Weekends at the Post Office

by Ellie Hofmann

Rain. Well, that’s great.

Not that I’m complaining. I kind of am, but let’s be real. Working inside a dusty post office is definitely less of a dreadful prospect when it’s raining than with the sun beaming down outside. Fomo would just kick in. But then, fomo because of what? It’s not like there’s a lot going on here. I look outside to see the narrow lane that is almost winding itself through the village, trying not to hit the houses and break them apart along the way.

I sigh.

I should like it here. Many people, lots of them tourists, who came by the post office told me how lucky I was to grow up here. The beautiful nature. The friendly people. The familiarity. The deep forest on one side. The seemingly never-ending sky hovering above the sea on the other. Never ending. Yeah. That’s more like it. The never-ending looks from fellow villagers. The expected greeting when passing them. The plastered smiles and false inquiries of interest. The need for gossip and a ‘sensational story’ lighting up their otherwise dull days. The never-ending judgement and expectations that are, be it consciously or unconsciously, imposed upon every single one of us. It’s a burden that I carry with me every day. Impossible to get rid of. Weighing me down. Keeping me small and hiding myself away. Never-ending.

I sigh again.

Great way to motivate myself for the unlikely storm of customers at the post office. Thank god, I can’t see the damn building from my window. I live with my gran in a cottage slightly out the village. The woods are just a field away, behind our back garden. My own room is facing South. Bloody sauna during summer, but now in November I’m glad for the sunshine, if there is any at all. I shouldn’t complain too much though. If the sun does come out after all, it’s magical. The way it reflects on the sea that is just visible at the horizon. A path of soft green hills leading the way up to the cliffs. The tourist magnet. Not so much now that the weather is shit, but the summer sees us packed. The guest houses and B&B’s full to the brim. Cars blocking the road. Tourists crowding the viewpoint up at the cliffs then coming to the post office to get their mandatory post card. And then, they leave again.

That’s it, really. The cliffs. Two B&B’s, one guest house. And then there’s the post office. So, great place to grow up for a 17-year-old. Lots of things to– Ah, hang on. No, nothing. There is nothing at all. With the next bigger town about 30 minutes away (people my age and supermarkets included) and no car licence of my own on top of that, it’s hard to figure yourself out and make a lot of friends. Develop your own self, experiment, express yourself. In the end, it’s just isolation. Not that anyone else would acknowledge that, of course.

‘Gran?’, I shout while grabbing my petrol-coloured rucksack and walking out of my room. ‘Are you going into town later?’ No answer. Great. She’s probably taken her hearing aid out again. Hates the thing. ‘I’ve managed life without it for the last 70 years. So, why would I need one now?!’, she would say when the doctor first brought it up. Well, I don’t know Gran? I suppose you do replace your clothes from time to time because they aren’t what they used to be? Maybe the same thing goes for your ears as well? Thought about that? And yes, I know, I know that change doesn’t come easy for a lot of people, but it would improve her life situation.

No use thinking about that now.

I close the door behind me and half run, half jump down the stairs. Always afraid to break my ankle or fall down like a stone-cold rock. I’m clumsy, okay? Get over it! Having mastered the stairs with only a tiny wobble on the second to last step, I turn left. I walk around the staircase and down the small entry hall toward the kitchen where I suspect my Gran. And, in fact, there she is. Sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of her and her face half hidden by the newspaper. I’m not sure if she looks her age. Not sure if it matters or would make a difference. But I suppose for a 76-year-old woman she’s still pretty agile. And I’m glad about it. I can’t even imagine how we’d make do, if she wasn’t allowed to drive anymore! Like Hilda from three roads down. But then, she doesn’t have her granddaughter to take care of. She is being taken care of by her rather one-dimensional, very narrowminded son and his lively wife. She makes for a good involuntary comedian; I’ll give her that. He’s just… bland? See, if that doesn’t tell everything!

‘Gran?’, I try again, ‘Are you going into town today?’ She only so much lowers the newspaper, shoots a look at me from over her glasses, neatly settled on the tip of her nose. This version of her is intimidating– And irritated?! Okay, looks like I’ve do–

‘You can’t go out like that!’

