At the crossroads on the outskirts of town is the shop. A grey-haired woman, hesitant at its door, whispers on entering, ‘I’m Mabel Bennett.’
Mrs Griffiths mentally notes: this one is nervous.
The shop is small from the street but its inside is capacious. Mabel’s first impression is of a greenhouse, pregnant with blooming white flowers. Closer inspection reveals racks where the gowns huddle silently, each awaiting a body to fill them, to walk and twirl in them, display them to a crowd – though just one human might suffice.
‘I saw the online article,’ Mabel says.
‘December’s quiet, always has been. Hence the offer which lasts all week. Pick one out, try it on. There’s nothing to pay.’
Mabel approaches a rack, stops, touches a garment, then another, as if weighing up a partner for a dance. ‘This one’s gorgeous. My size too.’
‘Changing rooms are behind you,’ Mrs Griffiths smiles.
The front door tinkles and two women, twenties, related?, have gone straight to a row of bridal dresses. Confident types.
‘Regrets marrying before I had the baby, I does,’ one is saying. ‘My dress was like a bloody tent it were, and me the size of a house.’
‘Clock this one, Goldie. Look at them patterns, real professional stitching that is. You’ll look like a Disney princess in it.’
‘Eight hundred quid to buy! Forty five mine cost, Becks.’
‘No charge for trying on, girls.’
‘I dunno if I dare put on this posh one, Mrs Griffiths. I mean … me?’
‘And you can take photos,’ Mrs Griffiths encourages.
Soon Mabel and Goldie are joined in the fitting booths by Heather Morgan, married twice, seventy-five, putting on the dress of her dreams. Both marriages were short, like the wedding dresses, knee-length, scrimping you know. But this one, well the Queen might have worn it the way it spreads out from the waist like a snowy fan, trailing on the floor as if waiting for attendants.
Soon all three emerge, Mrs Griffiths takes snaps on her mobile and the phones of the women. ‘I’ll post them on the website. All publicity is good publicity.’
Mabel, who is terminally ill and has not been married, is joyful, saying, ‘I’ve always wanted to wear one. Goldie, initially unsure about all this malarkey, sees herself in the mirror and is overcome with tears. Heather, having the time of her life, says, ‘I must be dreaming.’
‘Expect you will go viral, ladies,’ Mrs Griffiths says as the door jingles anew. Another woman, thin, bashful, studying her feet, stands before them. Raising her eyes cautiously, seeing the three begowned ladies, all proud as strutting peacocks, she says: ‘My!’
Mrs Griffiths beckons her in. Ordinary women with their insecurities and struggles.
‘It’s my birthday week,’ the bashful woman is saying. ‘My daughter told me to come. You see these gorgeous models in bride magazines, so I just thought…’
Mrs Griffiths nods. You want to feel beautiful. Showing the woman a rack, she says: ‘Treat yourself.’
