The Second Post

 

Sometime before three in the afternoon the young man sat alone at the fireside reading. Snow had begun to fall earlier that afternoon and already the room was becoming dark.

The fire had burned low and the reader, making the most of the diminished heat, sat forward in his armchair where slithers of orange glow warmed the rim of his spectacles.

The clock on the mantle whirred softly before issuing a three-quarter chime. This stirred the young man and he rose from his chair to cross the cold red quarry-tiled floor.

Glass squeaked beneath the young man's fingertips and through the newly-formed jagged hole in the condensation he could see down towards the gate where the path was almost white-over. Large grey flakes blurred past outside, falling, then rising, turning - caught in a sudden updraught.

He had placed the book onto the table and now stood flicking through the pages, but on realising that the fire was low, the young man reached down to the hearth and after opening the damper took coals from a brass scuttle and placed them carefully onto the greying embers.

Again he peered down the driveway that curved beneath the winter trees where thin straggly branches like blown ink reached helplessly into the heavy December sky.

Even as smoke began to rise from the newly-placed coals, the young man watched into the afternoon until, as if recalling something, went to the door, and with a rush of cold air was outside. The closing door drew a puff of smoke from the mouth of the chimney which brought a pleasant aroma of tar and sulphur into the room.

Soon the young man returned - his sweater flecked with snow. Blowing through pursed lips, he removed a large key hanging from the jamb and again the door closed and the only sound came from the gentle rhythm of the clock and steady 'put-put' of small uncertain flames as the coals began to light.

On a placemat in the centre of the table an aluminium teapot accompanied a half-bottle of milk, a three-legged glass sugar bowl and a neatly-folded table cloth. Around the table four chairs of oak with spiral turned legs huddled as if seeking warmth from a forgotten friendship. Against the wall, a sideboard hosted a vanity mirror and a vase of dusty plastic flowers. A clothes horse draped with damp towels and shirts with fraying collars stood nearby. A gas cooker occupied the corner of the room beside a large earthenware sink with pots in a blue plastic bowl of soapy water.

The young man returned with logs piled onto one arm. He stamped his feet to shed the fresh compacted snow and with a shudder pushed the door shut with his back.

Wood clattered onto the hearth with a delicate smell of fresh resinous pine and he picked out two of the smaller pieces and put them onto the fire. Snowflakes sizzled soflty as he returned the key to the hook beside the door.

He pulled out a dining chair and sat at the table, once again opening the book as if to read, but seeming unable to concentrate, got up again to fill the kettle. After lighting the gas, he took plates from the bowl and rinsed them under the cold tap before placing them carefully on the draining board. He wiped his hands on the tea towel and returned to the bay window. Fresh flames from the dry logs cast feint dancing shadows onto the far wall.

"Yes!" With sudden enthusiasm he wiped the whole pane with the tea towel and brought his face eagerly to the glass. "At last."

Beside the fire again he stared into the flames. The logs were now well alight and the flames created moving red-patterned shapes in the soot at the back of the grate. His expression, now changed, warmed to the firelight and reflected flames danced a golden jig on his spectacles.

Down the driveway, dark against the snow, a figure approached the cottage.

"Come on, come on," he repeated, standing now with his back to the chimney breast, he opened and closed his hands and tapped his feet impatiently.

The falling snow had thickened as if driven and swept by some unseen giant dervish, whirling and twisting angrily, but the figure grew steadily larger, becoming more distinct.

Standing well back from the window now, the young man watched the figure intently, but, as if suddenly concious of his appearance, went to the sideboard and stood before the mirror.

"She will write... she will write." He stuck out his jaw and rubbed the stubble on his cheeks.

Clearly visible now, the figure was that of a young woman. Head bowed, she clutched letters in a gloved hand and leaned forward to counter the heavy brown bag slung across one shoulder.

With his back to the door now, the young man wrung his hands and clenched his fists till his knuckles were white, then brought his hands together and closed his eyes as if in prayer.

Muffled footsteps entered the yard followed by a rustle and a thump.

As the footfalls receded, the young man went outside.

Snowflakes drifted through the open doorway seeking rest - some clung helplessly, melting sliding, slowly - like tears, down the face of the door.

The young man returned with a handful of letters and was sorting through them as he closed the door.

Beaming, he kept back one pink envelope, and while laying the others onto the table brought it gently to his lips.

Sitting stiffly on the edge of the fireside chair he ripped at the envelope to take out a Christmas card with a picture of brightly-clad skaters on a frozen river. He leaned forward, opening the card, and the envelope fell to the floor - its open edge jagged and torn. In the warm light of the fire he read the bold handwriting - lips moving silently around the words.

Slowly his expression of wonder faded, and he sat back in the chair, staring: first at the card, then at the fire, and again at the card.

With a loud crack a spark flew onto the hearthrug.

Eventually the young man stirred to the smouldering hearth rug and he put his foot on the glowing ember. Seeing the envelope, he bent to pick it up and slid the card back inside to put it between the pages of the book. He sat to the table and stared as if at nothing as steam from the singing kettle formed against the ceiling.

Folding his arms across the open book, he leaned forward, and turning his face toward the fire laid his head onto his arms.

Shadows flickered upon the walls to the steady rhythm of the clock as it chimed the four quarters. Three lower notes followed and the logs cracked softly to the sound of stifled sobs.

Outside the snow fell even more insistently now and the imprints left by the Second Post had quickly covered over and beneath the branches the path that wound to the road had become a band of the purest white.

 

 

 

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