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?
??s dress will go with it perfectly,’ I told her.
‘That’s what I thought! We’ll set each other off a treat,’ she said. ‘You won’t mind being at an old folk’s wedding, will you? It’s going to be very quiet – Mr Flower and I are only having a few guests. We’ll be having a little do down at the church hall after. Nothing fancy, just a few sandwiches and sausage rolls, that kind of thing. And I’ve made my own wedding cake. Want to see it?’
‘Oh yes, please! I’ve never had wedding cake,’ I said.
She took me into her kitchen. It was even smaller than the other rooms, so you could hardly turn round in it, but incredibly neat and tidy. Miss Bloomfield couldn’t quite reach her top shelf of pots and pans and tins, but she had a handy silver ladder propped against the wall. She climbed it with surprising speed and seized a big cake tin patterned with flowers. She descended the ladder much more carefully, holding the tin protectively against her chest.
‘Here, have a little peep,’ she said, easing off the lid.
The big white cake took up almost the whole of the tin. There were icing rosettes piped all the way round and a little marzipan couple stood in the middle, holding hands. The woman had white hair and she was wearing a white dress with pink stripes.
‘They’re too big, those stripes, but I can’t work miracles,’ said Miss Bloomfield. ‘And that’s Mr Albert Richard Flower, my fiancé, bless him.’
The marzipan man was much rounder than Miss Bloomfield, and his face was very pink, without any hair at all. She’d made him a very smiley mouth.
‘He looks very happy to be marrying you,’ I said.
‘I hope he is,’ said Miss Bloomfield. ‘He’s been married before, and he has grown-up children. I hope they don’t mind too much that he’s marrying me. It’s my first time to be a bride. I’ve had a few gentleman friends in my time, but I’ve never so much as been engaged before. Do you like my ring?’
She held out her hand to show me. It was like a little flower itself, a tiny amethyst with diamond chips as petals.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it?’ Miss Bloomfield agreed. ‘I can’t help holding out my hand and admiring it every now and then! I feel just like a silly young girl all over again.’
Dad came into the kitchen with our tea things neatly piled on the tray. ‘Thank you so much, Miss Bloomfield. So, as you and Tilly are getting along like a house on fire, I presume you’d like her as your bridesmaid?’
‘If you don’t mind?’
‘Well, I was a bit taken aback at first. I had no idea she’d taken it into her head to advertise herself! But I know she’s set her heart on it,’ said Dad.
‘I’ve set my heart on it too!’ said Miss Bloomfield. ‘I’d been really wishing I could have a little bridesmaid. I don’t have any great-nieces and neither does my fiancé. We don’t know any little girls at all. I was really taken with the advert in Sid’s window. So, if we’re all in agreement, we just need to discuss the rent,’ she said, twinkling.
‘The rent?’ said Dad.
‘For Matilda.’
‘Tilly said she was for rent?’ Dad repeated, astounded.
‘She stresses that it’s a very small rent,’ said Miss Bloomfield. ‘What sum did you have in mind, dear?’ she asked, turning to me.
‘I – I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Actually, you don’t really have to pay me anything.’
‘Of course you’re not going to be paid anything!’ said Dad. ‘Good heavens, Tilly, what’s got into you? It’s bad enough to advertise yourself – but to suggest someone pays for your services is totally beyond the pale. I’m so sorry, Miss Bloomfield.’
‘No, I think Tilly – may I call you that, dear? – is simply being professional,’ she said.
‘That’s what Matty said,’ I told her.
‘Ah, I thought Matty might be involved too,’ said Dad.
‘Matty’s my very best friend,’ I said proudly. ‘Actually, it was her bridesmaid’s dress first. But she gave it to me as a very special present, because I like it so.’
‘I can’t wait to see it,’ said Miss Bloomfield. ‘And I definitely want to rent you dressed up in it. Name a sum! How about . . . ten pounds?’
Ten pounds! I’d seen a wonderful new tin of felt tips in the shops for exactly that sum. My own crayons were getting a bit worn now, even my best set, and my pink had run out altogether, because I’d drawn so many bridesmaid’s dresses. Dad only gave me a pound a week pocket money, though he made sure he gave it to me every single Saturday. Mum used to give me as much as twenty pounds sometimes – but other times she forgot altogether. I really wanted Miss Bloomfield’s ten pounds, but I didn’t want to upset Dad. He was shaking his head determinedly.
Then I had a sudden idea.
‘You can have me totally rent-free, Miss Bloomfield, but perhaps I can ask a special favour?’ I said.
