Again Izzy in PB

(Well into the 2nd summer project and am certain it will be complete before the schools start back. One or two other balls up in the air, too. Feels good to be busy, and at the same time not too busy. Here's another Izzy piece from Port Brokeferry.)

IZZY AND THE SECRET SHE SHARED WITH BLAIR

Izzy’s mother kept to her bed late. It was to be expected after the day before. Izzy took her up a cup of coffee and a slice of toast on a plate. She’d laid everything out on a tray with a lace-edged napkin and a folded newspaper and a white ceramic ramekin dish filled with apricot jam, a silver teaspoon to serve it with. It was something her father used to do on Sunday mornings when the shop was closed and the day was truly theirs. Izzy remembered the smell of those days and the sound of laughter from her parents’ bedroom, laughter that stretched well into the morning. Now Izzy did the same on days when her mother stayed in bed late.

Izzy told her mother she looked like a girl again. Fresh and bright-eyed. Like it was the opposite of Rip-Van-Winkle. That she’d slept sound for years and the time had slipped away from her. It was a test of sorts, to see if her mother was back in the place she should be. Izzy’s mother laughed at Izzy’s nonsense and told her she was as daft as her father had been. Izzy recognised the laughing and knew that her mother was back where she was.

Downstairs Izzy told Blair that she was running a bit behind things today. She skirted past him and slipped behind the post office counter.

Blair cleared his throat as if he was about to reply. Then, as though he had thought better of it, he stayed silent.

Izzy began sorting through the mail, putting the letters and small parcels into order. She moved quickly, talking to herself in whispers, reciting names and addresses, just as a child might recite the times-tables learned by heart, her voice all sing-song and dancing. There was a new name in the mix today. A woman called Rose had taken one of the cottages by the sea and there was a letter for her. Finding it brought Izzy up short just for a moment. Then, having adjusted to this new note in the music, she resumed her chanting.

Izzy checked the parcels again, like she might have made a mistake. She was looking for something that was not there. Just like her mother, she thought. Expecting something and finding nothing. She looked at the date on the clock above her head. It was maybe too soon. Even if it had been sent first class it was too soon. She’d look again tomorrow.

Blair cleared his throat again and Izzy looked up from the counter.

‘Is it something you have lost, Izzy?’ he said.

Izzy did not hear the words at first, heard only the sound. She looked at Blair and her face showed that she had not understood.

‘Only you seem to be looking for something,’ said Blair. 'That's what it looks like.'

‘Yes,’ said Izzy. And it was not how she had imagined their first real conversation going.

‘Your mother was like that. Always looking for something in the post. Small parcels from a place in Germany, or postcards of German churches with German writing on the back and stamps that I never saw before. Maybe it is something the same for you, Izzy?’

There was more there than she had ever heard Blair say before. It caught her by surprise. Her head was full of thoughts but her mouth had few words.

‘It is something the same,’ she said.

Blair thought he had said too much.

But it was something the same, for Izzy was looking for a parcel sent from Germany, and maybe a German stamp in the corner and her mother’s name written on the front and the shop smelling of cologne again when it came, for days afterwards, and weeks maybe.

‘It is something the same,’ she said again and she winked at Blair and pressed one finger to her kissing-lips, urging Blair to secrecy.

Blair smiled at Izzy, and he nodded his head, for keeping a secret was something that he could do, something he did, day on day.