And here we go again! I don’t have to look down. I still know what I put on this morning. Same thing as most days at the post office. Black cargo jeans. Oversized white blouse under a similarly oversized knitted sweater. I can’t have this discussion today! ‘Gran, I know that you’re not very keen on my choice of clothing, but it’s fucking cold and if I come home with one, you’ll say it’s my fault for not dressing properly!’

‘That’s still not proper clothing. I’ve seen Sarah from number 31 the other day. She’s been wearing these beautiful grey trousers with the cream long sleeve. You might want to try something similar?’ I have to suppress an eye roll. Good for Lara. She’s not the one standing in a freezing post office for eight hours. Not that Gran would think about that, of course. She’s still staring at me imploringly. She wants confirmation. Okay, pull yourself together. Don’t shrink. Shoulders back. And definitely, most importantly Do Not Look Down! She’ll only think she’s been proven right. Can’t let that happen. Don’t show weakness. Or doubt. Or insecurity.

‘Yes, well, I’m not Lara. I’m the one freezing my arse off in the bloody hall with the door half open’ Her eyes go back to the newspaper. I release my breath. Okay, discussion over. I check my watch. I should be down at the office in ten minutes. And I still have a poster to put up. Gran just give me one straight forward answer. Just the one!

‘Gran, I’m really in a hurry. What about town now?’ Her eyes remain on the article she’s reading. Has she– ‘Hmm, oh town’ Right, so she just doesn’t want to answer then. ‘I don’t know yet. Depends on the weather’ I close my eyes just for a second. Damn it. Wrong move. She’s getting a rise out of me. ‘Okay, so, if you decide to go and I’m not back, could you get me some new sketch paper?’ Silence. I don’t have time for this. She knows. She moves her hand to stir her tea with the teaspoon in the cup.

‘I probably will get the wrong one, love’

I give up.

‘It’s okay, just get me some paper’

She goes back to her newspaper. At least she’ll look.

‘Thanks Gran’

I turn back around and walk to the clothes rack. I put the rucksack down on the floor to put on my black faux biker jacket. I take a look outside. Still those bloody threads. I should take an umbrella, but they just annoy me. And if there’s wind, they’re no use anyway. Shit the umbrella. The hood’ll have to do. Rucksack slung over my back, I put the hood up over my head and half of my face and step outside. As I close the door, I falter for a moment. Do I have my keys? Never mind. Gran’s gonna be there anyway.

The rain isn’t as bad as I feared. Doesn’t make it any less annoying and inconvenient, though. Every so often, I put some drawings or poetry up the village notice board. My name isn’t on any of the papers. Not really. But they still know it’s me who puts them up. Always some ‘woke lecture’ they call it. Grow up. It’s my form of silent protest. I have to put up with far too many comments that are far beyond tolerable already. Yes, I don’t dress like Lara from number 31, nor do I have the measured way of speaking like perfect James from across the church. Church, another topic I’d rather avoid if possible. To many landmines I could accidentally step on. Catapult me right to the top of the town gossip list. I am aware that more or less ‘publishing’ artwork doesn’t really help my case, but they already have their opinion of me anyway. Quite frankly, it can’t get any worse. Not that Gran was any support by the way. She wants me to try and ‘blend in’. Easier said than done, when almost every other sentence is direct criticism. Not on my behaviour, no. I could work with that. No, it’s just like Gran. Why do I dress the way I dress? Why is there a slit in my eyebrows? Why are there piercings in my ears? Why don’t I hang out with the kids from the village? Why don’t I join the community? Well, newsflash. They don’t want me. Okay, bit harsh. Let’s tune it down slightly. They don’t accept me, more like it. They don’t like what they see. Maybe even what I stand for. And I won’t try to play along with them just for the sake of it.

‘Morning’, I suddenly hear a voice from right next to me.

Shit. No. People.

‘Morning’ I mutter back.

