Lord Redesdale had lent Louisa his car and driver, and it was only as the man in the peaked cap held the door open for her that she realised she had never sat in the back seat of a car before. All at once she felt shy, and remained silent for the journey to Chelsea Town Hall, Tom beside her. In those minutes, Louisa missed her father terribly; his brusque manner had ineffectually masked a genuine love for his family and she ached to be able to reach out for his hand, callused with work, soot permanently beneath his fingernails. She wondered if she had made a terrible mistake arriving in this grand car. She hadn’t meant to pretend she was something she wasn’t, it had just seemed like a glamorous and fun thing to do, and generous of her previous employers to offer it. But perhaps she should have taken the bus, as she normally did to go anywhere. She liked the bus, she thought with a lurch of sickness. Then, as the car slowed down to park beside the pavement on the King’s Road, yards from the blue door she was soon to walk through, Louisa spotted Guy Sullivan, her future husband, as he hurried along. He happened to look at the car she was in, then through the window and, for the briefest second, they caught each other’s eye. It was supposed to be bad luck to see each other before the wedding, wasn’t it? She leaned back slightly, but Guy grinned at her, the bright sunlight reflecting on his round spectacles, his long, lean frame poised as if in haste to marry her, and she knew she had never looked forward to anything so much as being his wife.
Afterwards, the wedding party crossed the road to go to the Pig’s Ear for what Nancy kept insisting was ‘the wedding breakfast’ but which Louisa knew was sandwiches, tea and beer. She and Guy had paid for everything themselves; there would be no champagne. But she was more than fine with that and as she stood beside Guy, before their friends, her cheeks were beginning to hurt from all the smiling. The thin gold ring was on her left hand, and Guy held onto her right, squeezing it often as he turned to look at her.
‘I can’t believe it has finally happened,’ he said. ‘Louisa Cannon, my wife.’
‘Mrs Sullivan to you,’ she teased, prompting another kiss from her delighted groom.
‘Oi, oi, there’s quite enough time for all that later on.’ A beaming Harry Conlon, the best man, tugged at Guy’s arm. ‘Wasn’t there something about a cake and speeches first?’
Harry’s wife, Mary, pretty and heavily pregnant, ticked her husband off. ‘When they’re ready and not before.’ She whispered to Louisa, ‘I think he was more nervous than Guy. Absolutely terrified he’d lose the ring. He’s never had stage fright like it before.’
They shared a conspiratorial look over at their husbands – their husbands! – before Mary walked off to find somewhere to sit down.
The pub was crowded. Though they had wanted only a modest wedding party, there was all Guy’s family – his parents, his three brothers and their wives, plus assorted cousins and small children – and all of the Mitfords. Plus a sprinkling of friends: Jenny, who had grown up on the same Peabody estate as Louisa, but whose beauty had married her into the upper class, was over from New York for a brief spell with her husband Richard; Luke Meyers, Louisa’s friend from the time she had spent working for Diana as her lady’s maid, who was now working in Munich as a correspondent for The Times; and one or two others of Guy’s childhood friends – neighbours from the street he had grown up on. That would have been enough guests, but it was Guy’s colleagues who had filled up the room. Policemen, Louisa had discovered, liked to celebrate one of their own, and as Guy had worked through the ranks from constable to detective sergeant for the CID, plenty of them had claimed him. There were uniformed juniors and plain-clothed seniors, all busily ransacking the egg and ham sandwiches, and repeatedly toasting the health of the new Mr and Mrs Sullivan.
Louisa pulled Guy over to a table in the corner, on which stood a white cake of three tiers, a long knife beside it. There was a clinking on glass and the room fell quiet. Louisa took a step to the side, gently pushing Guy’s hand away.
‘Go on,’ she whispered.
She saw Guy resist the urge to polish his specs, picking up his glass of beer instead. He raised it slightly.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘my wife and I—’
He was interrupted by a roar from the room, the policemen calling out his name before he silenced them again with a wave of his hand. Louisa spotted Lord Redesdale looking about him with bemusement.
‘My wife and I are very happy to see you all here. Before we cut the cake, I’d like to thank a few people who’ve made the day possible.’ He went to pull a piece of paper out of his pocket but, as he did this, the door of the pub banged open and several heads turned around to see a young messenger boy come in.
In the momentary silence they heard a Cockney accent ask: ‘Is this the Sullivan wedding? I’ve been told to find the groom.’
There was an embarrassed murmur as people parted to allow the boy through. The boy’s eyes darted around the room and he pulled his cap further down on his head before he shuffled up to Guy, who watched him approach, his notes still in one hand, his drink in the other, as if caught out by the music stopping in a children’s party game.
At least, thought Louisa, the part in the ceremony when anyone could object to the marriage had passed.
The boy stood before Guy with a piece of folded paper in his hand and there was another dance as Guy realised he had to start moving, so gave Louisa his notes and drink, and took the note. He read it, then looked out to the sea of expectant faces. Louisa couldn’t detect what their mood was other than a mixture of exasperation and curiosity.
‘It’s from the commissioner,’ he started, and Louisa saw all the policemen lean forward a fraction. ‘The rally for the British Union of Fascists has begun and the crowds are bigger and more rowdy than expected. Everyone is needed. All leave is cancelled.’
He looked at Louisa and mouthed, ‘I’m so sorry,’ but before she could even respond, everyone’s drinks had been put down and the men were rushing out. There was the occasional call of ‘Sorry, mate,’ but on the whole, she knew, this was what they were made for, this was why they did what they did. Nor was the summons a surprise. Guy had warned her of the possibility, only two days before – too late to postpone the wedding.
Louisa took Guy’s hand. ‘You’d better go too.’
He kissed her on the lips. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sullivan.’
She gave a small smile. ‘I’m a policeman’s wife, aren’t I? We’ll have our supper together tonight, at home.’
Home, for now, was with Guy’s parents. His father was ill and needed almost constant care, and Guy’s mother hadn’t the strength to do it all alone. Louisa and Guy had discussed it and decided to stay on until some other solution presented itself. Louisa didn’t mind too much – it was a neat and cosy house, and she had next to nothing by way of furniture of her own. This way, they could save and find somewhere they wanted. As for a honeymoon, that was only ever going to be a train to Brighton and one night in a hotel on the seafront. They would have to do it another time. There was no point in fussing, it couldn’t be helped.
Luke came over as soon as Guy had left and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘You look beautiful, darling,’ he said. ‘I thoroughly approve of this colour on you.’