37. THAT'S ANTICIPATION FOR YOU

Ursula has a new and very different relationship in her life.

“I just don’t feel like a little old granny,” said Ursula to Cardew who was busily checking a proof of his book for boys about the moon and other extraterrestrial objects. He was sitting at his desk in the Academy, and Ursula, who had cycled there to spend some time with him, was lounging in an armchair next to the desk.

“And you don’t look like one either, dearest,” murmured Cardew. Then he looked up, his eyes mischievously glinting, ”would you like me to find out whether you feel like a little old granny or not?” he asked, grinning lasciviously.

“I wonder what Primrose will call it,” mused Ursula.

“It depends whether it’s a boy or a girl,” suggested Cardew, “and look here, Ursy-darling, we could discuss this over a glass or two of wine if you like...”

“What? At lunch time on a Sunday?” exclaimed Ursula, who was time-trapped in an age that considered alcohol at lunch time on a Sunday was all right for the men who drowned their sorrows in beer at the Crown and Anchor but not for ladies on the same day. “My mother would be appalled,” she added, truthfully enough.

“Then invite her along and show her there is more than one side to life,” he murmured.

“I would but she’d hate it, mostly because of her arthritis,” Ursula told him. “Where were you thinking of partaking of this glass of one, perchance?”

“In my flat, of course,” he said, poker-faced.

“Not your boudoir again,” she exclaimed, “I couldn’t bring mum there!”. In truth when they were together it was almost always in the bedroom because that was far more comfortable than what was supposed to be a living room but which was small, poky, dark and always smelled slightly of smoke. Before alterations, that flat had once been a single room in the main body of the house and Ursula guessed it was where fire had damaged all but the South wing long ago, before the war.

“As long as you promise not to spill yours on the sheets,” he said, winking at her.

“That depends on what you’re planning to do with me when we get there,” she said, deliberately suggestively.

“Me? Do something to you? But you’re a married woman!”

She smiled back at him. “Not for much longer,” she said, “now where’s that wine you want to seduce me with?”

He closed his proof copy of his book and stood up.

“Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?” she asked, pointing.

“I’m more than pleased… come on, I’ll get the wine and you get the glasses, and be quick.”

Ursula had formed a remarkably close relationship with Cardew Pinkerton since their meeting at her daughter’s wedding reception. They had clicked as kindred spirits almost immediately and within what her mother would have thought was a disgracefully short time (days rather than weeks) had ended up in bed together.

Mostly it was at the shop, in her private quarters up stairs, which regular customers noted was quite often ‘closed for half an hour’ as a handwritten card in the shop front door informed potential customers, usually in the afternoon and usually around three o’clock.

Ursula stretched out on his bed and sighed, then smiled. “Look at me,” she said quietly, “pushing fifty and like a randy teenager. I hope Primrose never finds out!”

“If I know anything about younger generations she’s probably worked it out already,” Cardew told her as he put his glass on a bedside table and opened the bottle with a large silver corkscrew, and then, “are you going to marry me?” he asked as he poured.

She looked at him, surprised. Her divorce was almost absolute and she would soon be free to marry again, but the subject hadn’t cropped up before. She liked him very much, loved being with him, loved the things they did together, and respected his work ethic which involved being head of an Academy for disturbed youngsters, most of whom seemed perfectly happy and well balanced whenever she saw them, and writing a series of scientific texts for use in the school and, hopefully, beyond it. And there was more that she liked about him, physical things, all of them probably relatively insignificant in themselves but which added up to be huge. But marry him? Why hadn’t she thought of it herself? The things they did together and, she knew, were surely about to do yet again, were the things that married people did.

“Of course I am,” she answered automatically because she knew deep down that was the right answer to the right question.

“Then I’ll drink to that,” he said suavely, and emptied his glass in one spectacular gulp.

“If it’s a girl I hope she calls her Daisy,” said Ursula irrelevantly.

“Daisy Grizzly… I dared say it’s got some sort of a ring to it,” smiled Cardew as he refilled both of their glasses.

“An odd one, though,” laughed Ursula.

“Ursy-darling, when we’re married and in our own mutual Heaven, what about the shop?”

It had been on his mind for some time. The village shop, a place that had been Ursula’s life since she left school at the age of fourteen, took a great deal of her time up and he could see there might be problems ahead.

“What about it?” she asked.

“I’m not the sort of old fashioned man who thinks his wife shouldn’t have a life of her own,” he told her seriously, “and I certainly don’t want to think she’s all apron strings and mops, but if she’s to be mistress of two homes then she might fail at both...”

Ursula thought for a moment. Then: “I know,” she said quietly. “Let me think about it, though I’m certain I know what I’ll do. Jane, you know Jane Smith, my friend for ever, she inherited quite a lot of money from the Snootnoses some years back and she’s always said that if I ever want to sell the shop would I give her first refusal… Her daughter is, how shall I put it without being unkind, a tiny bit slow even though she’s the sweetest young woman on the planet, and Jane thinks she needs to feel useful and helping to run the village shop might be the best thing for her.”

“Susan? I know her. Do you think…?”

“Oh, she could do most of what’s necessary all right, but Jane might have to help her with some of the paper work. Susan’s all right in a good way, but she’s not the usual kind of all right, if you see what I mean.”

“I see exactly what you mean, and I believe that you’re right. Clever old you!”

“Hey! Less of the old! Or I might find myself reminding you of the weeks that make you older than me!”

He put his glass down on the bedside table and took hers gently from her hand.

“There’s always a blessing when the woman you fall in love with is very different from the woman you loved and lost before you met her,” he murmured, seriously, “and you’re so very different from Maureen, poor soul and God bless her.”

“You hardly ever mention her,” said Ursula, “though you told me that she passed away.”

“Cancer, the cruellest disease of them all,” he said quietly, “and I loved her very much indeed. But she was so different from you, and our love was so different. For a start, she never wanted children. And she was no great enthusiast for the sort of behaviour that creates children, if you get my meaning. I went along with her because she was adorable and I loved her, but I would have liked … you know what … more physical stuff, and maybe a child of my own.”

“It must have been hard for you,” breathed Ursula, “come on, let’s finish the bottle off and then I’ll show you a thing or two...”

“You will?”

“Just you wait and see!”

He laughed and refilled their glasses and laughed again when he spilled some onto the sheets.

“Oops,” he said, “there’s anticipation for you!”

© Peter Rogerson 16.08.18