The Postmistress

by Maggie Sullivan

  ‘But the King and Queen have beaten you to it,’ Vicky said. ‘I see they’re off to Quebec soon.’

  ‘That’s where my pen-friend lives – I’m jealous,’ Violet said.

  ‘Don’t they speak French there?’ Vicky looked impressed. ‘Don’t tell me you write in French?’

  ‘We used to when we first started writing, while we were both still at school. But now he’s moving to Toronto and his English is far better than my French so we’ve switched.’

  Vicky deposited the extra money in the till drawer. ‘You’ve been writing for years, haven’t you? It really is amazing.’

  ‘Here!’ The woman who was next in the queue suddenly interrupted and Vicky was caught unawares she’d been so engrossed in her conversation with Violet. ‘We’re all very impressed that you can write in a foreign language, love, but do you think you could be moving on for now?’ The woman spoke directly to Violet.

  ‘I agree, Betty,’ the woman behind her said. ‘I only wish I had the time to sit and write letters but we’ve all got to get to work this morning, even if you don’t!’ She indicated the people in the rest of the line and there were nods and mutters of agreement, though mostly good-natured.

  ‘Oh dear, yes, I’m sorry,’ Violet said. ‘Who knows, maybe one day I’ll get to meet him and then I won’t have to keep posting letters.’ She grinned at the two women behind her. ‘Thanks for this, anyway.’ She waved the flimsy letter towards Vicky. ‘See you again soon.’

  ‘Let me know how you find it,’ Vicky called after her then she turned to the next in line. ‘So sorry, Mrs Wellsley. I didn’t mean to hold you up. We got carried away,’ she said. ‘Now, how can I help you?’

  When Vicky heard the clock in the sitting room registering midday, she finished the final transaction of the morning and ushered the last customer out. Then she flicked the closed sign into place on the front door and pulled down the blind with a sigh of relief. It was dinnertime and she couldn’t help wondering where the morning had gone. She felt a stab of guilt as she went behind into their living quarters and saw that her father had fallen asleep on the couch. She’d forgotten that she’d promised to look for his medicine, but at least he looked peaceful and he wasn’t coughing now. He was sitting in an awkward position, though, his head uncomfortably lolling forwards onto his chest. He jerked awake as she passed through into the scullery and began tackling the small pile of breakfast dishes.

  ‘What’s happened? What time is it?’ Arthur Parrott said, his voice sounding croaky and he started coughing almost immediately.

  ‘Nothing’s happened.’ Vicky began to rummage in one of the wall cabinets, displacing bottles of Dinneford’s Milk of Magnesia and Dettol, while being careful not to touch the TCP disinfectant that would stink the place out. Her father wouldn’t thank her if she had that smell on her hands when she was making up their dinnertime sandwiches.

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t get away to come and check sooner but it’s been bedlam out there today. A constant stream, though I’m sure I don’t know why. Seems like everyone’s suddenly writing letters or sending parcels.’

  ‘They must be worried that if there’s going to be a war they won’t be able to send owt,’ Arthur said. ‘And who knows? Maybe they won’t.’ He coughed, briefly this time, though as he did so he rubbed his hand across his chest as if to soothe the pain.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ Vicky said, replacing the bottles in the cabinet, ‘but it looks like you’ll have to take an aspirin for the minute if your chest hurts. There doesn’t seem to be any linctus left.’

  ‘Well, I need some,’ Arthur grumbled. ‘You’ll have to go to the chemist after you’ve shut up shop tonight. Tobias Stone might not be the friendliest on the parade but at least he’ll let his neighbours pick up medicines after hours, provided it’s not too late.’

  Vicky sighed. ‘Why don’t you ask Henry to go while I see to the tea? I’m sure he’ll be back in time. You never seem to think to ask him. Don’t you think it’s time he helped out a little more here?’ She snapped the words out but at the look on her father’s face she wished she hadn’t, and for a moment she worried that she’d gone too far.

