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not be entirely tactful, so he settled himself down near the back, on Gerry’s side, behind the thinning hair of moderate politicians, the carefully tasteful hats of their moderate wives, and the more arrogant hats of the wives of the microchip men.
    Facing the massed ranks of Gerry’s friends and relations were the somewhat less massed ranks of Rita’s friends and relations, spiky aunts, uncouth uncles, spotty cousins, several of them not in morning dress. Less than two years ago, when she had been Liz Rodenhurst, Liz Badger had sat opposite them, and had tried to ignore them. She felt strange now, sitting among them, though still trying to ignore them.
    Three rows behind her sat Rodney and Betty Sillitoe.
    â€˜She’s late,’ whispered Betty, who was over-dressed as usual.
    â€˜She’s exercising her prerogative,’ whispered Rodney.
    â€˜You make it sound like a breed of dog,’ whispered Betty.
    They shared a whispered laugh.
    Ted Simcock, former provider of quality boot scrapers, now head waiter at Chez Albert in Bridge Street, looked round at exactly the same moment as Liz. They looked at each other with horror. At that other wedding eighteen months ago their exchanged glances had led to events which had broken up and reordered their world. Neville Badger, beside Liz, smiled blandly at Ted. Ted and Liz shied away hastily from the possibility that history might repeat itself. Ted craned his head to examine the great hammer roof. This was generally regarded as a magnificentexample of early church architecture and a triumph for modern woodworm techniques, but Ted had no eyes for the vast pale beams, the carved angels, the faded red and gilt of the medieval paintwork. His head swivelled on, down again, towards the back of the church, where he met the gaze of the gleaming yellow lady. He looked away, she looked away, then they both looked back to see if they really had been giving each other meaningful looks. She smiled. He tried a smile that would make him look like a cool international sophisticate. It was a failure. He looked like a randy cocker spaniel.
    The church clock proclaimed the quarter. Several people on Gerry’s side frowned. While a bride was expected to be late, a politician’s wife was expected to be punctual enough to be only slightly late.
    Leslie Horton, water-bailiff and organist, who hated to be called Les, thundered through his limited repertoire without subtlety.
    The best man, a drainage engineer from Dundee, who had been Gerry’s best friend at school, though more perhaps in retrospect than at the time, glanced at his watch and sighed.
    Gerry smiled serenely at the new young vicar, who had not yet won the hearts of his congregation.
    The long-haired Carol Fordingbridge was the first to mouth the possibility that had begun to form in a hundred barely credulous minds.
    â€˜Wouldn’t it be awful if she didn’t turn up?’ she whispered.
    â€˜Carol! She wouldn’t,’ whispered her fiancé with less than his usual cynicism. ‘She couldn’t. That’d be … awful.’
    â€˜I know,’ breathed the former Miss Cock-A-Doodle Chickens excitedly. ‘Awful.’
    They considered the awesome prospect in awful silence.
    â€˜It’d be rather wonderful, though, wouldn’t it?’ she whispered.
    The moment Leslie Horton had dreaded arrived. He had exhausted his programme of suitable pieces. The buzz of speculation in the congregation was growing steadily louder. Hats bobbed in horrified excitement. The new young vicar looked at Leslie Horton and shrugged with his eyes. Leslie Horton sighed with his shoulders and returned to the beginning of his repertoire.
    The huge ribbed radiators had to fight valiantly against the stony chill of the abbey, even on this unseasonal day. With no joyous emotion to warm them, the ladies began to shiver. One of Rita’s uncles had a sneezing fit.
    The vicar advanced upon Gerry,