16. THE 2nd SEPTEMBER 1939

An invitation to the theatre on the eve of war.

Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain might have thought that he was right and the villagers of Swanspottle might have trusted his every word and breathed collective sighs of relief when they heard them, but future history was soon going to deny that prime minister his place as a peace-maker. It was that time of the twentieth century. And quite a sombre time it was, too.

But Ursula didn’t know about the coming war when Greendale Blocksley, nerves causing his handsome face to twitch noticeably, made the doorbell ring as he made his way into the shop in Swanspottle where Ursula was busy making up a parcel of goods for one of her disabled customers. Davey Taylor, twelve and cheeky in a way she liked, would take it after school on the shop bicycle, get paid by Ursula for his trouble and again by the customer for saving him or her from having to bear an unbearable weight.

“You’re too early, Davey,” she said, with a humorous trill in her voice as the bell rang.

“I’m not Davey,” replied Greendale Blocksley, the mistaken identity adding to his nerves.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” laughed Ursula, looking up. “My mind was elsewhere. I’m always doing it!”

“I was passing by,” he muttered, regretting the need to tell a big white lie, because nobody going anywhere other than to a tiny corner of Swanspottle would pass that shop. Especially not a solicitor’s clerk from a town ten miles away, one who’d come there very deliberately and specifically to see her.

“Really?” she smiled, “are there more papers for me to go through and sign? I thought I was over with that.”

“Oh no, I think that’s all done and dusted,” he assured her, “No, I thought...”

But he couldn’t bring himself to say what he thought, at least, not straight away.

“I do that sometimes,” she said.

“What?” He sounded suddenly slightly alarmed.

“Think, silly,” she giggled. “When I’ve got nothing better to do,” she added.

“I was thinking,” he continued, blushing.

“Yes…? This was making her curious and something about him, maybe the uncertain little-boy innocence as he struggled to say what was on his mind or maybe it was something more about him, the pristine charm she’d noticed last time he was in her shop, that made her stand up straight, ignore the delivery she was packing, and be suddenly filled with a huge desire to kiss him.

That was the kind of desire she didn’t feel so often. She could count the number of boys she’d kissed on the fingers of one hand. There weren’t so many lads of an appropriate age in Swanspottle anyway and the odd distraction from a Jones or a Smith lad hadn’t added up to more than a fleeting smooch all told.

“I’ve got tickets,” he said, uncomfortably, and his mind filled in, after all, what do I really know about this beautiful girl and what she might like?

“You have?” she asked, still smiling.

“There’s a play on… in Brumpton … would you like to come with me?” exploded from him as a mighty yet nervous invitation. “They’re doing Hay Fever...” he added, miserably because he judged that the expression on her face that she was probably dead against any kind of theatre.

But it didn’t mean anything of the sort. The expression on her face was merely one of puzzlement.

“I’ve never been to a play...” she said, truthfully.

“I see you’re not bothered. I just wondered … I can take my mother instead,” he gabbled. “She’d like it, I know she would. She likes everything Noel Coward does...”

“Is it by Noel Coward, then?” she asked, because her knowledge of the arts was singularly limited. She might be both clever and astute, but her experiences were those of a shop girl.

He nodded.

“I’d love to come,” she said, seriously.

“You’re not just saying that because I mentioned my mother, are you?” he asked anxiously.

“Don’t be silly! But if you’d prefer to take her, I would understand.” The expression on her face was serious when she said that.

Oh what an angel… what a beautiful, wonderful angel… went through the young man’s mind, and he wanted to kiss her as much as a moment ago she’d wanted to kiss him.

But,

“I’ll call for you tonight, at quarter to seven if that’s all right. I’ll borrow my dad’s car. He lets me if I need it, and I’ll need it tonight when I escort the most beautiful girl … I’m sorry, you know what I mean...” The young man was struggling to make the sort of sense that he wanted to make, but though words usually came easily to him, right then they were letting him down.

“You’re really nice,” she said with a bright smile, “and I’ll be ready. What do I wear? I’ve never been to the theatre before, as I said. There’s quite a lot about sophisticated living that I haven’t got a clue about.”

“Just wear something pretty. Something nice,” he said.

“I don’t have anything long,” she muttered, “no long frocks, I’m afraid: I’ve never needed one.”

“That doesn’t matter. Just be comfortable. Whatever you wear I’ll be proud to be with you.”

“Even if I wear a swimsuit?” she giggled.

He looked at her, his eyes open wide and he blinked in surprise. “What?” he stammered.

She giggled again. “I’m only joking!” she said, “I’ll wear autumn colours seeing that it’s just about autumn, if that’s all right.”

He looked at her as if mesmerised. Then he shook his head again. “I’ll be back,” he muttered, “I can’t wait!”

Ursula was nineteen, almost twenty, and this was the very first time she had been taken out to a special function by a young man. Her heart raced faster than she had ever known it race, and when Davey Taylor popped his cheeky face through the door she was in a state bordering on confusion as she worked out all the things she believed she didn’t know about going out with men and theatres, and the possible pitfalls in dressing properly.

“There was a posh young bloke looking for you earlier,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Him as lives at the Squire’s big house.”

“You mean the Snootnose man?” she asked, trying to pull herself together.

“He’s ‘orrible,” confided Davey. “Everyone says he’s ‘orrible.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, “here, Davey, take this to Mrs Groundwitch,” and she heaved a sizeable parcel onto the counter.

“Core! That’s a big ‘un!” he said, but he picked it up with the skill that delivery boys soon learn, and was off, pedalling as if his life depended on it, with the package balanced in the basket at the front of the shop bicycle.

“I’ve got a big ‘un too, if you must know,” called the most irritating voice in the district as soon as Davey was out of sight, and like a dark winter cloud on a stormy night Charles Snootnose appeared at the door.. “I want you to display some very fine etchings,” it added, “then when you do I’ll show you my big ‘un!”

“I don’t want to know, and no: I’ve no intention of ever displaying your etchings,” she said firmly, “This is a grocery, not an art shop.”

“Pater will insist,” he threatened, “he’ll buy your shop from under you, and then where will you be?”

“Just go away!” she spat at him, “I’ve got too much on to be bothered with a sprat like you!”

“A sprat am I?” he shouted, “you wait, you Miss High and Mighty Shop-girl! You wait and see what my father’s got to say about it!”

She made to shut the door in his face, but he leapt back, grinning like urchins grin and reeking of bourbon, and teetered off into the late afternoon air.

Ursula shut the shop early and sighed.

It was 2^nd September 1939, and next day the Prime Minister was going to make a very important announcement, broadcast on the wireless, one that would put Charles Snootnose into perspective in her mind. But before then there was the theatre in Brumpton, and remembering that made her heart start singing again.

She would look her best. Her very, very best, because Greendale Blocksley had a very nice face and a saint’s demeanour, and she was going to be with him.

© Peter Rogerson 25.07.18