Coming to terms

"Do you need a.... drink or anything ... a cup of tea? Was it bad news?" 
The voice tailed away, could have been speaking from the moon, from another planet for all she heard what it was saying, she was at the limit of her ability to concentrate on anyone else, to be polite. One hand still clutched the telegram, the other fiddled with the buttons at her throat, they’d never felt this tight before, she thought she might choke. 
Turning her back, with as much determination as she could muster, not caring whether or not she was seeming to be rude, she continued to walk down the overgrown path, away from the house, trying not to see the faintly printed capitals, on paper tape, stuck to the pale cream official Post Office form, trying not to read the words which were, nevertheless, etched on her retina. MISSED BOAT STOP NOT GOING TO MAKE THIRTEENTH STOP REARRANGE WEDDING FOR TWENTYNINTH.
 The baby would be here by then, for sure. 

 .oOo.

Sometimes you win and other times someone else does. 
This was one of the latter, and been for the past three occasions if he was honest. If he was counting. Which he hadn’t meant to be at least. But in truth he’d begun to wonder if it wasn’t just that he was a mug, falling for all those sob stories about dying mothers, weddings and funerals to go to and letting them take his place on the boat. After all, he had a wedding to go to, didn’t he?
 His own. 
Or was that the problem? Was he secretly – so secret even he didn’t know – trying to get out of marrying Emily? 
Not that Emily was the problem, not at all, he loved Emily. Obviously he did, and she loved him otherwise she’d never have let him ... 
But she did, had seen how important it was. He’d been so desperate, so sure that if he didn’t then, with her, he never would, and given that the life expectancy once they got to France was, so some smartarse n the pub had told him, no more than fourteen days, he’d die without ever having ... so maybe he had been a bit over-persuasive. 
Maybe that was why it had been such a ... let down. 

 .oOo.

Skin of his teeth, and that fact that he’d made it in time must mean that God had intended it all along. He had arrived. And on the twenty-ninth as he had said. Had told his brother to get in touch with the registrar and rearrange it. 
The same brother picked him up from the port, handed him a bag with a suit and a shirt – neither the right size but they’d do – and drove to the registry office like a madman, assuring him he had the ring and everyone knew today was the day and though he’d not seen Emily herself, just her mother, she’d said it would all be OK, Emily would be there. 
And she was. 
But the baby that Emily carried inside had been there for nigh on nine months. His ship overseas had sailed on Easter Sunday. Today was the end of September.

[Three prompted pieces from Thinking Ten]