Billy tries to hide his nervousness with a jaunty whistle, but isn’t convincing himself. His mother told him he looks smart, and wouldn’t let him out, especially not on such an important day (for he had confided his plans to her) if he didn’t, but his jacket feels too big, and his shoes feel too small, and he really isn’t sure about the shamrock in his buttonhole, and he wishes his hair would lie flat though Mum assured him that his curly hair is one of his assets.

He’s arranged to meet Carolyn in the park, thinking some things are best done in the open air, and knowing she loves the pond in there, gazing into its depths where bright fishes flit and swish. Surreptitiously, and careful not to get his hands dirty, he tries to find a four-leaf clover, for luck. Perhaps he’ll tuck it among the shamrocks if he finds one. But it doesn’t seem like his lucky day. All the clover in the grass in the park are stubbornly three-leaved.

She’s too good for me, he thinks, involuntarily fingering the shamrock and determinedly whistling. I’ll make a fool of myself. I can forget about this altogether and we can still have a fine day out together and I’ll treat her to one of those fancy coffees she likes in the Pavilion Café. He could never get a taste for them himself, and would rather have a mug of tea any day, though right now he wouldn’t mind a stiff whisky – no, definitely NOT, as Carolyn would smell it on his breath, and though she’s not teetotal herself, that wouldn’t do at all.

She’s approaching, dressed far more casually than he is but looking wonderful in her jeans and floaty pale green top, her dark hair in a loose plait. They kiss, they remark about the weather. He starts to talk, and stutters and hesitates. She gives a huge, kind smile. “Billy, it’s Leap Year. So here goes. Will you marry me?”

And the shamrock buttonhole is crushed in their hug, and has never been so beautiful!

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