In lots of ways I was lucky. I was now a senior shop assistant. Well respected, but still well liked. In the twenty years since I had left school I had worked at a couple of haberdashers in Dorchester. In 1930 I got a job at the new Woolworth’s in South Street. Since then I had seen dozens of girls come and go.

The schools let them out at fourteen, just adequately educated. Because they had to work somewhere while they waited for Mr Right to come along, they got a job at ‘Woollies’. For most, they didn’t have to wait for too long for a man to come for them.

I often thought that the shop was more like a marriage broker, for village girls and farm boys, than anything.

For reasons that I don’t understand, nobody came for me.

At thirty-four years of age, I still waited in vain. I’m not ugly but I’m no Merle Oberon, my derriere is a little bigger than hers. If you don’t know me, I can come across as a bit stern-looking. My clothes are always smart and well cared for. Some of the young women I see can appear a bit slack. Someone once told me that I looked ‘intellectual’, and that’s not what farm boys want. I do read a lot but I don’t think that I’m clever.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been on some dates with men. These usually consisted of a few drinks and then a fumbled attempt to get past my stocking tops. On two occasions I gave up the struggle and allowed access to my knickers. Both times led to me being fingered. If they had shown a little more skill I think I could have let things go further but they didn’t.

Still, I had a room at my Grandmother’s house in New Street which was comfortable. She is my only remaining relative. In the evening I liked to read or listen to the wireless. On Sundays we went to church. On the half-day closing I liked to walk in the Borough Gardens. It’s nice there.

A stormy Thursday. The water appeared as if someone had released a waterfall in Cornhill that was now finding escape by charging nonstop down South Street.

I was peering through one of the huge front windows at the torrent and thinking that we wouldn’t see a customer today. The doors burst open and a gent tumbled in. Regaining his balance he looked around him as if he’d never been in a thru’penny and sixpenny store before.

“Do you need help?” I asked.

“I’m afraid I do,” he said. “Do you sell Swan Vestas? I’ve dropped mine in a damned puddle and now I can’t light my pipe.”

I smiled. It seemed incongruous hearing such a refined speaking voice use bad language. He rather reminded me of Leslie Howard.

“We do,” I answered, leading him over to where the smoking ephemera was displayed.

The next time I caught sight of him he was gazing out the window and trying to get his pipe to light. It was probably as damp as he was. He was in his mid-forties, I suppose. Quite handsome and despite the sogginess, well dressed.

To this day I don’t know why, it seems such a forward thing to do, but I stood next to him and said, “Awful weather!”

“Yes, I can’t see it stopping anytime soon,” he replied.

“I don’t want to appear a cad, but if you don’t mind me saying, I didn’t expect to find a lady like you working in here,” he added.

“That’s very kind of you but I can assure you that I am just a simple Dorset girl. I listen to the wireless far too much and, I suppose, some of it rubs off. If you heard me talking to my grammy, you would hardly know what was being said,” I explained.

“Yes, there is no doubt that I can hear Dorsetshire in your voice. But I have learned an important lesson today,” he said gently.

Intrigued, I asked, “What is that?”

“That angels have accents,” he answered.

I felt the colour rise in my cheeks.

After a brief silence during which I should have walked away but I didn’t, he said, “Please don’t think badly of me but I notice that you don’t wear a ring.

“I am in the town on business and I have to stay overnight.

“If you are not doing anything, is there any chance that you would agree to go with me to the pictures?” he asked.

“Yes,”

Then, not trying to sound too eager, I said, “I have wanted to visit the Plaza ever since it opened but have never got around to it.”

“Excellent, I was so afraid that I was being too bold. Can I meet you outside at seven? They are showing ‘The 39 Steps’, you know the Alfred Hitchcock thriller?” he said.

“Oh, I am forgetting my manners, my name is Ralph Peters, pleased to meet you.”

“Jenny Dax, pleased to meet you,” I replied.

We shook hands rather awkwardly.

“I look forward to tonight,” Ralph said.

And then, as if to give me no time to change my mind, he said, “Goodbye,” and then walked out into the downpour.

I got off work at six, which gave me little time to get home and apologise profusely to Grammy for not wanting my tea, change and run to Trinity Street.

Fortunately, the storm had passed over by about five. The pavements were still glistening.

The first film was a little tedious but ‘The 39 Steps’ was very exciting with a gripping ending. I’d not seen either Robert Donat or Lucie Mannheim before.

Ralph was very courteous and attentive. He even bought me an ice-cream during the interval.

As he walked me home to New Street he told me that he was staying at The King’s Arms Hotel. He said that the restaurant was quite good there. Then he gasped, “Oh God, it has just occurred to me that I didn’t give you enough time to eat dinner, did I?”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m not that hungry,” I lied.

“Please, as a way of redeeming myself, allow me to take you to dinner on Tuesday next. I have to be back in Dorset then,” he said.

“There really is no need,” I said.

Ralph went on, “I really must insist; that is unless you are determined never to see me again.”

“In that case, I will be delighted,” I told him. I’d never been taken to dinner before.

At my door we shook hands and I went in.

Sleep evaded me until the early hours. I liked him. I think that he liked me. But I couldn’t quite believe that finally fate might have sent me someone.

During the day on Tuesday, Ralph came into the shop to make sure that I hadn’t changed my mind about dinner. He thought that the restaurant at his hotel would be suitable. We agreed on a time that would allow me plenty of opportunity to get home and change first.

The meal was lovely. So unlike anything I’d eaten before. Afterwards, we had a drink in the bar before Ralph walked home with me.

Before we parted, Ralph suggested that we go to the pictures on Thursday. He thought a later showing would be more suitable. When I agreed he leaned towards me and kissed me briefly on the cheek.

‘A Night at the Opera’ with the Marx Brothers was hilarious. I wasn’t sure that I was going to enjoy the American sense of humour but I did. It was very knock-about which is funny in any culture.

At my door Ralph took me in his arms and kissed me fully and strongly on the lips. He did not press home his advantage but instead wished me goodnight.

I was in limbo for the next few days. Were we going to see each other again?

During the midmorning on the next Tuesday, I looked up to see Ralph smiling at me.