Funny isn’t it? The whole village can be your sworn enemy and yet they’ll throw the odd greeting back at you. I keep on walking. Down a narrow path between a block of houses. Great deal shorter. Also, hellishly slippery with weather like that. I try to find my grip carefully while holding on to the wooden fence next to me. Though, not the fence. More like the tiny gaps in between the single wooden boards. Maybe taking the long way around the block would have been the better option after all. Fuck. Won’t do any good contemplating that, I’m already halfway down. My further miserable descend happens without any more, quite literal, slip ups. I set my feet on the grey tarmac again. Hood completely damp. Fingers cold. Let’s hope the paper is still legible and not a wet lump at the bottom of my rucksack.

I carefully get the – thankfully – still intact sheet out of its shell. I quickly find a spot on the pinboard. There isn’t much on it this time of the year. No more touristy events and it’s slightly too early for the Christmas fans to come out of their summertime sadness. At least concerning their events. There are a few houses already clad in bloody awful Christmas lights and decoration. It is November. November! Anyway, spot found, I look proudly at my newest creation. There, put that in your pipe and smoke it! Tear it apart if you have to. After another moment, I continue walking. Isobel won’t tell me off for being late, but I have my own standards and being on time is one of them. Quick watch check. Ahh, two minutes. Doable. I walk slightly faster before faltering just so. Another person. Come on, not now! But the figure doesn’t seem familiar at all. They look… pretty neat. Brown-ish coat. Lovley black boots.

I could do with a new pair of my own.

Not the point. Point being. They look out of place. Tourist. But different. Stop dwelling! Staring at them won’t help you to pass them unnoticed! I pull my hood further over my face and just walk past them. Let them think I’m rude! It’s not like we’re likely to meet again. Have I jinxed that now? Quite possibly.

Finally, the post office. I rush inside and put my hood down to the familiar jingle of the doorbell in the background. Not a second later my boss sticks her head through the side door that leads upstairs to her flat. That was quick. Even for her.

‘Morning’, I make a weak attempt at sounding cheerful. I hope it sells.

‘Morning’, she echoes, ‘You good?’

‘Alright’, I respond, ‘Good. Yeah’

Well, that sounded convincing. Isobel doesn’t question and I’m grateful for that. She’s one of the very few people who doesn’t overstep and I like her for that. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t quit the job yet. She’s easy to work with and keeps her curiosity at bay. That and her false, placated smile. I know what that looks like. Seen it far too many times directed at tourists and customers. She’s fed up with people. The one thing we have in common. The one and only. But it’s enough. We made it work. I made it work. Not at least because I need the money. Like badly.

There is this university plan. But with our current financial situation a student loan is off the cards. Still, it’s not bad enough to be eligible for a bursary. I’ve checked. Multiple times. So, I have to make the money myself. The hard way. When hasn’t it been at least slightly complicated.

I should stop wallowing in self-pity.

I realise I haven’t moved from the middle of the room since my brief ‘conversation’ with Isobel. I take a look. She’s already pottering around the tiny space, putting the cardholders in place. Isobel’s got it covered. Looks like counter duty for me today. We have two of these but most of the time only one is open. Exceptions being Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays. That’s how I fit into the picture. Though I’m quite sure Isobel’s only hired me because I have ‘the younger bones’ for the heavy lifting. Not that I blame her. The lifting sucks.

Finally, behind my counter, I get out of my drenched jacket and put it over my chair. Right then, head up, shoulders back, smile ready to pop on and off my face. Here we go!

Ah, right. Stuff won’t happen immediately. It’s not like we’re notoriously busy. My contract says to turn up at 10am on Saturdays, no matter how busy it is. So, this is me sitting there on the chair and waiting. My phone is in my bag, and I have a hard time not getting it out. Isobel doesn’t mind me ‘using’ it at work but it’s still kind of unprofessional. I’m about to give myself a dopamine boost when I hear the door open.

I look ahead to the door to find the out of place person with the lovely boots from earlier entering the office. And, holy shit, I think my jaw has just dropped to the floor. I better go pick it up, but for that I would have to avert my eyes from the absolutely beautiful woman who just walked through my door. Shit, gay panic. Bad timing. I’m supposed to look professional. Act the part as well, while we’re at it. Please do try not to stare! My inner voice reminds me. Right back to the job at hand.

