Gerty did not immediately accept Ernest's ring. She knew she was falling in love with him, and that it was all over between her and Fred, but she needed to speak with her former fiance, and to set things right at home. Ernest agreed. When Gerty went back in the house with Fred's ring in her pocket, Milly was waiting for her. "I don't like the way you've been behaving, my girl," she said. "You're not being fair to Fred, and you're not being fair to me, either. I didn't bring you up to wear one man's ring while you're going out with another. I want you to give me the ring Fred gave you." Gerty obeyed, handed it over, and she never saw it again.
History is silent on her conversation with Fred, although the long-suffering suitor must have been prepared for it. A few days later, Ernest came by to speak to her father. It was much easier than he had anticipated. Milly wasn't home, and George Henry was an agreeable and affable man; even more so when Ernest took him out to the pub for a pint later on. When he found out that his daughter was Trudy on Ernest's lips, George simply said his usual, "Oh, aye," and it was left at that.
Ernest formally proposed to Gerty that night, and although she thought initially that his ring looked a little "lost" on her finger compared to the one she had given up, she was now madly in love and eager to look at the ring happily ever after. Milly contented herself with a minimal: "Is that the best he can do?" and the matter was settled.
The following weekend, the happy couple went to Bridlington for the day. On the way home, however, the motorbike hit a greasy spot and it took all of Ernest's skill to keep it upright as it skidded over the road and into the hedgerow. Gerty's face hit Ernest's back with quite a force. "Are you all right?" he asked in a panic, as he turned off the engine and dismounted to check on her. Her nose was bleeding, but she smiled up at him to assure him she was all right. Ernest's eyes widened and he took a step backwards. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, but his mouth was twitching. "I'm thure ath can be," she answered, and then stopped in horror. She could feel her tongue poking through a space in the front of her mouth where her teeth should have been. Oh no! Her bridge was gone. When she was in her early teens, she had suffered a fall which had knocked out her two front teeth. Understandably in any such sensitive young woman, her edentulous state was a topic fraught with danger for anyone who dared to mention it. Ernest took out his handkerchief to wipe her face as her nose was bleeding, but despite his best efforts, he started to laugh.
Gerty was mortified, but her embarrassment quickly turned to anger as her face reddened, her nose dripped blood on her chin, and Ernest's concern for her seemed shallow in the extreme, in light of his amusement. She snatched his handkerchief from his grasp as she stepped off the bike, began to look on it, under it and through her clothing for the errant dentures, crying, "Thtop laughing at me. I hate you, and I'll never thpeak to you again." As Ernest turned away to search along the roadside, Gerty looked up and shrieked, "There they are. Thtop. Thtop. My teeth are thtuck to the back of your jacket." And sure enough, they were firmly embedded in the leather, with the metal prongs gaily glinting in the afternoon sun.
Once her bridge was back in place, Gerty calmed down. Ernest apologized profusely for his ungallant behavior, then winked at her, chucked her under the chin, and gave her a big kiss as he tenderly wiped the remaining blood from her face. Then they looked at each other--and laughed until their sides ached. Except for a slightly swollen nose and slightly damaged dignity, Gerty recovered completely from the entire event.
Ernest was now a regular visitor to the Balmforth household, and he was a paragon of virtue in front of Milly. She began to soften towards him, and allowed that he was a good looking young man, he worked hard at his job at Taylor's Chemist Shop, and was responsibly saving as much money as he could for the future. In addition, he was now a dispenser, which was a considerable step up from a shop assistant. He was obviously smart, and certainly very good company even if he was a bit glib.
Gerty was working hard at her two jobs. She was also sewing her trousseau, and had just finished a beautiful green suit, which she tried on in front of her friend, Edna. "I don't know when I'll wear it," she said as she caressed the material. "Maybe on my honeymoon." Edna was filled with admiration. A few days later, Gerty ran into Edna on her way home from work. "So you couldn't wait to wear it, could you?" Edna laughed. "What do you mean?" asked Gerty. "Your green suit. I saw you going lickety split under the Wellington Street bridge the other night." "Wellington Street bridge?" repeated a puzzled Gerty. Then declared, "It wasn't me." "Yes, it was," insisted Edna. "I'd know that suit anywhere."
Saying a quick goodbye, Gerty hurried home, her temper rising. She hurtled through the front door and confronted her sister who took one look at her face and tried to walk away. "How could you!" Gerty shouted. Beaty stopped. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said smoothly. "Don't you lie to me," Gerty shouted again. "My suit was seen walking under the Wellington Street bridge, and you're the only one who steals my clothes. How could you?" she repeated. "I haven't even worn it myself, yet." "Oh, well," shrugged Beaty. "It's very comfortable, so you'll enjoy it when you put it on." History is once again silent about a conversation in which Gerty was involved. However, it may be worth noting that fifty years later, the green suit was still a bone of contention between the sisters.
The wedding plans were small. After a simple ceremony in the church at which both families were present, a wedding breakfast was held at the Cemetery public house owned by friends on the bride's side, and appropriately named because it faced the local graveyard. Both Ernest and Gerty wore smart, new suits, and Gerty even flung a fox fur over her shoulder, the epitome of haute couture in June, 1937. In a summer season rife with national gossip, their marriage announcement in the local paper vied with news of the upcoming nuptials of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. (to be continued)
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