The Postmistress

by Maggie Sullivan

  THE POSTMISTRESS

  . OUR STREET AT WAR .

  Maggie Sullivan

  Copyright

  One More Chapter

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

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  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Copyright © Maggie Sullivan 2020

  Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover photographs © Lee Avison / Arcangel Images (woman); KGPA Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo (background)

  Maggie Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008419868

  Ebook Edition © 2021 ISBN: 9780008419875

  Version: 2020-12-11

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Julie Leibrich, a true ayshet chayil – a woman of valour, a woman of worth.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  Also by Maggie Sullivan

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Greenhill, Spring 1939

  ‘Looks like we’re definitely headed for war if what’s writ in these papers is to be believed,’ a gruff voice said.

  The shop bell tinkled as Vicky Parrott pushed open the front door of the Post Office that gave onto Greenhill’s narrow High Street and she stood for a moment on the doorstep looking to see who had spoken. The Post Office was wedged between Boardman’s newsagent, tobacco and confectionery shop and Thompson’s the butcher shop and, as Vicky looked up, it was Lawrence Boardman who was coming towards her waving the Daily Express.

  ‘Here y’are,’ he said. ‘I kept your copy back as the delivery boy was late in this morning. Thought you might want to read it over your first cup of coffee.’

  ‘I had that a while since, but thanks. I know my dad will want to see it.’ Vicky stepped outside and took the paper from him. She couldn’t help a groan escaping as she scanned the dramatic pictures accompanying the front-page stories. The outlook did indeed seem very grim.

  The Great War had had such a devastating effect on the small Lancashire town, and on the Parrott family in particular, that she couldn’t bear to acknowledge that hostilities might be starting up again. Wasn’t that supposed to have been the war to end all wars?

  Vicky wasn’t religious in any way. How could she keep the faith after all that had happened to her and her family? Nevertheless, she found herself unconsciously offering up a prayer to whatever gods there might be that the reporters’ predictions would come to nothing. She glanced across the road to where the river continued to glide silently behind the rusted railings, looking for all the world as if nothing were amiss. And indeed, when she looked in one direction it really did seem as if nothing had changed, for all she saw was the peaceful scene of the schoolhouse with clusters of carefree children chasing each other around the playground. It was only when she turned to look in the other direction and her eyes focussed on the old cotton mill in the distance that she was reminded that it had recently been turned into a munitions factory, manufacturing ammunition and important parts for hand weapons and shells.

  She shook her head to rid it of the unwelcome images that were suddenly crowding in and she tried to hang on to the stillness she usually enjoyed at this hour of the morning, the peace and quiet of those few splendid minutes before the daily bustle began. At least the High Street looked peaceful. She imagined Greenhill was like any other Lancashire mill town, with its cobbled streets that would soon be thronging with shoppers and the gentle smoke that curled from the distant chimneys so that they looked like they had been etched onto the backdrop of the craggy moorland hills. The only hint of war was an army recruitment poster in a shop window and her lips quivered with a fanciful smile as she thought of what Dot Pritchard had always been so fond of pointing out. Kindly Dot, who for ten years before her marriage had been such an important part of Vicky’s life, had only been a young lass herself when she had taken on the task of looking after Vicky and her little brother Henry after their mother had died from Spanish flu. Dear Dot, who at the age of eighteen had so willingly taken on the potentially arduous role of substitute mother, showing them nothing but love. Vicky could hear her voice now.

  ‘It might all look harmless,’ she used to say, ‘but we’ve no way of knowing what goes on behind them closed doors.’ She’d have a knowing look on her face and she’d tap the side of her nose and this had always made Vicky laugh as her imagination went into overdrive.

  This morning, apart from the newsagent, there was no one about but the dairyman, Billy Pritchard, Dot’s father. The street was quiet save for the occasional whinny from his old horse while Billy was busy delivering fresh pints of milk to each doorstep, just as he always did. Meanwhile, the work-weary nag scented the air, plopping yet another steaming pat of fertiliser onto the cobblestones.

  ‘Ne’er mind eh, Pretty Polly?’ Lawrence Boardman brought Vicky out of her reverie as he handed her the newspaper. ‘You know what they say, while there’s life …’ He turned his face skyward. ‘And looking on the bright side, it might well be another sunny day.’

  Vicky cringed at his use of the soubriquet. She was far too old at twenty-five to be referred to as ‘Pretty Polly’ even as a tease; it was a childhood nickname that harked back to her early days at the old schoolhouse and she thought it should be left there. The only person she hadn’t minded using it after she left school was Stan … She stopped. There was no time for such memories now. It was a new morning and she needed to face it brightly, as she tried to do most mornings. She pasted what she hoped looked like a patient smile onto her face as she turned to go inside. ‘Thanks for the paper,’ she said and the doorbell jangled once more as she went back into the Post Office.

