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  Dear Matilda, said the letter.

  I’m going to be married at St John’s Church this coming Saturday 29 May at 12 noon. My fiancé and I think it would be delightful to have a bridesmaid in such a pretty frock. Would you and your mother like to come round to my house, 37 Ringstead Gardens, one day after school so we can discuss it?

  Yours sincerely,

  Iris May Bloomfield

  Chapter Eight

  ‘D-A-D?’ I SAID, going home in the car from Matty’s that evening.

  ‘What is it?’ said Dad. ‘I can always tell you’ve been up to something when you use that tone of voice!’

  ‘Dad, I’ve been asked to be a bridesmaid! Truly! Isn’t it wonderful!’ I said.

  ‘Oh, darling, that is wonderful. I’m so happy for you. So who’s getting married? Someone at school? It’s not one of the teachers, is it? Miss Hope?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, Dad, don’t be daft! No, it’s Iris May Bloomfield, isn’t that a lovely name! She wants us to come round to her house one afternoon. Well, she asked if I’d come with my mum, but I’m sure she won’t mind if it’s you, Dad.’

  ‘But who is this Iris May Bloomfield? You’ve never even mentioned her before,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I don’t exactly know her yet,’ I said, fidgeting a little. ‘That’s why she’s asked us round to her house.’

  ‘So if you don’t know her, how on earth has she asked you to be her bridesmaid?’

  ‘W-e-l-l . . .’

  ‘Come on, Tilly, spit it out,’ said Dad.

  ‘I actually advertised,’ I mumbled.

  Dad very nearly drove straight into the car in front. He went down a side road and pulled up altogether, then switched off the car engine. He turned and looked at me.

  ‘You advertised?’ he said.

  ‘Please don’t be cross, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t we have a serious discussion about the dangers of advertising on the internet?’ Dad demanded.

  ‘Yes, but this wasn’t on the internet. I swear it wasn’t. I wrote out my advert on a piece of paper and paid to put it in Sid’s window,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Tilly!’ said Dad. He suddenly started shaking, covering his face with his hands.

  ‘Dad? Oh, don’t cry! I’m sorry, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I said, unbuckling my seat belt and trying to wrap my arms round his neck.

  ‘I’m not crying – I’m laughing,’ Dad snorted. ‘Though I’m cross too. You mustn’t advertise yourself like this, even if it’s just in Sid’s window! Let me see this reply.’

  I fished in my school bag and handed it over. Dad read it carefully.

  ‘Well, she certainly sounds very nice – but it’s still very bizarre. I think we’d better drive straight round to Ringstead Gardens and explain to this lady that you took it into your own head to do this,’ said Dad.

  ‘But will you still let me be her bridesmaid?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh please, please, it’s my only chance of wearing my bridesmaid’s dress and it means so much to me!’

  ‘I know it does, sweetheart. Well, let’s wait and see what Miss Bloomfield is like,’ said Dad, starting up the car again.

  ‘We can’t go straight there. We have to go home first so I can put on the bridesmaid’s dress. And I’ve got ink all over my fingers and my socks are grubby and I’m sure my hair’s a mess,’ I said, panicking. ‘She’ll never ever say I can be her bridesmaid unless I make myself look a little bit pretty.’

  ‘You do look pretty, sweetheart. She won’t be expecting you to be all dressed up. And I’ve told you I’m not at all sure I want you to be her bridesmaid. Let’s just wait and see. Now, Ringstead Gardens . . . I think it’s off to the left somewhere.’

  Dad drove up and down several streets before we found Ringstead Gardens. I’d imagined it as actual gardens, with little houses covered in honeysuckle and roses and my Iris May blooming inside the prettiest. The real Ringstead Gardens were modern houses with very boring strips of grass, scarcely a flower in sight.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think it would look like this.’

  ‘Let’s have another look at that letter. I don’t think it can be Ringstead Gardens. I think this is special housing for the elderly. No one here’s going to be needing a bridesmaid!’ said Dad. ‘Perhaps it’s Ringstead Crescent or Lane?’

  But there was no mistaking the clear copperplate writing on the letter.

  ‘Well, we’ll knock on the door and see for ourselves,’ said Dad, pulling up outside number 37.

  It looked a little more interesting than all the other homes. The white lacy curtains at the window were tied with pink satin ribbons, and several twirling china ballerinas danced along one windowsill. A large white cat lay in the other window, idly washing its front paws.

  ‘Oh, look at the cat, Dad! I wish we could have a cat,’ I said.

  ‘Well, maybe one day. When we get settled,’ said Dad, though we’d been in our new house quite a while now.

  He knocked on the green front door. There was a little wait. He knocked again. ‘I don’t think she can be home yet,’ he said.

  But then the door opened and a very small lady stood there, smiling at us. A very small, very old lady, with pink cheeks and white curly hair and a pink jumper and white slacks, as pretty as a packet of marshmallows.

  ‘Hello!’ she said, sounding pleased to see us.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I think we’ve come to the wrong place,’ said Dad. ‘We’re looking for a Miss Bloomfield.’

  ‘That’s me,’ she said. She looked at me. ‘And I think you might well be Matilda!’

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘I look a bit of a mess because I’ve been at school, and then I was round my friend’s house. I don’t usually look as scruffy as this. And when I put my bridesmaid’s dress on, I look totally different, I promise – and I’ll have pink shoes to match. I’ll even have a pink petticoat and knickers but they won’t show.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll look beautiful, dear. Do come in, both of you. Let’s have a cup of tea,’ said Miss Bloomfield.

  Dad looked a little anxious, but I marched in boldly, determined not to lose my chance of being a bridesmaid. She led us into the living room. It was small but very cosy, with crotcheted blankets on the backs of the sofa and chairs. There was a large cat basket with a plump cushion, but the cat clearly preferred the windowsill. It surveyed us lazily, and didn’t seem to mind when I went to stroke it.

  There were several photographs of the cat in silver frames, and one big photograph of an elderly weather-beaten man with a big grin, looking like a sailor in a storybook. He must be Miss Bloomfield’s fiancé!

  She made us a proper pot of tea, with milk in a willow-pattern jug and sugar in lumps in a matching bowl. There was a plate of little fairy cakes too, white icing with pink sprinkles and pink icing with white. She and I both picked pink ones. They were absolutely delicious. The icing tasted of sweet raspberries.

  She smiled again. ‘Pink’s my favourite colour,’ she said.

  ‘Then you’ll love my bridesmaid’s dress,’ I said. ‘What colour will you be wearing, Miss Bloomfield? Will it be white?’

  ‘Well, yes, I am,’ she said.

  Dad and I nodded politely. I tried to picture her in a long white bride’s dress with a veil. It was quite a struggle. A long dress would trail on the ground and trip her up; a veil would be even more cumbersome.

  Miss Bloomfield laughed. ‘I’m not wearing a conventional bride’s dress, dears. Come with me, Matilda, and I’ll show you my wedding dress.’

  She took me into her bedroom, a lovely little pink-and-white room, with a white toy cat on her pink pillow. There was an outfit hanging outside her wardrobe: a white dress with pink stripes, with a matching pink jacket.

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely!’ I said.

  ‘It doesn’t look too girlish, does it?’ she asked, a little anxiously.

  ‘No, it’s lovely. Very pretty. And my bridesmaid