Though, honestly speaking, the woman is a vision. One definitely not home to this village. First of all, I would now her. Small village. Everyone knows everyone. And secondly, her style speaks for itself. Starting with the coat I might have mentioned earlier. And, oh fuck, she’s wearing a suit. Can I get that? Right along with the boots and the coat. But it’s not just her outfit. The woman screams confidence and authority, but something isn’t quite right about her appearance. Her shoulders are slightly hunched. She seems drawn into herself. Almost as if she was trying to hide herself away. Not to be noticed. I would know about it.

For a moment I hope Isobel is still around. This woman has something far too familiar about her and I’m not sure I want to deal with that right now. But luck isn’t on my side today and she heads straight for my counter.

‘Morning’, she greets, and her accents betrays her. Definitely not from here then.

I channel my inner professionalism and to my own surprise a tiny smile makes its way to my face.

‘Hello. How can I help you?’

The woman seems lost for words for a moment. Her eyes darting about the room. She’s trying to keep something, I realise. Just like I thought. Hurt and sadness makes its way to her face. It’s subtle, almost unnoticeable, but I’ve studied humans for far too long. Always looking. Calculating their reactions towards me. I have to be able to read people’s faces so I know I can trust them. So I know they won’t hurt me. I usually look out for danger, but I don’t find it in this woman’s face. She reads easy. She’s an open book. And she’s sad. Scared. Hunted. Haunted. Even lonely. Hidden by her posture of confidence.

Her head turns back to me. She gets something out of her coat pocket. A white envelope.

‘I’d like to post a letter’

‘Sure, international or just the usual?’

‘No, just the usual’, she gives me a tense smile.

‘Alright, just a mo’

I open the drawer in front of me. It’s just a tiny thing below the countertop. But it’s a safe storage for the postmarks, among one stress ball or the other. Without giving it any more attention I take the envelope from her and place a postmark on the upper right corner.

‘That would be 87p’

She fishes out a heavy 1£ coin – I hate those – and hands it over.

‘Just keep the change’

‘Thank you’

Giving me a quick nod she turns to leave. She’s almost out of the shop again when I notice that the sender information is missing.

‘Excuse me!’, I half shout.

The woman turns around confused and walks back to the counter. I take a breath. Why the hell is this uncomfortable?

‘You don’t have your details on the envelope. You know, in case it is returned?’

She looks at me for the longest time. Something going out in her eyes. Something shattering even? Then her head falls. Not just that. Her authority, her shell falls away. What have I gotten myself into? Why can’t I just shut up for a moment?

‘Is there any chance you can send it without my contact details?’

‘Afraid not’, I say. And for some reason my heart breaks for this woman. She’s not okay. ‘I’m sorry’, I add as an afterthought.

‘No, I understand. I just– I had something to say’, she pauses. Her face full of pain. Eyes closed. ‘Sorry, you don’t want to know that’ She shakes her head. Her hands scrub over her face. I have to look away. This is none of my business. But I can’t just look away, can I? I’ve seen it far too often with others. And myself. I was miserable. I needed someone to reach out to me. Offer help. Or a hug. I never really had that. And she doesn’t look like she has someone to give her a hug at the moment.

‘I could put my address down’

Oh, for goodness’ sake! Where did that come from? Her head shoots up. She seems to be as surprised about my offer as I am myself. Definitely overstepped a line here.

‘Oh fuck, I’m so sorry!’

The woman looks taken aback. Also confused. That confuses me. Am I supposed to say something?

‘You said, you had something to say’ Apparently, my brain has decided to add some more words. ‘Sounds important’ Let’s hope that won’t make matters worse. For real, where even is this courage coming from? Not from the gay panic. That seems to have subsided. Hm, maybe the nosiness of the town has finally taken its toll on me. The woman keeps looking at me. Not staring. Looking. Intensely. Probably trying to figure out what I would get from putting my name on that envelope. Fair, though, I’d be suspicious too.

Then, suddenly, whatever it was that was going on inside her head stops. The tension leaves her body, and a small smile makes its way to her face.