&n
bsp; ‘Victoria, is that you?’ The familiar rasp of her father’s voice, followed by a throaty cough, greeted her as she lifted the counter and went through to the small living room behind the shop front, calling, ‘Yes, it’s only me, Dad!’

  But the room was empty. None of the clutter on the small table had been disturbed. Only a disembodied voice wheezed over the banisters from the top of the stairs. ‘Who was that in the shop? Why have you opened up so early? I haven’t had my breakfast yet.’

  Vicky rolled her grey eyes heavenward, an ironic smile tugging at her lips as she stood in front of the mirror over the fireplace where she had left all her kirby grips the previous night. She pulled her long dark hair off her face, gathering as best she could the wispy tendrils that seemed determined to escape and, sweeping them round her fingers, deftly pinned it all into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She tried to pinch a bit of colour into her cheeks and succeeded in highlighting the high cheekbones that she was always being told were her best feature. At least the world hadn’t stopped turning and her father was his usual irascible self.

  ‘There’s nowt to fret over, Dad. It was only me checking the weather,’ Vicky said, disguising a sigh as she tossed the newspaper onto the table, knocking her father’s favourite pipe to the floor. It hadn’t had any tobacco in it since his lungs had been so badly damaged by mustard gas in the Great War but he liked to suck on it – like a baby’s dummy, she always said – and she couldn’t get him to part with it. She tutted as she bent to pick it up, fortunately still in one piece. She stared down at the grim front-page headlines again with the gruesome pictures of tanks and soldiers on the march and she groaned. Here they were, talking about a new war, while she was still dealing with the consequences of the old one. Life was so unfair.

  ‘I’ve already put the water up and Mr Boardman next door’s sent in the paper,’ she shouted up to where she could see her father on the small landing at the top of the stairs. ‘Shall I mash you some tea?’ But the only response she got was the sound of more coughing followed by the slam of his bedroom door.

  The tiny gong on the pretty clock on the mantelpiece that had once belonged to her mother pinged nine times and, on the final stroke, Vicky stepped into the Post Office, just as she always did. She pulled up the blind on the front door and swung the ‘closed’ sign round to read ‘open’. Dr Roger Buckley was already on the step, as he was most mornings, the first customer of the day. If she was honest, she looked forward to seeing him though she wouldn’t have dreamt of saying so. He was a good-looking man with a high forehead, a strong, smoothly shaven chin, and a perfectly chiselled nose, she considered him to be like an early-morning tonic, and she knew from the admiring glances his velvet-brown eyes and dark slicked-back hair drew from most of the women in the neighbourhood, that she wasn’t the only one who thought so. The village’s most eligible bachelor, some said, though in fact he was a widower with a child and Vicky liked him best when he dropped in to the Post Office at the weekend with his little daughter, Julie. If she had time, Vicky would stop and chat to the bright six-year-old and, if she wasn’t busy, she’d let her wind the date stamp to the correct reading then press it into the ink pad before she stamped it onto any piece of scrap paper she could find. Julie was like a ray of sunshine, Vicky thought, though talking to her sometimes made Vicky tearful, thinking of things in her own life that might have been …

  This morning being a weekday, Roger Buckley was alone, on his way to work, and she greeted him with a spluttering chuckle when he almost tumbled inside as she drew back the bolts and flicked the latch to open the shop door. She had always thought it unusual for a doctor to be buying stamps for his own business letters, particularly when she knew any number of her neighbours would have loved to become his secretary. But he had once told her that he liked to deal with his correspondence himself at the start of each day before climbing into his little Austin 7 and chugging up and down the streets of the village, visiting his patients. Vicky checked the weight and counted the letters as he placed them, one at a time, onto the scales and she carefully tore off the correct number of postage stamps.

  ‘I wonder what it feels like to see your own picture every time you stick a stamp onto an envelope,’ the doctor suddenly said.

  Vicky looked at him sceptically. ‘You don’t imagine the King attends to his own correspondence, do you?’ She giggled at the thought.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he does.’ Dr Buckley laughed. ‘I imagine he has a personal secretary to see to such matters.’

  ‘Perhaps you should think of doing that,’ Vicky said, ‘then you wouldn’t have to spend so much time rushing around each morning before you even start seeing patients.’

