Shoes Were For Sunday

Shoes Were For Sunday by Molly Weir

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Authors: Molly Weir
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wardrobes and chests of drawers, and I may say that we had a fine time afterwards trying to find clothes for bed that night and for school next morning.
    About four o’clock in the afternoon, long trestle tables arrived and were set up, one along each side wall and one across the oriel window, and long benches were ranged behind each table to give seating accommodation to the greatest number that could be squeezed into the room. We had burst the bank and were having outside caterers, and we children rushed in and out among the workmen’s feet, delirious with joy at the transformation scene which turned our one and only parlour into a little hall before our very eyes.
    Long boards filled with crockery and glasses were brought in, and the places set on snowy white tablecloths, also supplied by the caterer. We’d never seen such vast pieces of linen, and shuddered with horror at the thought of tea being spilled on such dazzling cloths, for we couldn’t imagine how long it must take to wash and dry cloths of that size, or how they could ever be ironed to such a state of smooth perfection. As we stared, fervently praying we wouldn’t be the ones todisgrace ourselves with such a mishap, the next contingent were bustling in, carrying boards filled with plates of sliced bread, cakes and biscuits. These were ranged along the tables, and bottles of sauce and pickles placed at strategic intervals and, after a long critical survey to make sure nothing had been overlooked, vases of flowers were moved from the sideboard and laid exactly in the centre of each table.
    Next came the drinks, which were left in a corner of the kitchen, ready to be opened at the appropriate moment.
    As we lived two flights of stairs from the street, you can imagine the amount of tramping up and down that took place during this non-stop performance, but everybody loved a wedding and there wasn’t a word of complaint from neighbours or workmen.
    By five o’clock it was pandemonium, with my mother trying to get the three of us children dressed, not forgetting helping Grannie into her black silk blouse with the cameo brooch at the collar, and endeavouring to shake the creases out of her own lilac crêpe, which had been knocked off the hook at the back of the door three times by the men as they pushed past delivering another load of food.
    We didn’t go to the ceremony, as my mother was terrified to leave the house in case something calamitous would happen, so we had a little extra time for dressing. But the last button was barely done up when bride and groom were with us, and guests pouring in behindthem, shrugging out of coats and hats, and making their way to the room where the laden tables glittered and gleamed under the gas chandelier which was my mother’s pride and joy.
    There was much praise for the beauty of the arrangements, and a good deal of jostling and squeezing as people wriggled into their places. Then, with perfect timing, the waitresses arrived to serve the meal. Ahead of them four men strode in, bearing boards of steak pies and vegetables. We children yelled with delight. Never had we seen so many pies all at once, never such gigantic mounds of snowy mashed potatoes, never such tureens of peas, never such vast bowls of mashed swedes.
    There was some slight embarrassment in having strange waitresses standing over us as we ate, but it was a bitterly cold night and we quickly forgot them as we tucked into our delicious meal, and soon toasts were being drunk to great bursts of laughter, much of which was beyond the children, and then the tables were dismantled and the floor cleared for singing, games and dancing.
    The vocalists needed a bit of coaxing before they’d agree to sing us a favourite song, and my Uncle Johnnie was furious because his wife insisted on singing soulfully ‘The March of the Cameron Men’. He felt she was parading her pride in him too openly. This was because he had been a Cameron Highlander in the war!
    Grannie sang,

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