Read Online The Postmistress by Sarah Blake - Free Book Online Page A

something wrong. She knew that was silly, but this kind of random inexplicable happening drove her around the bend. She could countenance that milk had a shelf life, that human beings trip and fall down, that perfectly clear skies might suddenly cloud and rain—but she refused to accept these things happening without some reason. Someone had left the door ajar on the icebox, someone else had not been looking where he went. But the canceling machine.
    The lobby doors swung open, and Florence turned around to see who it was. A big smile spread across her face. “Hello, Harry,” she said, luxuriously. “Miss James is having some problem with her machine.”
    Iris rolled her eyes.
    “Oh?” said Harry. “What’s wrong?”
    Mrs. Cripps decided that she had quite a lot to tell Marnie Niles. Harry’s hair was combed, for starters. And as he crossed the lobby, she could tell without looking that the temperature had risen slightly behind the window. Oh, she smiled to herself, I will be right in the end about this one. She turned back to Iris and patted the counter between them. “Good-bye, Miss James. I have work to do. Good luck with that,” she pointed.
    Harry set down the mug he was carrying and looked at the canceling machine. “You having some trouble with that?”
    “Yes,” answered Iris, flushing, acutely aware that it was just the two of them suddenly, alone in the post office. “It’s sticking on me.”
    “Let’s have a look.”
    Iris pushed the small machine across to Harry. He picked it up in his hands and shook it. It didn’t make a sound. Then he put it down very gently and reached for a screwdriver in his pocket, looking up at Iris for her okay. She nodded.
    “What do you suppose happened?”
    “Beats me,” he answered with the cheerfulness of someone who’s been around machines all his life. “Things break.”
    How was it possible that he wouldn’t know—or that he wasn’t bothered by not knowing? Iris watched as he carefully loosened the four brass screws that held the front in place. The inside of the machine resembled the gears of a clock and the tiny hammers with the dates, little bells. He leaned down and blew into the belly of the machine, pulled back and looked, then blew again. Iris watched his fingers. There had been nothing said between them, nothing at all but this kind of steady attention. He was in every day for his mail, and though at first she had thought she ought to signal somehow that she was ready, she realized this slow unstated comfort between them was some kind of movement—the beginning of the dance. Without paying much attention, he replaced the plate and screwed it down quickly. “There,” he said, pushing it back toward Iris. “See if that does anything.”
    She slid a clean piece of paper into the canceling slot and turned the knob. Out it slipped onto the ledge in front of Harry. “ November 18, 1940,” he said.
    “Wonderful,” Iris heard herself saying. “Thank you, Mr. Vale.”
    “Harry.”
    She looked up.
    “Harry,” he said to her quietly. “It’s Harry.” She flushed and looked down.
    He cleared his throat. “Say, listen.”
    She opened the stamp drawer, her heart thudding.
    “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
    The stamps lay in fresh sheets in perfect order before her.
    “Any chance you’d think about lowering your flagpole out there?”
    Oh. She glanced back up, disappointed. He was one town official speaking to another. That was all. “Why?”
    “Well”—he hesitated—“it seems to me it’s sticking straight up, just begging for attention.”
    Iris had to smile, despite herself. “Is that how it seems?”
    “If the Germans get within sight of town, they’re going to plot a course straight in off that pole.”
    He was quite serious.
    “I’d have to speak to the post office inspector,” Iris said and shut the drawer.
    “Fair enough.” He dipped his head, but made no move to leave.
    He had only come in to ask about the