Morning. Come in, come in. Mind the step — I keep meaning to fix that.
Now then. Kettle's just boiled. You'll have a cup? Good. Milk and two, if I remember right.
Sit yourself down on the stool there — that's it, by the humbugs. Mrs Barker won't be in for her quarter till half past, so we've got a few minutes.
I expect you've heard the news? No? Well. Let me tell you what's been happening round our way.
~ ~ ~
It was the other morning when they came. Half past seven, I'd just turned the sign to Open and was setting out the newspapers when I heard it.
A lorry. A big lorry. Now, we don't get many of those down the high street. Delivery vans, yes. The occasional tractor. But this was something else.
I stepped outside and there it was. Bright red, sitting on the back of a flatbed.
The telephone box.
We'd known it was coming, of course. There'd been a notice in the parish magazine. But knowing and seeing are different things.
Within ten minutes, half the village had gathered on the green. Bert Hancock came out of the King's Arms still in his shirtsleeves.
"Arthur! What d'you reckon? Progress or nuisance?"
I said I'd reserve judgement.
Two workmen from the GPO had it down and positioned by lunchtime. Right there on the green, just past the old oak tree. They concreted it in, connected the wires, and that was that.
Hartley Green had a telephone.
Mrs Barker was first through my door. Connie Barker. Widow. Opinions on everything.
"Fourpence a call. Fourpence! I could buy a quarter of humbugs for that."
She could. She does. Every morning, regular as the church clock. I weighed out her quarter — dropped in an extra one, as I always do, though we never speak of it.
About nine o'clock, young Tommy Pritchard came hurtling in. That boy never walks anywhere. He bursts, he rushes, he tumbles through life at full speed.
"Mr Jessop! Mr Jessop! Have you seen it? How does it work? How much does it cost?"
I explained about fourpence for the call, Button A and Button B.
"Fourpence. That's... eight gobstoppers."
Everything's measured in gobstoppers with Tommy. His whole economy runs on them.
His dad's been away a while now. His mum manages. I sort of look out for him, in my way.
~ ~ ~
Miss Truelove appeared later, as she does every week for her Radio Times. Seventy-three. Taught at the village school for forty-three years. Still sharp as a tack.
She calls me Jessop. Not Arthur. Not Mr Jessop. Just Jessop. Like I'm still eight years old in her classroom.
"I remember when the post office got its first telephone. 1923. Mr Pemberton — Violet's father — said it would revolutionise communication. We all thought he was exaggerating."
Was he, I asked.
"No. He was quite right. Though it took longer than he thought. Change always does."
At the door, she turned back.
"Progress, Jessop. Can't stop it. Shouldn't want to. Even when it frightens us."
Dr Mortimer stopped by at lunchtime. Helen Mortimer. Our GP. She's the only person in the village with a telephone at home.
She looked at the box with what I can only describe as relief.
"It will save lives, Arthur. Mark my words."
Always hurrying, Dr Mortimer. Never enough time.
The Reverend Cavendish came in mid-afternoon. Our vicar. Weakness for Spangles. Tells himself they're medicinal.
"You know, Arthur, I've been thinking about connection. That's what the telephone is really about, isn't it? Reaching across distance. Hearing a voice when you can't see a face."
He looked out at the telephone box on the green.
"Do you think God has a telephone number, Arthur?"
I said I doubted it.
"No. I shouldn't think He does. He's more of a letter writer, I imagine."
And off he went, Spangle clicking against his teeth.
~ ~ ~
And then Violet Pemberton came in. Violet runs the post office. We were at school together, back when Miss Truelove was young Miss Truelove. She said something about her sister Dorothy in Australia — too far to telephone, but perhaps one day.
"Some distances can't be closed with a fourpenny call," she said.
I wasn't quite sure what she meant by that. But she left with her Picnic bar, and I went back to restocking the sherbet lemons.
~ ~ ~
By closing time, nobody had used the telephone box yet. I was locking up when I heard it. A ringing, faint but clear, coming from the green.
I walked across. Opened the door — it still smelled of paint and new metal — and picked up the receiver.
A GPO engineer, testing the line. That was all.
But I'd answered it. The first voice from Hartley Green to travel down that wire.
I stepped out into the evening air. The village was quiet. Smoke rising from chimneys. And I thought about Edith. Five years gone now. What I wouldn't give for a direct line to her.
But some distances can't be closed. Not with fourpence. Not with all the fourpences in the world.
Same time next week? I'll put the kettle on.
There's always something happening round our way. You just have to pay attention.
