She sat in a side room, listening to the next bride and groom go through their ceremony. They had bagpipes to pipe them out the door and Netta could have wailed with envy. She waited until the doors were shut and the Registrar made her a cup of tea.

‘I’m awful sorry. Still if he’s a soldier… The world’s on the move all right. He has to obey orders.’ She could tell he was looking at her with pity, thinking, Here’s some lassie juped by the swish of tartan and a line of medals.

‘When’s the next bus?’ she croaked, neck stiff from looking down at her feet.

‘There’s one to Carlisle in a few minutes and one to Dumfries on the half-hour. You’re lucky it’s a Saturday, all the young fry will be off to the dancing.’

*

The longest week in her life turned into the longest journey home, scanning the fields and the coast, trying not to howl on the bus and the train. All dressed up and nowhere to go. How was she going to explain Rae’s absence? Peg had even prepared the spare room for them, just in case. Perhaps another half-truth would do again. She was getting used to covering her tracks.

Netta ferreted in her bag, took the ring out of its box and, while none of the other passengers were looking, slipped it on her wedding finger over the engagement ring. A ring but no groom. A blessing but no marriage lines. Not a single photograph to record the event. No proof to get extra coupons to build a home for his return. But only she knew the truth of it and so it would remain. Well, this bride did have the rings and the outfit, the memories and the banns, so Mrs Rae Hunter she was going to be from now on.

Father came to meet her off the train with a worried look on his face. ‘Where’ve you been? There was a telegram just after you left. I had to open it. See.’ He showed her the slip: SORRY STOP LEAVE CANCELLED STOP WRITE YOU SOON STOP LOVE RAE.

That was the point where she broke down sobbing, much to her father’s embarrassment.

‘Wheesht, lassie, the laddie can’t help it. Sounds as if it’s all beginning, right enough. I hear they’re towing some great contraption all the way from Glenluce Bay, down the west coast to Portsmouth. The war has to come first, Netta. Don’t get yersel’ in a state over what ye cannae change.’