Better, she thought, to witness the whole thing with a clear mind than through an unreal calm induced by pills. If a tear should come to her eye – why, that was the prerogative of every bride’s mother. Few people would see and those who did might understand. When she had taken her decision Mrs Hetherington had not envisaged the strength of emotion that would affect her on the Big Day. So it was with some surprise, here and now in the church, the journey up the aisle having been accomplished with dignity on the arm of her brother John, that she felt frills of sweat at the back of her knees. And her hands, stuffed into navy gloves one size too small, trembled in disconcerting fashion. She had chosen to wear navy with the thought that it was the most appropriate colour for her particular role at the wedding. Nobody could accuse her of trying to steal the bride’s thunder – as did so many mothers, perhaps unconsciously -and yet, if they observed her closely, Mrs Hetherington’s friends would see that her clothes conveyed the quiet chic she had always managed to achieve.
