The Postie Knows stuff

(Another competition shortlisting this week... a competition I was also shortlisted in last year! Better than missing altogether. Not bitter about not being amongst the prizewinners... it's never an absolute judgement of the work... even when you win. One person's POV on one particular day is what it is... on another day another person might have preferred yours... where's the point in getting bitter about that?)

WHAT THEY MIGHT BE SAYING ABOUT SUSAN DOWNS

Blair was stopped by Susan Downs. Just near the end of his run. She laid a hand on his arm as if to hold him back.

‘Are you expecting something?’ he said. ‘A special letter, maybe? Only there’s nothing else this morning.’ He patted his almost empty postbag and gestured to the small collection of letters he had in his hand. ‘I can look for you when I get back to the post office, if you like.’

Susan shook her head. She did not remove her hand from Blair’s arm. He shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile.

‘You know things,’ she said.

Blair looked up the street. As if he might be observed. Then he looked back at Susan Downs.

‘There’s things you see. Things you hear. On your rounds. All kinds of things, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Blair tried to smile again. He did not know why Susan Downs was asking him this. He did not know where she was leading him or what she wanted him to say.

‘I try not to hear, Mrs Downs. Not private things. Try not to see them, either. And the things I do witness I keep to myself. Wouldn’t pay to go telling what I know. So I say nothing.’

Susan nodded and pressed his arm.

‘Would it be against the rules if you came in for a moment?’

Blair looked nervously to left and right. At the far end of the street there was a boy standing on the green, watching. His name is Kelso and he is the father of Grace’s baby. Blair is the only one who knows, apart from Grace.

‘It is sort of against the rules,’ he said.

‘Then I won’t tell anyone,’ she said and she gripped his arm a little and pulled him towards her front door.

Once inside she let go her grip and asked him if he would like something to drink.

‘It’s Blair isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You were ahead of me in school. Seems such a long time ago now. So very far away.’

He cleared his throat but did not speak.

‘Never expected then that I’d be where I am now.’

Blair did not know what she meant.

She moved further into the room and sat down.

‘What are they saying?’ she asked him. ‘You can tell me. I know they’ll be saying something. People out there.’

Blair said nothing. Not at first. He knew if he started then all kinds of things would be said and he’d afterwards wish he could take them back.

‘Had my hair done yesterday.’

‘Suits you,’ Blair said, so quiet that she might not have heard.

‘I don’t know why I did that.’

He cleared his throat again and bowed his head. The silence stretched between them. Blair shuffled the letters in his hand, looking at the names and addresses, and the franked stamps in the corners. He cleared his throat again. ‘They say you are worth more than this,’ he said at last, speaking quickly.

She waited for him to say something more.

‘They say that Susan Downs has it hard. That she should up and leave him. That she stays when she should go. That she stays for the girl. And she suffers and puts a brave face on her suffering. That’s what they say.’

Blair took a deep breath. He hoped that she believed what he said. If it wasn’t near the truth, then it should have been. It was what he thought at least, when he dared to consider the things he knew.

'Thank you, Blair,' she said, and her voice was softer than before, and she leaned forward and she touched his arm again.

Izzy and her Mother again

(Keeping going with Port Brokeferry. Here's Izzy and her mother again)

SOMETIMES IZZY’S MOTHER

Sometimes Izzy’s mother does not know where she is. She recognises the post office but thinks it is in another time. A time before when there was not grey in her hair and the space she was in smelled of cologne, and Izzy was a slip of a girl who skipped through every day, as children do, and Izzy’s father still delivered the mail.

Today is one of those days. Today Izzy’s mother called Sharon by another name. Sharon from the Victoria Hotel, dressed the same as her own mother was once, something the same, and her hair tied back the same, too. Izzy’s mother asked Sharon how it was with young Struan, and she winked at Sharon like they were sharing a secret. But that was years back, when Ina McAllister made eyes at the newly promoted hotel porter, Struan Courtald, and they were seen out walking together of an evening and it would only be a matter of time, the people said. And today Izzy’s mother mistook Sharon for Ina.

Sharon smiled and blushed a little. She looked at the watch on her wrist as though she was checking the time – though she was not – and she said that Mr Struan Courtald was a gentle man.

Today Izzy’s mother scolded her daughter for being still in the shop long after the school bell had rung. The Balfour Bell, she called it. And shouldn’t Izzy be dressed different? Smarter than she was, and a tie around her neck and her shoes polished? And had she done her homework the night before and where was her bag of books and pens and rulers?

Izzy quietly explained that she was not in school today and she patted her mother’s arm and asked her if she wanted a cup of tea.

And Izzy’s mother sorted the mail, today she did, just like before. Some of the names were different and she called to Izzy for an explanation. Izzy did not know what she should say, so she made up stories of new people in Port Brokeferry, and who they were and what they were doing there.