  ‘What, ask him to do woman’s work after he’s put in a hard shift at the foundry?’ Her father looked aghast at her suggestion and gave another hack.

  Vicky was stung into responding, ‘Oh, I see – it’s all right to ask me, even though I’m on my feet all day in the Post Office, and never mind everything else that I have to do?’ She couldn’t seem to stop now that she’d started. She was aware that her voice had begun to rise.

  ‘Don’t you get shirty with me, young lady. You can’t compare your work to his. You should be glad to have such a cushy number.’

  Vicky closed her eyes, thinking of all the household tasks that she still had to do. She knew it was the same for most of the other women of Greenhill and that she should really be counting her blessings for she wasn’t as badly off as some, but when she was consumed by depression she found it difficult to hide her feelings. She couldn’t help thinking about the past and the effect it had had on her. But she knew she couldn’t afford to lose her temper completely, for then she would say things she didn’t mean and there would be no way back. She loved her father, of course she did. After all, he had done his best in a situation that had proved to be hard on all of them. It wasn’t his fault what had happened to Stan, or what had happened to her, and in the end he hadn’t thrown her out onto the street as he had threatened to do. He had provided a roof over her head and made it possible for her to pursue a job she actually enjoyed. It was just that sometimes she wished Henry would take on more responsibility and not leave so much to her. She took a deep breath and counted to ten in an effort to calm down as she saw her father’s features harden and he took a step towards her. He wagged his finger in her face and his voice suddenly dropped, making his words sound menacing and deliberate.

  ‘You, my girl, are doing your duty. Nothing more, nothing less, and don’t you ever forget it.’

  Vicky’s shoulders slumped for she knew he was right and there was little point in denying it. Life had not been easy for any of them. ‘You know, Dad, I’ve never objected to doing my duty as you call it, it’s just that …’ As she clenched and unclenched her fists, Vicky suddenly realised that this was a fight she had been spoiling for ever since she had been hauled out of school at the age of fourteen and told that, as Dot was now leaving to get married, it was her job to look after her little brother. She had so desperately wanted to continue her education, to stay on at school and perhaps go to secretarial college. But she hadn’t felt able to argue then and she didn’t feel able to say anything now. Not when she had been guilty of contributing to the family’s misfortunes. All she could do was to try her best to make amends. ‘You must know I do my best to do my job and to look after you and the house and … whatever else is needed,’ she said, ‘but I don’t see why—’

  ‘It was hardly my fault that I came back from the war like this, I can bloody assure you of that!’ Arthur cut in, wheezing heavily, though he still managed to carry on talking. ‘Any more than it was anyone’s fault that your poor mother caught that damned Spanish flu right at the end, even though she’d managed to see out the war. But what was your bloody fault was … was …’

  Vicky could see that he was struggling to get the words out now, but as he spoke Arthur stood up and to her astonishment began fumbling with his belt. Fortunately, he didn’t have the strength to disengage the buckle before he fell back onto the couch, overcome by a terrible coughing spasm. As far back as she could remember, her father’s physical strength had not been able to match his temper, though he could still hurt her with his tongue lashings. But for once her tears were frozen. She didn’t need reminding of what she had done.

  ‘It’s no less than you deserve when I think of the shame you were on the verge of bringing onto this family!’ Arthur shouted at her. ‘You’re no better than you should be.’

  ‘That
was three years ago,’ Vicky said softly. ‘But you certainly make sure I keep paying for it, don’t you? While all the time your precious Henry gets away with murder. When are you going to face up to him and tell him to start pulling his weight?’ As she said this, her father began to cough again and this time she was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop. She became really scared as his eyes began to bulge and it took all her strength to prop him up on the couch and loosen his collar. She ran into the scullery for a cold compress and tried to dab it on his forehead, but he shrugged her away.

  ‘I should have thrown you out when I had the chance. You and your wanton ways,’ Arthur gasped between wheezes. ‘I swear to God, you’ll be the death of me. But maybe that’s what you want?’ Without warning he pushed Vicky’s hand away. He swung his legs round and stood up unsteadily, lurching in the direction of the stairs. ‘Call me when my dinner’s ready,’ he said and heaved himself upwards one step at a time.

