'Hadn't you better go and get ready?' Joan looked pointedly at Freddie. 'You've got one hour.'

Herbie turned and winked at Freddie. 'Go on. Don't be late.'

Freddie put the brush down and stood back to gaze in awe at Daisy's transformation from a s.h.a.ggy muddy carthorse into a proud, gleaming show horse. Daisy lowered her great head to him, as if she knew everything. He reached up and rubbed one of her silky ears. 'Thanks Daisy,' he said, and the horse nodded graciously.

'Cheerio, Freddie and good luck!' Joan called after him as he headed down the road in long strides, his clothes smelling of horse, his eyes watching the swifts and swallows diving and sweeping in the skies about Monterose.

Down at the station, Charlie sat on his bench in the morning sun, his green flag rolled up beside him. He was energetically polishing a trombone to a mirror-like shine, buffing and buffing it until he could see reflections of the station footbridge and the walnut tree and the cerulean blue of the June sky. One more train to meet, then he could go. His band uniform was hanging up in the back of the ticket office and his fingers itched to be playing that tune and marching up the street with the band.

He'd seen more posh hats that morning than he'd ever seen in his life, he thought, watching the ten-thirty train come steaming in. More women in fancy hats and men in grey top hats and tuxedos got off and strutted past him. He was glad to see the relief stationmaster jump down from the train.

''Ello, Sid.' Charlie handed over the green flag, the whistle and the timetable. Then he changed quickly into his band uniform, dark green with a smart green and gold cap, gold epaulettes and b.u.t.tons. Hyped with excitement he set off for the Jarvises' house where the procession was a.s.sembling in the courtyard. All Charlie wanted was one special smile that day from a girl he had secretly admired ever since she came to his station as a bright-eyed schoolgirl with red ribbons in her plaits.

In the town hall, Betty and Alice were bustling up and down the trestle tables, arranging napkins and plates of ham. There were jars of pickles, plates piled high with boiled eggs, tiny sandwiches and wedges of cheese, round bowls of ripe strawberries and cherries, dishes of clotted cream, and a tray piled high with fresh lardy cake.

George was pacing up and down the hall, checking his pockets and looking at the clock.

'Come on, girls. We'd better get up there,' he said.

'What about Mother?' asked Alice.

'What about her?' said George. 'She won't come. 'Tis no good trying to drag her.'

'We won't DRAG her,' said Alice huffily. She went to the mirror and arranged her blue and white hat. 'Leave her alone. She never is going to go out. I hope I don't get like that.'

'I hope I don't either,' echoed Betty.

It had been an effort for Bertie and Sally to make the trip to Monterose, especially going over the ferry and thinking of Ethie being swept away in that fierce tide. They'd taken some roses and thrown them overboard when the boat reached the middle of the river. Bertie was ill, but determined, and Sally felt the time had come for her to stop working and give him devoted care. She was glad of the support of the extended Loxley family around them, but she missed her daughters, especially Kate.

'I'm going to cry when I see Kate in her dress,' she said, as she and Bertie waited, sitting in two basket chairs on Joan's veranda.

At last the door opened and Kate emerged, beaming, in her long cream silk bridal dress. It was simple but beautiful, and instead of a veil she had chosen a dramatic wide-brimmed hat trimmed with tiny flowers and a white ostrich feather.

Bertie stood up, speechless as he gazed at his beautiful daughter.

'You look perfect,' breathed Sally, just perfect, dear. Now here's your bouquet.'

'Twelve red roses,' smiled Kate. 'It's what Freddie wanted and his mother has made it up. Hasn't she done it beautifully?' She sniffed one of the cool roses. 'It smells divine. I can't WAIT to find out how I'm getting to church. You've all been keeping it a secret!'

Bertie and Sally looked at each other happily. 'You won't have to wait long,' said Sally and as she spoke Joan swept into the room in a flurry of ostrich feathers and mustard-coloured silk.

'Your carriage awaits!' she cried. 'Oh, you look marvellous, Kate!'

Bertie held out his arm. 'Here we go.'

Kate linked her arm into his, and gazed into his pale face. His eyes were bright with antic.i.p.ation. Leaning on his stick he took her through the house to the front door. Standing patiently in the drive was a Shire horse in full regalia, jingling with bra.s.ses and bobbing ta.s.sels, her coat gleaming in the sun. The horse turned her head and saw Kate. She whinnied in greeting.

'DAISY!'

Kate forgot about looking elegant. She went to Daisy, flung her arms around the huge neck and cried.

'Kate, your DRESS!' roared Sally, and Kate giggled.

'Quite like old times,' said Bertie, laughing out loud.

'Don't let Daisy eat those roses.' Sally rescued the bouquet, and the three of them stood together laughing and making a fuss of the dear old horse who had been part of their happy family.

'I'd have had a bouquet of carrots if I'd known.' Kate laughed. 'And LOOK at this carriage she's pulling! Is this yours, Joan? It's magnificent. I'll feel like a queen!'

'Are you ready, Miss Kate?' Charlie appeared in his band uniform, a trombone shining in his hands. 'Got the town band here to escort you. And the music is what Freddie wanted.'

He got the smile he'd been hoping for. Kate and Bertie climbed into the highly polished carriage and the procession began. The band started its music with a drum roll, then marched forward to the tune of 'I'm forever blowing bubbles'. Daisy loved music. She arched her neck and stepped out majestically, her hooves clopping time to the music. She was an old horse now, too old to work, but today she was full of life and pride.

Left alone in the bakery, Annie squeezed her feet into some new shoes. She trimmed her posh hat with a few flowers and put it on in front of the mirror. Then she pushed her face up close to the mirror and looked into her own eyes.

'You,' she said, pointing at herself, 'are going to your son's wedding.'

She opened the door and went out. In the distance she could hear the town band and the clip-clop of Daisy's hooves. Straightening her back proudly, Annie walked confidently down the road and into the church.

A Note From the Author.

THE BOY WITH NO BOOTS is fiction, but it is based on the true stories my late father told us about his early life. The stone angel and many of his carvings are in homes and churches around Somerset, some of them still in the family. Monterose and Hilbegut are fict.i.tious places, typical of towns and villages in my home county of Somerset. If you're good at anagrams, you could work them out! You might even discover a small grey village church where Dad's statue of St Peter still stands in the porch.

Acknowledgements.

Thank you to Barbara Large and the Winchester Writers Festival, my amazing agent, Judith Murdoch, my wonderful editor, Jo d.i.c.kinson and all the team at Simon and Schuster UK. A special thank you to my local writers group, my husband, Ted, and my family for their kindness and support.

By the same author:.

Solomon's Tale.

Solomon's Kitten.