Ingerfær: The Mailman

The gravel cracked loudly under the sole of his shoes, as he turned the street corner and continued down the main street. It was one of the rare sunny days, with the midday-sun sending its fragile beams across the rooftops of the low houses of the town. The sudden spring heat made a drop of sweat drip slowly from under his cap, down his face. The load of the mail sack felt heavier this day. The sleepy atmosphere and everyday chores of villagers was suddenly interrupted. A housewife in her garden, trying to exploit the short glimpse of sun hanging her laundry for drying, turned her head and stopped what she was doing, and strided back in the house. On her way, she knocked over the laundry basket and left the white sheets grass stained on the lawn. Ladies running errands in the centre of town quickly broke off conversations, and with packages under their arms and long fast steps, strided for home.

As he proceeded down the street, windows were closed and shades were shot, just tight enough for pairs of eyes to glance from the dark of the rooms. His pace was slow and steady, and conscious of the looks resting upon him, he kept his own eyes fixed on the horizon. At one point he stopped for a breath of air, and behind the closed doors and windows of the nearest house was heard a loud gasp for air. Just as loud was the sigh of relief when he resumed his trout down the dusty gravel road. Behind the next door, women young as old were folding their hands in desperation until he had passed.

The silence of the town was deafening. The only sound heard was a dog barking restlessly behind a closed door and the monotonous and rhythmic pace of two feet against the pavement. Some women did not even dare to look . They only closed their eyes and listened to the fatal sound of leather soles squeaking and pressing against the dry country road. The footsteps came closer and closer, and they would hold their breath until they heard the steps disappearing further down the road.

At one house, behind one door, they did not hear the footsteps continue. They watched with despair as the mailman stopped in front of their house. A heartbreaking scream of a woman cut through the silence, as he opened the fence gate and turned down the pathway leading to the house. The woman behind the door screamed again and shook her head in desperation. The mailman approached the door. The woman covered her ears with her shaking hands and backed slowly towards the stairway. The mailman lifted his hand and aimed for the doorbell. The woman stumbled up the stairs and repeated the word “No!” in a high-pitch, cracked voice. He hesitated for a moment in front of the closed door, as he pretended not to hear the devastated screams of a mother, sister or wife. Then he rang the doorbell. It took quite a while before the door was answered. It opened with a loud squeaking complaining sound. Behind it stood a tiny girl, not older than 5 or 6 years.

The mailman looked at her in disbelief, and as if trying to explain she said with a tiny voice:
“Mother is in the attic.”

He stood there stalling, with the telegram in his sweaty hands. It seemed like non of them paid attention to the unrestrained screams of despair from upstairs.

“It is the third time you are here,” she said, stating what he already knew.

“I know.” He could not think of a better answer. He knew all too well that he had walked the fatal walk to this house, once too many, the past year.

“I don't think mom will come back down this time.” Her voice was surprisingly steady but with a new edge of worry, too serious for her age.

He hesitated briefly before handing the telegram to the girl. He quickly turned around and cast one last glance at her before hurrying down the pathway, and down the road away from the house.

She stood still the doorway, the telegram looking too large for her tiny hands, and had not moved one inch when he turned around the corner and rushed away from the scene.

The girl still was still in the doorway as he passed one house after another where relieved women had resumed their prior duties of the day, as the life slowly returned to the little village, as the mailman left the town.

When the summer had passed, and winter of the year 1916 came, the mailman no longer had errands in the small village.