Izzy’s mother shook her head. She shrugged and went on with her sorting, for it would not do for the mail to be delivered late. There was another reason, too. Izzy could see her mother looking for a letter from a boy called Johannes, or a small parcel from a place called Ursulaplatz, Koln. Izzy could see a small sadness in her mother, something in her eyes. And Izzy felt sorry that today there was nothing from that German boy.

With all the mail sorted Izzy’s mother filled the post-bag so everything was ready. The bag was heavy today, she said to Blair, though she called him by Izzy’s father’s name and she kissed Blair’s cheek once and laid the flat palm of one hand on his chest, just where his heart was. And she told him to do a good job.

Blair understood. He cleared his throat as if he might say something, but he kept a silence.

Sometimes Izzy’s mother does not know where she is, does not see that the world has turned and years have slid under her feet. And at the end of those out-of-time days Izzy’s mother is tired and she takes to her bed early and Izzy knows her mother will sleep sound on those nights.

SINNIE'S OWL DREAMS

(This Port Brokeferry project should reach completion this summer, along with at least one other big writing thing I have on the go. So here's another 'postcard' for Thursday in PB. By the by, I am looking forward to the summer... and now there's the football on the tele and soon the tennis and soon the holidays will be upon us. All in all, this is a good time of this year. Even Sinnie is having good dreams... read on!)

READING SINNIE’S DREAMS

Sinnie sits with the old woman from the fair. They are under a painted canvas parasol in Sinnie’s backgarden, like they are having a picnic. Spears of purple and white foxgloves are busy with bees and orange geraniums run riot in one corner. Beyond the wall at the bottom of the garden the sea looks blue and endless. The woman from the fair is dressed in dark clothes, her hands folded in her lap and her plaited hair tied at the ends with brightly coloured torn pieces of cloth. Sinnie notices there’s dirt under her fingernails.

On the table between them there is a blue delftware teapot and a milk jug. Two cups on two saucers, one in front of Sinnie and one in front of the other woman. There’s a plate of digestive biscuits, too. Sinnie realises then that she has forgotten the sugarbowl and wonders if that will matter.

‘I’ve been having dreams.’

The woman leans forward, looking interested in what Sinnie is saying.

‘I write them down in case I forget them. It’s a habit. I keep a book by my bed just for the purpose. And a pen. I try to record them quickly, without thinking about what they might mean. I am better at it now than I was.’

Sinnie withdraws a small notebook from the pocket of her summer dress and lays it on the table.

‘Do you read dreams?’ she says. ‘Only I thought you might know what they mean?’

The old woman clears her throat as if she is about to say something. ‘A little,’ she says. That’s all, ‘A little.’

Sinnie tells the woman about the waistcoated owl. She mentions in passing how like the waistcoat of Mr Struan Courtald the owl’s is. The silver buttons and the small pockets like half cups.

‘And then I was on the back of the owl and we were flying above Port Brokeferry.’

The old woman raises her eyebrows at this.

‘High, where the air is thin and I could scarcely breathe. I woke up out of breath after that. See how the words do not sit quite on the lines where I have written about that dream. I was still light-headed when I was writing. It felt so real.’

Sinnie shows the woman the relevant pages of her notebook. The woman takes the book and reads for herself what Sinnie has written.

‘Then last night the same, only this time I lost my grip and fell and the owl laughed. All the owls laughed to see me throwing my arms about and still falling. And I did fall. From my bed, I mean. Never before. But waking on the floor this morning and a man’s face peering in at the window and he was laughing. And that did not seem like it was part of the dream.’

The woman clears her throat again. ‘Is there sugar?’ she asks.

When Sinnie returns the woman helps herself to three heaped spoonfuls of sugar. She does not stir the cup. Then she sets aside Sinnie's book of dreams and asks about Mr Struan Courtald.

Alice and Huntly

(Remember Huntly? He spies on Alice Greyling next door. He is married and quite happy in that. But he also remembers a time when he loved Alice - and these days he writes her letters that he afterwards burns in the grate of his fire. Here is his most recent letter. Remember, too, that yesterday Alice went for a drink with fellow teacher Dodie Bredwell - probably she did... at least he asked her.)

A LETTER FROM HUNTLY

Dear Alice

You looked different today. Not so sad. And you were speaking to yourself. Of course, I could not hear what you were saying, but your lips were moving and they seemed to be giving shape to the air and so I thought you must be speaking.

I fancied I heard what you said and invented the words. I played them out in my head. You were telling a story about something from the past. Something you only just remembered. A night when a boy stood below your window. Remember how he woke you? And small stones thrown against the glass back then, and your moonlit face at the open curtains, laughing at the boy looking up, laughing at my upturned face. And in this time where we are now you did laugh, standing there in your underwear, like I have seen you a thousand other mornings, except a hand raised to your mouth cupping laughter. How strange is that? It made me laugh, too.

