I turn away for a moment and canna speak. What rushes into my memory is not my wedding in the Great Yarmouth church, no. It’s Kitta. My sister on a noisy Saturday night in Lerwick, fine Shetland lace shawling her braided hair. I push my fingernails deep into the palm of my hand before turning back to Lois.

Well … no. I wore my travellin’ apron an’ scrubbed my hands an’ Clementina pinned some holly in my hair because it was winter, nearly Christmas, an’ not a flower to be seen.

Ollie and Lois speak at once. Ooh, holly! Ooh, I never!

How glamorous things seem from afar when you’ve never felt the everyday of them.

A bit prickly, holly, for putting in your hair. But at the time, I just let Clementina pretty me up as best she could. All I cared to think of was Kitta, and getting her back.

I tie the new sash around the waist of an old dress, and Lois, Ollie, Franca and I practise making our bows look the same, the ribbons even, so that we will be a set come Saturday, like proper bridesmaids. There’s not enough fabric to be had for new matching dresses, but we do what we can with what we’ve got, and what we’ve got is some old blue sailcloth from the boatbuilder’s shed where Enzia’s brother works. Four blue bows to brighten up four tired cotton dresses.

Josepha wipes her teary face as she lines us up. Beeyewdeefour, she says. An’ on Satterdai the rosses. And she gestures with her palms, waving spirals around our hair.

My excitement dims a little. Of course. I should have known I’d be wearing roses from Josepha’s magnificent front garden. Pink roses in my red hair.

Beeyewdeefour.

~

Mills & Ware’s gift to Enzia was her wedding cake. Not the traditional fruitcake—no sultanas, raisins, currants for that—but tiers of plain sponge, like we used to make before the war, with white sugar-water icing studded with little flowers handmade by Franca. We made it ourselves, the girls, we stayed back on our own time, listening to the night noises of the factory, the tapping, snipping sounds from the Tin Room upstairs, the low hum from the Jam Factory on the first floor. We promised Josepha something grand, a tall, handsome cake among a wedding feast of sandwiches.