by Jenny Galton Fenzi

Shh...shh...shhhh... goes the train of the dress on the dead leaves lying on the church path. Everyone thinks it a strange time for a wedding, late on a winter afternoon. But it is the time she always planned to get married; a perfect December day, bright and clear. She arrives as the sun is going down, and last rays of light are striking through the west windows of the twelfth-century church.
        Inside, the church is lit by rows of candles. It is exactly the setting she wanted; pools of light and shade, and she herself moving through them in the dress which glows like a cream flame.
        It is not, of course, an off-the-peg dress. Not for her the bridal rooms in department stores, with their predictable rails of gowns, all slightly soiled aft the neck and sleeves by previous customers. This dress is a unique creation, made for her alone and no-one else will ever, ever wear it again afterwards.

The search for a dressmaker was not easy. She was almost in despair when at last she located an elderly Frenchwoman, who was about to give up dressmaking because of increasingly arthritic fingers but was persuaded for a consideration, to make one last dress.
        She had been sketching little designs for some time. She knew exactly what would suit her. Her legs are not good, but this won't matter under a full-length gown. She has a small waist, a long neck, and a straight back, so these are the assets which had to be emphasised to advantage.
        Next, the fabric. Again, the search was long, but she had time and patience. She began to haunt shops and stores, returning time and again to browse, compare, ponder. She carried bolts of material to the window to sec how the light fell. She begged or bought many swatches, carried them about, studied them at work, in the park, on the bus. It had to be right. She considered polar-white satins, textured lace, all kinds of silks and velvets, stiff taffetas, held them against her face.
        White was no good; it dragged the colour from her complexion, made her look sallow. Cream was more flattering. The assistant's sharp scissors finally crunched through beautiful, and wildly expensive, cream silk taffeta with a faint embossed pattern of tea roses. Even the taciturn dressmaker nodded in satisfaction as the parcel was unwrapped on her table.
        Now she had time to attend to other matters. She is a good planner, and her skills have all been harnessed to produce one flawless day. Her bedroom became an operations room, with files, lists and a noticeboard .
        The bridesmaids posed a problem. There were several sisters, cousins and friends with a claim to be considered, and she reviewed them all one at a time. She considered their height, shape and colouring. Which of them could play a part in creating the perfect entourage for her, the bride? The completely unsuitable ones were discarded at an early stage, before they even knew they were on the list. Too fat, too tall, too plain, too attractive. A cousin's four-year-old daughter, although enchantingly pretty, tended to wail at the slightest setback, so was passed over.
        An old schoolfriend was too tall and gawky; luckily she was involved in a car accident which meant she had to wear a neck-brace for some months. Another friend would be heavily pregnant by the time of the wedding.
        Finally the list was complete; four senior bridesmaids, all roughly the same height and build. All good-looking, but not distractingly so; and four small bridesmaids, chosen for reliable behaviour and winsomeness in equal measure.
        The bridesmaids are to be dressed in dark green velvet crinolines, and will carry bouquets of white and cream roses, freesia, hellebores and lilies-of-the-valley, bound up with ivy, and will wear matching wreaths on their heads. The small bridesmaids will strew white rose petals in front of her as she makes her way down the aisle. She has made sure they have practiced the operation many times, using paper rose petals.
        Her parents wanted to put up a marquee in the garden of their house for the reception, but she chose the old hotel by the river, which has a glass-fronted dining room overlooking the water. It will be filled with candles and fairylights, and hundreds of cream flowers with trails of ivy.
        The menu has been agreed after much discussion with the chef. A four-tier wedding cake (sponge, not fruit) has been designed which will draw gasps of admiration. She has done the table seating-plan herself, spending hours on her knees with names on slips of paper, making notes on guests' ages, interests, political persuasions, religion and any past quarrels or difficulties with other guests. The resulting plan is a masterpiece of social arrangement. During the meal, a string quartet will play. She has even insisted on seeing a copy of the best man's speech, for no vulgarity or tactless references will be allowed to spoil this occasion.
        There will be exactly two hundred guests, and the dress is formal. Those appearing on the main group photographs have been tactfully advised if they were about to make an unwise or unflattering choice of outfit. She was relieved to discover in time that two important women guests had chosen outfits which would have clashed, and she has persuaded them to change.
        She confessed to some satisfaction as, one by one, the items on her list were ticked off. The photographer engaged, the announcement in the paper arranged, the presents for the bridesmaids bought, hotel arrangements for guests travelling long distances booked. Tick, tick, tick.
        And all the time, the dress has been in her bedroom. It was too long for her wardrobe, and was hung up on one of the beams. It was swathed in protective sheeting, but she could still visualise it. It was the last thing she saw before going to sleep, and the first thing she saw on waking. She remembers arriving at the dressmaker's house to try on the finished dress, how it fell as it slid down over her shoulders and hips, and all the buttons were fastened one by one. And she and the dress were together at last.

Shh...shh...shhh... says the train of her dress on the church path now. Just before the procession arrived at the church there was a flurry of fine snowflakes. It is all so perfect. She has reached the church door, and through the lace of her veil can see the packed pews, each with its swag of white roses and ivy tendrils. The organ music swells. The bridesmaids arrange her train, and so she goes down the aisle. The small attendants walk ahead of her, solemnly throwing down handfuls of white rose petals. She feels as if she is walking slowly through a dream. This is her day of days, the crown of her efforts and plans.
        And of course there is Robert. He is waiting at the front, nervously twisting his hands. How lucky that she chose him. He is perfectly suitable in even' way. He is exactly two inches taller than her when she is wearing medium heels, and is three years and four months older. He is slim, acceptably good-looking, and has a secure job with prospects and a company car.
        He is a sweet and gentle man, but she wishes sometimes that he was not quite so shy and retiring. She remembers the evening they first met at the tennis club dinner; she actually had to ask him to dance. Why, in the end, she even had to propose to him! But that is just the way he is, and she is sure that their general future happiness is not in doubt.
        Now she has walked the full length of the aisle, past all the guests in the church, past the swags of white roses and ivy, and stands finally by his side.
        Robert smiles nervously down at her. As the organ music dies away and the vicar begins to address the congregation, a little sigh escapes his lips. He feels giddy with excitement. His arms are by his sides, and he cannot resist the temptation to reach out the fingers of his left hand to brush the silk taffeta of her skirt. The dress is exquisite, everything he could have wished. He closes his eyes in ecstasy; he cannot wait for the day to be over. The vicar begins to intone the words that will bind them together, for better or worse, forever. Robert's glance drops to the floor, and he frowns slightly. Once he is on his own. he is sure the dress itself will present no problem; but will he ever be able to squeeze his feet into those delicate ivory lace court shoes?

List of shortlisted entries