  He laughed again. ‘As it happens, I don’t mind beginning my day a little earlier than necessary. He lowered his voice and leaned over the counter. ‘It gives me a chance to see what my neighbours look like when they’re well without having to wait for them to appear at the clinic when they’re not.’ She realised he was staring directly at her and his sharp brown eyes seemed to soften, enhancing the smile on his lips so that she had to look away. ‘Of course, you could be right,’ he said, ‘though at the moment I’m not convinced that writing out a few bills and reports would justify me shelling out a whole extra salary for a secretary – unless you’re offering to do the job for free?’

  Vicky caught the friendly teasing tone she so often heard in his voice and felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She couldn’t maintain eye contact and had to look away. He had a disconcerting way of meeting her gaze that she found unsettling, so she busied herself straightening some papers before tossing the stamped letters into a large sack that hung beside the counter, ready for collection later in the day. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’ Vicky asked, still not daring to look at him.

  ‘Just a fresh pad of Basildon Bond paper and a packet of matching envelopes, please, and then I’d best be off.’ The doctor smiled at her and raised his hat. ‘May you have a day filled with customers,’ he said, and Vicky couldn’t help but smile back.

  ‘And may all your patients get well soon.’ Roger Buckley was surprised when she responded so sparkily and he smiled as he nodded in agreement. Then his thoughts turned to his first visit of the morning. He was on his way to the greengrocer’s shop three doors down from the Post Office where fourteen-year-old Ruby Bowdon had recently returned from hospital having survived polio, and was now recuperating at home, awaiting his advice about how best she should approach her rehabilitation.

  ‘I’d better be on my way to make sure that she gets off on the right foot, so to speak,’ Roger said. He raised his hand to the brim of his brown felt trilby hat and left.

  A prolonged series of coughs from the living room behind her made Vicky look round before greeting the next customer.

  ‘Victoria,’ her father’s voice rasped with some urgency. ‘Was that Dr Buckley? Only, I could have done with him having a listen to my chest. I think I might need some more of that linctus he gave me last time he called.’

  Vicky excused herself for a moment from the counter to put her head round the door that led through to their living quarters. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t carry such things around with him, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘And you can probably get it from the chemist. I can always ask Mr Stone if you run out but I think there may still be some of the old one left. I’ll come and have a look as soon as I’ve got a minute but I’ve got a line of customers to serve first.’

  ‘Then you’d better pray I’m still here by the time you get round to it,’ he snapped. ‘I’m warning you, I won’t be able to help out today – or any other day, for that matter – unless you find me some of that cough mixture stuff, sharpish.’ Her father was wheezing badly as he spoke. ‘My chest feels like a washboard this morning.’ And with that he pulled the door shut.

  Vicky felt a stab of guilt when she heard his slippers scuffing on the thin carpet as he shuffled across the sitting room to the couch in front of the fireplace. She was
trying to gauge the seriousness of his words and didn’t know what to do first. With a sigh, she decided to turn back to the queue that had now formed. She puckered her lips and raised her brows by way of apology but the villagers knew her and her father well enough. There were a few disgruntled murmurs from people in the queue who were mostly strangers to the village, the rest were chattering amongst themselves and not objecting at having to wait.

  ‘Good morning, sorry to keep you,’ Vicky said to the first in line, recognising Violet Pegg, the teacher from the infants’ school. ‘I hope I’ve not made you late?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Violet glanced at the watch on her slim wrist. ‘Mrs Diamond’s taking morning assembly today for my Infants as well as her Juniors so I should be back in time.’

  ‘What can I get you? The usual, is it?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Violet giggled. ‘Sounds like you’re offering me a pint down at the Stoat and Weasel. But a stamp for Canada will do very nicely instead, thanks.’

  ‘Put your letter on the scales so’s I can check it.’ Vicky licked the stamp and dropped the airmail envelope with its readily identifiable blue and red border into the collection sack, while Violet fumbled for the coppers in her purse.

  ‘Actually, before you go I’ve got something to show you,’ Vicky said, opening and closing the till in one practiced movement. She reached up and released several sheaves of flimsy blue paper from a large bulldog clip above the wicket. ‘Head office has just sent me these new air letters and I thought they might be of interest.’ She pushed one over the counter for Violet to examine. ‘It’s one piece of paper that you fold up and seal,’ she explained, ‘and then it goes straight into the pillar box.’

  ‘That’s handy, but what about a stamp?’ Violet asked.

  ‘That’s already printed on it, so it’s cheaper than buying paper and envelopes and a regular stamp.’

  ‘Now that certainly sounds like a good idea. I’ll take one so I can try it next time,’ Violet said, delving back into her purse. ‘I reckon that with all the money I’ve spent on stamps over the years I could have booked a passage to Canada for a first-hand visit.’ Violet giggled.