heart thumping. No wedding! So I couldn’t show off my raspberry-pink bridesmaid’s dress after all. Then I noticed the slump of Miss Bloomfield’s small shoulders and I felt horribly guilty. It was far, far worse for poor Miss Bloomfield.

  Dad sat her at her kitchen table. He put the kettle on and found the willow-pattern teapot and the matching cups and saucers. He looked at me and made a little waving motion, indicating that I should go over to Miss Bloomfield. I shuffled towards her shyly, not quite knowing what to do.

  She gave a little snorty sniff and then murmured an embarrassed apology. My arm went out automatically and I patted her shaking shoulder. She felt very small and frail underneath the bulky blue quilting.

  ‘There now,’ said Dad, pouring boiling water into the teapot. He stirred the tea leaves around. When he poured the tea, it came out a very pale lemon colour.

  ‘Oh dear. I don’t think I gave it time to brew. Tilly and I make do with tea bags and mugs at home. It looks very weak.’

  ‘So do I!’ said Miss Bloomfield, trying to make a little joke. She fumbled in her dressing-gown pocket and then dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled lace hankie.

  ‘So the wedding is definitely all off?’ Dad asked gently.

  ‘Maybe. No, definitely. I just don’t know,’ said Miss Bloomfield helplessly.

  Dad looked at his watch. ‘Well, we’ve got just under an hour for you to think about it,’ he said.

  ‘What’s happened, Miss Bloomfield?’ I asked, unable to bear not knowing any more. ‘I thought you were so looking forward to marrying Mr Flower.’

  ‘I was, I was,’ said Miss Bloomfield, having to dab her eyes again.

  ‘Did you have a terrible argument?’ I asked.

  Dad shook his head at me. ‘Tilly, it’s none of our business,’ he said.

  Miss Bloomfield was nodding. ‘Just last night. I can’t believe it. We’ve never had a cross word before. We’ve been such friends, Albert and me, always getting on fine and dandy. And we were getting on so well last night too. We had an early supper at his house, so I could then help him pack for our honeymoon. It was fish and chips, from the shop up the way. We generally have that when we eat at Albert’s, though it’s always a little greasy and tends to give me indigestion. So I said that I’d cook him a nice piece of steamed plaice with new potatoes in the future, and I’d make sure he had good home-cooking. He got a bit shirty and said he’d always thought of steamed fish as invalid food and there was nothing wrong with bought fish and chips – it was his favourite meal.’

  ‘Oh, that’s exactly the sort of argument Matty and I have. She’s my best friend,’ I said. ‘But we always make up afterwards.’

  ‘But this was just the start, you see. He said my cooking was all very well, very prettily done, but he actually preferred takeaways, especially Indian meals. Well, I took umbrage at that, because I can’t bear curries. They play havoc with my tummy and make the house reek for days, and I said as much. Then I had a bit of a sulk myself because I pride myself on my cooking, but I tried to stay pleasant. I said I’d go into his bedroom to start on his packing and he said he’d do it himself. So we had the silliest argument about that.’

  ‘Yep, just like Matty and me,’ I said.

  ‘It was a bit of a shock when I saw the state of his bedroom. So untidy! Newspapers and old socks and dirty coffee mugs every which way, and the bed not even made properly. And his so-called packing! He’d just flung his shirts in the bottom of his case where they’d get all creased and shoved his shoes on top, would you believe! So I tipped it all out and started folding the shirts properly, and he came in, and instead of being grateful said I was being childish. So I got a bit waspish then, and he said very unpleasantly that he was being hen-pecked before he was even married.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Dad.

  ‘I