  Vicky could feel her eyes burning but she was determined not to let her father see her cry. She had a problem. Arthur’s breathing seemed to be getting worse. Maybe she should ask Dr Buckley to come and have a look at him, find out if there was anything else he could do. She would even pay him, if necessary, if an extra visit wasn’t covered by Arthur’s GPO Health Insurance scheme. Roger Buckley seemed to be the only person her father really trusted, the only one apart from her and Henry that he would allow inside the house.

  She sat at the table for a few minutes, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. She could only feel sorry for what her father had suffered as a direct result of being so badly gassed during the Great War. But on a practical level, the remnants of his injuries put a great strain on her and now she feared that the symptoms were escalating. Today was the first time Arthur had refused to come to help out in the Post Office – and if he wasn’t able to work behind the counter, then she would need to look for some help. It was a full-time job and she could no longer cope with it while at the same time having to be housekeeper, shopper and general factotum as well, no matter what she felt was her duty. And what would she do when Arthur needed more nursing? How would she manage then? Whether she would be able to carry on looking after him if his health continued to deteriorate at the rate it had recently was a question for Dr Buckley.

  Perhaps she should contact her bosses at the GPO and sound them out about getting an assistant? Unless, of course, she could ask Henry. Maybe she should approach her brother and try to make him see how much she would appreciate his help, urge him to at least shoulder some of the responsibility.

  The trouble was that as the threat of war became more immediate, so more people wanted to stop and chat about it. She hated being rude to her customers, but it was becoming almost impossible for Vicky to encourage them to pay for their purchases and be on their way. She was named as the postmistress, although the certificate of trading was in Arthur’s name, but she could hardly spell out to her customers, most of whom she had got to know well over the years, that she needed time to be able to see to all her other chores as well. It was even becoming difficult to lock the door for an hour at midday as she was entitled to do because there always seemed to be someone who had something important that needed to be dealt with immediately. She could understand if it involved sending an urgent telegram but it rarely did, so why buying a postage stamp or writing paper and envelopes couldn’t wait for an hour Vicky was unable to understand; she only knew she felt as if she was being pulled in all directions …

  Henry came in later than usual that night, through the back door they used as their personal home entrance, and he ran straight up the stairs to the room he shared with his father, ignoring Vicky’s greeting and her enquiry regarding his tea.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ he called down over the bannisters.

  ‘Down the garden,’ Vicky said, invoking the euphemism the family used to describe a visit to the lav.

  ‘Damn, I need him to be here.’ Henry came down the steep stairs slowly. He sat on one of the chairs at the table and hid his face behind the sports page of the evening paper he’d brought in with him. Then he jumped up and paced back and forth in the small living room.

  ‘Why don’t you go and wash your hands and I can serve up your tea?’ Vicky said. ‘It’s better than you wearing out the carpet. We don’t have to wait for Dad.’ She was wondering if she might be able to pin Henry down before their father returned, talk to him about taking more responsibility for looking after Arthur.

  ‘I’m not ready to eat yet,’ Henry said ‘I’ll hang on till Dad gets here. I’ve got summat to tell you both and I’m not saying it twice.’

  ‘I thought you were looking agitated. What’s wrong?’ Vicky asked, as he circled the table for the third time. Her brother’s restlessness seemed to fill the room and she was beginning to feel the waves of his anxiety wash over her.

  Thankfully, it was not for long. Henry had sat down and stood up again several more times when, to the relief of them both, there were the distinctive sounds of Arthur making his way down the path and through the backyard. Vicky saw it as her cue to bring in the large earthenware dish from the oven and begin ladling out the steaming juicy layers of spicy meat, potatoes and vegetables that comprised her own special version of hotpot that she knew they both loved. She brought in three large bowls from the scullery and began to fill them before placing them on the wooden mats she had laid on the table.

