The War Widows [antikvár]

Prologue August 1947 Her big day was here at last, after ail those years of daydreaming how it would be. The bride opened one eye and peered over her bedroom. It felt as if she'd been courting sleep all night and not a wink in her direction. But what sort of girl slept like a top on the eve of her wedding anyway? Except hers was the wakefulness of the wary, not the excitement of a nervous bride. 'Bless the Bride' was the popular song that went round and round in her head like a needle stuck on a gramophone record. Her eyes skimmed across the room to where the outfit was hanging on the back of the door; not the white slub satin, cut on the bias, with beaded sweetheart neck the family would expect, nor the fancy rig-out that Princess Elizabeth would be wearing to parade down the aisle of Westminster Abbey in November. The linen two-piece suit was sensible, fit for the simplicity of Zion Chapel and all the dos thereafter. It would get a lifetime of wear