‘Are you the pinboard artist?’, she asks.

Okay, not what I expected.

‘Uhm, yes?’

‘I like your poems’, she continues, ‘Your artwork, too. But I’m more on the literary side of things. Anyway, point being, you’re really good’

‘Thank you’

I don’t really know what to do with this turn of events and conversation. So, she’s definitely been here long enough to read at least two of my poems. Which makes it a week. Minimum. Poems usually take me longer to write than the sketches. But also, she’s been actively reading my poems. Nobody’s ever shown an interest before. All my work usually ends up in a puddle sooner or later. It’s queer. The majority isn’t really familiar with that. Or don’t want to be. Looks like that woman is. The same woman who is also still standing at the counter. Not talking. Nothing happening. And that’s… just awkward.

‘About your letter’, I manage to get out. Just make the awkwardness go away. It’s unbearable. Plus, I made the offer, I won’t take it back. I quickly glance down at the envelope still on the counter in front of me. I only catch a glimpse of the address line. London. Quite the way from home then. Not that it’s any of my business. Or is it? Jeeezzz, I sound like the villagers.

‘I meant it. If you want to post it. I could put down my address. It’s just formalities anyway. And you said it’s important, so it probably won’t be returned anyway. And if it is, I’m sure I’ll find a way to get it back to you’

That was a lot. Did I even make sense? I bloody hope so!

‘Actually, that would be really nice’

‘Sure’

I give her a quick smile before getting a pen from Isobel’s counter. I usually don’t need pens. And it’s not every day I go offering strangers to put my address down on their letters. I grab one pen and try it out on the countertop. Works. Then I write my name and address on the top left of the envelope before putting the pen back.

‘Right, ready for send-off’, I try to sound encouraging. It doesn’t work. Obviously.

The woman still manages one of her small smiles. It’s honest. Genuine. It reaches her eyes. I smile back.

‘I’m sure they’ll give it a read’

More empty encouragements. Girllll, why?

The woman is still smiling at me, but something shifts in her eyes again. The sadness creeping back.

‘I think she’d be happier finding one of your poems inside’

She, huh. I’m certainly filing that away. I quickly look down at the envelope and catch a glimpse of the name. Helen. Could be just a friend but let a gay girl have her moment of sapphic joy. Is it joy, though? It all looks rather sad. Not very cottage core happy ending.

‘I mean, you could still add one’

Someone punch me in the face please!

‘No, thank you. You’ve been more than a great help. Thank you, again. I really mean it’

And strangely enough, I believe her. I just met that woman what was probably about ten minutes ago, and everything she just said was more genuine and honest than any inquiry about my life has ever been. Even if it was my Gran asking. And I think I know why. She doesn’t hide. Well, she physically tries to, but as I said before. She’s an open book to read. She’s still sad. But right now, she was also honest and kind.

‘You’re welcome. And if you’re ever in need of a poem for your– partner’, very subtle, ‘I’m always open for commissions’

‘I’ll keep that in mind. Good to meet you…’

Deliberate trailing off. I could just send her off with a quick ‘You too’, but somehow that would feel strange. I don’t like people knowing me. That usually leads to judgement or comments. Well, or both. And I’ve heard it all before. The gay one. The one with the old Gran. The one whose mum made the runner. The lonely one. The outcast. They’ve all been asking me questions and come to conclusions about who I am. But they don’t have a clue. At times I don’t even know myself. That’s okay. Sometimes I just wish I was given a choice. Questions are usually asked with the intention to get an answer back, but it’s also pressure. Pressure to deliver. I can’t make an active choice to just– stay silent. Or say nothing. I’d be filed away as rude. But that woman didn’t do that. She left it to me. She let me decide on an introduction. To show who I am.

‘Maisie’

‘Good to meet you, Maisie’

‘Nice to meet you too. Take care’

She gives me a quick nod before pulling her coat tight and turning around to the door. It rustles as she opens it. Some raindrops fall inside as she leaves the post office and steps back outside into the rain.

The envelope still lying on the counter in front of me.