You stood taller, Alice. Today taller. Straighter. As though there was a weight lifted from your shoulders, a weight that has made you too quickly old. Not old today though. Taller and straighter and younger. There is most certainly a change. I wonder what it could be that has made this alteration in you after so long a time.

Was your hair different, perhaps. Writing this and trying to remember how you were this early morning, I think there was something about your hair. Brushed in another way from how you usually brush it. There was no clasp or ribbon holding it back from your face. I am certain of that. But maybe you had pushed it behind your ear, tucked it there as you did when you were a girl. Yes, that was it. And it made your face look younger.

I am made glad by it. Whatever it is that has brought out this change in you, it cheers me also. That can be how it is with joy; it is infectious and spreads so easily from one person to another, even with nothing said. Just by looking. I say ‘joy’ for that is what it looked like. Quiet and barely held in. And I felt it too. Something of it. Now, I almost feel like leaving the house and being in the street. The first time for six years. The first time since…

Maybe if I am there in the street when you come home from work you will stop and speak to me. Not like that blue-moon night, for we are older now and not who we were then. But passing the time of day with a pleasant comment on the weather and on how things are in the town and on the difference in you.

But then the world in my head is built on maybe’s that never were. If that sounds less than happy, believe me it is not that. I do not complain at my lot, for I have a great deal to be thankful for. And now there is joy in Alice Greyling’s face and that is something else for which I think I am grateful.

With love

OLD TOM IN PB

(Back to Port Brokeferry and the people there and the complex relationships that we can recognise. And people are not perfectly good or perfectly bad - they never are... and we do well to remember that, I think.)

LILLIAN’S MOUTH RUNS AWAY WITH HER

Old Tom was worse. His breathing had a noise to it. Like gravel that is ground under a heavy foot. He had woken briefly and been a little surprised to see the minister by his bed. A little frightened too, for Tom seemed on waking to understand what that might mean. Then he’d relaxed.

‘Not in heaven yet, then,’ he joked.

‘You’re doing fine, Tom,’ said the minister.

Old Tom said that he was not really up for cards tonight. He was something tired, he explained. He coughed with the effort of speaking and the pain of that coughing was in his face and in a moaning sound that came from deep inside him. The minister supported the back of Tom’s head and helped him drink from a glass. Then old Tom rested back on the pillow and fell easily into sleep again.

Lillian had made a bed up on the sofa in Tom’s front room so the minister could sleep. She brought a hot meal, too, one plate sitting on top of the other to keep it warm. She and the minister spoke in whispers. She said she would maybe sit with Tom a while. Take a turn. She’d wake the minister if there was any change. Then she made a cup of tea, checked on Tom still in sleep, and she sat in the livingroom, watching the minister eat.

‘There was a girl here earlier,’ the minister said. ‘Sitting with Tom. A schoolgirl. She was reading poetry out loud.’

‘Susan Downs’ lass,’ said Lillian. ‘She’s a pretty thing though.’

The minister didn’t know what to say then.

‘Quiet,’ said Lillian. ‘And serious. Not surprised she was reading to Tom. That’s the kind of serious she is. Just what you’d expect with the things wrong in that house. You must have heard?’

He nodded.

‘It’s the child that carries the heaviest share of the bad that goes on between a husband and a wife. That’s what I always say. And the thing is she’s a good lass. I asked her to sit with Tom till someone came. She did it without complaint. That says something.’

He sipped at his tea.

‘’Course she’s a bit of a dreamer. Clever at the school, but always lost in her own thoughts. There’ll come a time when it’ll be boys she’s thinking of. And hearts will be broken, hers and theirs.’ Lillian laughed then, forgetting for a moment where she was. Then in a quieter voice she went on. ‘She’s pretty enough, though she’s a bit young yet. Leastways, I think she is. But then they grow up so fast these days. I could be wrong.’

‘Susan Downs’ lass. Does she have a name? Only I do not believe I have seen her in church of a Sunday.’

‘Corinne’s not for the church. She gets that from her father. Too much of the devil in him for church.’ Then Lillian regretted what she said and tried to take something of it back again. ‘I heard things from that house and I shouldn’t have heard. There’s wrong on both sides. Sure there is. But like I said, there’s a child to think on and Corinne’s a good lass yet.’

The minister appeared to be only half listening. Maybe Lillian thought he had one ear on the breathing of old Tom. The bedroom door was open so that if old Tom made a sound it could be heard.

‘You should get some sleep,’ said Lillian. ‘Not be listening to me going on about things that are far from why we are here.’ She got up then and went to sit with old Tom.