‘What you crying for now?’ He placed his fingers inside his collar and pulled. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got to wear a get-up like this too? Cos if you have, then I understand completely, I feel like bloody crying as well!’

‘Dad, it’s for one day! Less than that, half a day! You always said you’d do anything for your girls and so today I am asking you to get trussed up like a turkey . . . and if you could do it without moaning every five minutes, that would be marvellous.’

‘I’ll try, my littlest maid.’ He beamed at her. ‘I will try.’ He, too, reached for the handkerchief in his trouser pocket and wiped his eyes.

‘Flippin’ ’eck, am I the only one not crying?’ Ruby yelled. ‘She’s getting wed, not going to the gallows. This is a time for celebration! If it was me leaving home, you’d be dancing a jig and roasting a whole hog!’

Her sister did this, too, joked about petty rivalry and smarted if ever Merrin was shown any advantage. Ruby’s envy was sometimes funny, but just as often it was upsetting and misplaced, and Merrin was unsure from where it had sprung.

‘That’s not true, Rubes,’ her dad placated. ‘I’ve never had fancy for a whole hog; reckon we’d go for a couple of pheasant.’

‘Very funny.’ Her sister huffed. ‘Well, be in no doubt, I’m not sad. I finally get the whole bedroom! It’s a good, good day. I’m opening the gin!’

‘Atta girl!’ Bella clapped.

Her sister rummaged in the cupboard, pulling out four mismatched glasses of varying shapes and sizes, into which she sloshed generous amounts of gin, topped up with slightly flat tonic. ‘Here we go!’ She handed a glass each to her mum, Bella and Merrin, before taking one herself. ‘To the bride!’

‘To the bride!’ they chorused.

Merrin sipped the strong drink and set it to one side. Drinking wasn’t really her thing. It wasn’t that she didn’t like it; she just wasn’t very good at it. Digby ribbed her over the fact that after one small glass of wine she was what he described as tipsy.

‘Don’t I get one?’ Her dad had no such issue – he’d certainly had enough practice. ‘It’s thirsty work putting a shirt and bloody tie on.’

‘No, you’ve got to pace yourself, Dad. We can’t have you turning up at St Michael’s half cut. Can you imagine Ma Mortimer’s face if you started slurring your words or tripped up the aisle, or worse, farted during the vows? She’d never forgive you!’ Ruby pulled a wide-eyed expression at their dad, who nodded at the truth.