LUCKY ME

 If you were a first time subscriber to Bright’s Lending Library you might be excused if you thought you had wandered into the drawing room of a country house. There were comfortable armchairs and sofas, a deep piled carpet and overall the genteel atmosphere of neatly dressed helpful assistants. Bright’s offered a haven to bored housewives, retired military men and titled gentry. Here they could browse, climb sturdy ladders to reach a desired title, or settle themselves for a good read. The library had existed since Mabel Bright, wife of pharmacist Frederick Bright, conceived of a subscription library for gentlefolk in the late nineteenth century. Now, as the twentieth century neared its middle mark, it was still going strong.

On an early spring day, Jessica Buckland’s eagle eye flew over the room, taking in every detail. She noted the daffodils set on the low table were fresh, the curtains at the windows hung just so, and there was not a book out of place. Barbara, the new assistant, was finally coming to understand her high standards, ones that had made Jessica Buckland irreplaceable for the past twenty years. She gazed down at her pleated skirt, a little tight on the hips because of her secret consumption of Kunzle cakes, her polished low-heeled shoes and smiled to herself. Bright’s Library was her domain.

            ‘Ah Miss Buckland,’ a stout woman with a rather florid complexion had approached her counter, the one for A subscribers who expected and received extra special service their annual 17/6 provided. ‘So glad to see you, I thought it might be your afternoon off.’ 

‘Oh no, Mrs Arbuthnot, I’m usually here on a Saturday. Only something very serious would prevent me.’

            The woman leaned on her stick, wheezing a little. ‘Those stairs will be the death of me. When are they going to install a lift?’

This was an on-going demand on the part of Mrs Arbuthnot and Jessica chose to ignore it. ‘How can I help you today?’ she asked.

The other shook her finger, smiling meanwhile. ‘Need you ask, Miss Buckland? More of the same, please, if you can find me something I haven’t read.’

'I'll see what I can do.'

Jessica steered her to one of the armchairs before she went to the Romance section for ‘more of the same.’ Her customer revelled in tales of delicate heroines and strong silent men who, after various misunderstandings, ended in wedded bliss. The selection was scrutinised and ‘Where the Heart Lies’ chosen.

‘I can’t get enough of happy endings,’ Mrs Arbuthnot sighed. ‘Such a wonderful escape from real life and troublesome husbands, you know?’

Jessica knew. Over the years she had been privy to the less than perfect behaviour of Percy Arbuthnot, his failings in many directions (this with a knowing look). 

‘I often wonder, if I had my time again I might have thought twice about getting married.’ She eyed Jessica’s ringless left third finger. ‘But of course, you’ve been spared all that. Lucky you.’

It was the hot summer of 1938 when she’d gone with her parents on that holiday in Dieppe. It had all seemed so exciting, ‘abroad’ for the first time in her life. One afternoon they had gone to the Hotel Anglais for the popular tea dance. Her parents waltzed and quick stepped while she sat watching from their corner table. She was startled out of a reverie by a deep voice asking her if she would like to dance. 

She remembered how her heart beat quickly and her voice came out in a stutter. ‘I’m not very good,’

He shrugged a Gallic shrug and raised her to her feet. They’d danced and she smelled his cologne and wished the music would go on forever.  When he brought her back to their table her parents were sitting there. 

‘Thank you, mademoiselle,’ he said and kissed her hand. 

Her mother praised his manners. Her father said they were like that, these froggies. 

Two mornings later, when she had slipped out for an early walk along the promenade, she met him again. He had seemed delighted to see her. They strolled in the sunshine and he took her arm, they leaned on the railings to gaze out to the white sails of yachts dotting the sea and he offered her a cigarette. Although she had never smoked before she accepted. All these years later she remembered the acrid taste of tobacco and how, when she’d coughed, he had gently taken the cigarette from her mouth and replaced it with a kiss.  They met each day after that. Her mother thought it romantic, her father shrugged and sighed but he was outnumbered. Jacques took her to dinner at an intimate bistro where his candlelit face seemed the most desirable thing on this earth. One day they drove out to Varengeville where they wandered the house and grounds.  In the rose garden he took her in his arms and told her he loved her. ‘Je t’aime.’  An inexpressible joy rushed through her followed by the thought their holiday was almost at an end. She wept and he took her in his arms and comforted her. 

 ‘Don’t worry little one, we shall write to each other and you will return.’

All through the following autumn her life revolved around his letters. He was thinking of her, recalling the time they’d spent together.  She spent hours in her bedroom daydreaming over her replies. In the New Year she wrote that she was planning to return at Easter.  And then the letters stopped. 

‘I warned you,’ her father said. ‘Can’t trust Johnny Foreigner.’

‘Leave it out, Arthur,’ her mother warned. ‘She’s upset enough as it is.’ 

Time passed and gradually the week in Dieppe became a memory, mixing pleasure with pain. But she seemed to have grown a protective shell over her emotions and never trusted a man again.

Jessica stamped a date in Mrs Arbuthnot’s book. She smiled. ‘Lucky me.’ 

She was satisfied to note that something in her tone disconcerted the other woman.  ENDS