SHE REALLY FELT SHE MIGHT THROW UP, THEN and there. All over the registrar’s table.The registrar’s table. In Chelsea Town Hall. Not the altar in Wellesley village church.She looked down, saw her shoes. Her white pumps, with those wonderful red bows on them that echoed the red bows on her dress. Her short lace dress, not a long, full-skirted satin dress.They made their vows, were declared man and wife, exchanged a kiss.She felt better now, turned, smiled into the room. At their friends. Not a churchful, just a couple of rows, and only a handful of family, mostly his.They signed the register, stood up, walked out of the room. Out of the room, not down the aisle, not into the church porch but the registrar’s office lobby. And then outside, onto the steps, not into a laughing, loving crowd but a couple of half-interested passersby.What had happened to her; what would happen to her? And how could she possibly feel so shockingly, wonderfully happy?Autumn/Winter 1964“MUMMY, I’VE GOT SOMETHING TO TELL YOU.”“Yes, darling, we know.