‘Tilly!’ said Dad.
‘Could you teach me how to bake cakes?’
‘Oh, I’d love to do that! I’ll be going away for a few days to the Isle of Wight for my honeymoon, but as soon as I’m back we’ll arrange our first cake-baking session. Mr Flower and I haven’t quite decided where to live just yet, so at the moment we’re going to try week and week about, first at my home and then at his. He lives at number twenty-seven so he’s only a minute away! Now, about Saturday. Can you be here by eleven, do you think? Then we can sit down and have a cup of tea to steady ourselves. I expect I’ll be feeling a bit wibbly-wobbly. It’s not every day a woman gets married, especially at my age! Then we’ll just wander down to the church. It didn’t seem worth ordering a car when it’s only five minutes’ walk. Mr Flower is a little anxious that it might rain, but I can always take an umbrella.’
‘If it rains, I’ll drive you round to the church myself,’ said Dad.
‘Oh, that’s so kind of you, Mr Andrews,’ said Miss Bloomfield. ‘You’re invited to the little reception afterwards, of course. And perhaps your wife would like to join us? I’m sure she’d like to see Tilly as a bridesmaid!’
There was a little pause.
‘Tilly’s mother is abroad at the moment,’ said Dad. ‘So it will be just Tilly and me.’
‘Of course, dear,’ said Miss Bloomfield, tactfully not enquiring further.
‘Miss Bloomfield? I couldn’t possibly ask my best friend Matty to your wedding, could I? As it was her bridesmaid’s dress in the first place. Please could she come too?’
‘Of course she can come,’ said Miss Bloomfield, beaming.
‘I do like Miss Bloomfield,’ I said to Dad in the car going home.
‘Yes, so do I,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you to ever try this trick again, Tilly. It is a miracle that it has turned out wonderfully. She’s a lovely lady. And I shall feel very proud on Saturday seeing you in your pretty bridesmaid’s dress.’
I waited till we were nearly home.
‘D-a-d?’
‘Now what?’
‘Is Mum still abroad?’
‘Well, she was. She sent us the postcard from Mexico, remember?’
Of course I remembered. It was in my private treasure box, along with one of Mum’s earrings, her blue nail-varnish bottle and her old perfume. The varnish had dried rock hard. I’d secretly sprayed myself every night so I could imagine Mum leaning over me in bed, giving me a hug. The perfume bottle was empty now, but there was still the ghost of a smell whenever I pressed the nozzle.
‘Do you think she might have sent lots more to our old house, Dad?’
‘No, love. I made sure all cards and letters would be forwarded to our new address.’
‘What about parcels? Perhaps Mum sent me another parcel? She did for my birthday,’ I said, unwilling to give up.
‘Tilly, I think we’ve got to accept that Mum’s forgotten about us,’ said Dad.
‘That’s stupid! She can’t possibly have forgotten us,’ I said. ‘We remember every little thing about her.’
‘Well, I don’t mean she’s literal
ly forgotten us. She’s just probably got other things to think about now,’ said Dad.
‘More important than us?’ I said. ‘I don’t understand.’
Dad sighed. ‘I don’t understand either, Tilly. But there’s no point dwelling on it. We’ll just feel even more unhappy. But I promise I do know just how much you miss Mum.’
‘I don’t miss her all the time. Just sometimes. And I wish she could see me on Saturday. I know I’m not really pretty like Mum, but I do look quite good in my dress.’
‘You’re much prettier than Mum,’ said Dad.
‘You’re just saying that. Dad, could I try leaving a message on Mum’s phone and emailing her too, to tell her about Miss Bloomfield’s wedding, just in case she wanted to come,’ I said in a rush.
‘Tilly, you know Mum’s changed her phone number and her email address,’ said Dad.
‘Yes, but maybe she still checks her old ones, just to see there aren’t any important messages,’ I persisted.
‘Well, you can have a go if you like. But I don’t think you’ll have much luck,’ said Dad.
I tried when I got home. A little voice inside the phone told me that Mum’s number was unavailable. And my email bounced back. So that night I tried to send a thought-message through the air.
I opened my window wide to make it easier. I stood there in my pyjamas, sending the same message again and again, until I started shivering.
Please come back on Saturday morning, Mum.
Come and see me be a bridesmaid
at St John’s church at noon. You’ll love
my dress – it’s absolutely beautiful.
Please, please, please come!
Chapter Nine
MUM DIDN’T COME on Saturday.
Matty didn’t either.
‘This Saturday?’ she said when I asked her at school.