  ‘Hurry up, Dad,’ she called out. ‘Yer tea’s ready. It’s yer favourite and I’m just serving up.’

  Arthur ran his hands briefly under the cold water tap, then he rubbed them down the front of his heavy drill trousers in an attempt to dry them.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you because Henry’s got something to tell us,’ Vicky said.

  ‘Oh, and what’s that?’ Arthur asked as he sat down. He turned to face Henry, but as he did so his face seemed to drain of blood. It was then that Vicky gasped, covering her mouth with her hands and looking from one to the other as she suddenly realised from reading her father’s face what it was her brother had come to tell them.

  For a moment nobody spoke. Vicky automatically handed round three sets of forks and spoons but no one attempted to eat from their fast-cooling plates. Henry picked a corner off one of the slices of bread that had been piled onto a plate in the centre of the table and almost unconsciously began to roll small fragments between his index finger and thumb. Then he nervously gathered the tiny grey pellets into a cairn-like pile beside his plate on the oilcloth. He didn’t look at her or his father as he spoke.

  ‘I’m going to join up. Sign on for the army. I thought you ought to know,’ he said eventually.

  The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of Arthur wheezing. His brows knitted then his lips twitched into an uncertain smile. Henry looked up at that moment, his eyebrows raised in query as his gaze met Vicky’s but for once she didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Look …’ Henry filled the void when neither Arthur nor Vicky spoke. ‘There’s no question about whether this war’s going to happen. I’ve no doubt in my mind that it will, and it will be soon. Meaning that it will be over soon, but the thing is … I want to be part of it. I want to be there to stick it to the Germans, so that we can shut them up for ever. I say we need to show them who’s boss, get it over and done with before they’ve got a chance to invade any other countries … And that might include Britain. Whichever way, my bet is that war will be declared sooner rather than later.’

  ‘But—’ Arthur started to say but Henry cut him off.

  ‘No, Dad, I don’t think there are any buts. It won’t be like last time. This time it really will all be over by Christmas. Hitler’s off his rocker, thinking he can take on the world, and I say that the more of us join up early, the easier it will be to show him that he can’t.’

  ‘When will you …?’ Vicky’s voice croaked as she struggled to control it.

  ‘Not sure yet, but it will be soon.’

  For t
he moment she forgot the speech with which she had been preparing to confront Henry. Now all she could do was fear for the life of her little brother and worry about how she and Arthur would manage with him gone.

  ‘What about your job?’ Vicky managed to say eventually as it dawned on her that they would be down to a single wage coming into the household. But Henry was not thinking along the same lines.

  ‘What about it? I hate the bloody foundry,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’d have left no matter what. In fact, I’ve already handed in my notice so there’ll be no delay in me actually signing on the dotted line.’

  ‘You mean you …?’ Vicky said.

  ‘I’ll be volunteering, yes. I don’t imagine I’ll have any problem passing a medical so I’m not waiting for any kind of forced conscription, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m taking fate into my own hands and doing summat useful for my country at the same time.’

  He beamed as he spouted what Vicky knew to be the message on some of the recruitment posters she’d seen pasted up around the town. She felt a cold shiver that was more like an electric charge shoot down her spine. ‘You mean you can’t wait to get away. To leave us here to our own devices?’ she finally managed to say.

  Henry looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean? You’re capable of managing perfectly well on your own. You don’t need me.’

  Vicky wondered if there would have been a different outcome if she had managed to get her two penn’orth in first before he’d made his announcement. What would have happened if she’d had a chance to tell him of her fears and concerns? Would she have made him change his mind? She had to admit that she doubted it but she asked the question anyway. Turning to face Henry and using as quiet a voice as possible she said, ‘And how am I to cope if Dad gets really sick? I do worry about him, you know.’

  Arthur had picked up his empty pipe from the table and was pulling hard on the stem as if it were lit. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, girl. I shan’t be any bother,’ he said quickly as if to show her he’d heard her whispered words. ‘Of course he must go and fight for his King and country,’ he said with a satisfied smirk.