I glanced briefly at the clock – 10:45am. Perfect. Pausing to collect my carefully written letter and envelope, I stepped into the new day. Following an unconscious routine, I stopped to check the door behind me before following the well-trod path to the road. My feet knew the stretch of road to my destination intimately. They followed their own routine, guiding me gently to the post office. My mind followed its own recognised pattern of thoughts. Being Tuesday, I suspected, if not knew, that I had a letter waiting for me from my mother. The precisely printed envelope I carried bore her address. Spontaneity was not something my mother had ever enjoyed or encouraged. She was a very structured woman and she always appreciated a structured letter from her only son every Wednesday, preferably with a postmark of the day before.
My thoughts dwindled, and I focused on my surroundings. My feet, as usual, had deposited me outside the post office. It was a small, unassuming building standing next to a general store. I waited for a bit longer outside the post office, gathering my thoughts and courage. I always needed to compose myself momentarily before setting my foot inside.
Francesca was inside.
Francesca was the lady at the post office, and had been the lady at the post office for as long as I could remember. When I first began my weekly correspondence with my mother, coinciding with my move out of home, she was a fresh faced newcomer. Unlike the other elderly ladies behind the counter, she would always greet me cheerfully, and inquire about my week. Quite quickly, a firm friendship grew between us. It never, however, branched beyond the post office. When in 1915, I turned eighteen, I decided I was going to enlist.
I waited a moment longer, gathering my courage, and then plunged my foot into the post office. I knew this was one of the things Francesca had been dreading since the moment the war broke out. Of Italian background, she was plagued with worry for her family back in her home country. Though she knew there was nothing she could do for them, the helplessness of the situation tore at her. It tore at my heart to see her so agitated. She didn’t know that, however. This day it was going to be me that was adding to her anxiety. My birthday was the previous week – I had finally turned eighteen. My mother had sent me a card on the day, being particularly spontaneous of her and impressing both Francesca and myself. When Francesca realised what sort of letter it was however, she became more subdued.
“Edward?” she asked me hesitantly.
I grinned at her, sliding the card carefully from the perfectly addressed envelope.
“Edward, must you…must you now subscribe?”
I laughed, delighted as always by her small language errors.
“Subscribe, Francesca? I’m sorry, but I don’t understand exactly what you mean!”
To my surprise, Francesca didn’t join in with my laughter.
“Edward! Don’t laugh at me!”
A touch of anger suited the Italian voice.
“I’m sorry Francesca. Do you mean enlist? For the war?”
She nodded, once again subdued. I smiled radiantly at her, my head playing the now familiar film of my various acts of heroism again.
“Yes, I’m going tomorrow! I’m most excited. Although mother is less than happy, I can assure you. More than one of her previous letters has involved a side remark about the war. But I have a letter for her today. I thought it best to write her a letter just before I left, so I didn’t need to read any pleading requests to stay at home.”
I grinned again, willing Francesca to appreciate my joke. She didn’t.
“Edward! That is…cruel! Your poor mother, do you not think how she feels? Sitting at home, whilst she waits for her only child to come home from some faraway land? You do not understand the pain you put us through!”
I felt my eyes widen, and my jaw drop in surprise.
“Francesca…”
She shook her head fiercely at me.
“No, Edward. Do not say anything. I wish you well in your fights. I hope you do return.”
She spun on her heel, and began searching through another large pile of envelopes. I was stunned. I watched her hands shake minutely as she moved through the letters. I couldn’t do anything to help her, and the helplessness grated on me. With a final glance back at the Italian beauty whom had caught me absolutely by surprise, I left the post office for the last time in five years.
I returned at the end of the war to find Francesca still working in the post office. She was heavily pregnant, however, and only worked every other day. I enquired politely about her husband and how they had met, only to be quietly rebuffed. She never told me any information about the father of her child, and I was always left with a vague unease about the entire situation. As the years progressed, Francesca remained the only constant figure in my life, along with my ever less responsive mother. I always connected them in an indefinable sense. The act of letter writing inevitably led me back to Francesca. She was always in my life, because my mother demanded it. We retained our close connection, regardless of Francesca’s inexplicable silence about herself. She was a constant abnormality in my life, almost a paradox, which entertained my thoughts for continuous hours. I think I entirely underestimated our relationship, despite my dedicated thoughts on the matter.
The day arrived, when I was an older man, experienced beyond my years. I was standing outside of the post office, waiting whilst I mustered my courage. Last week, Francesca had been a little strange, and I was anxious to see her again, and quell my worries that something was wrong. I pushed open the door to my post office, my eyes immediately searching out the familiar face. They encountered nothing. No familiar face. Instantly, I searched the room in more detail. Where was Francesca? My breath had disappeared slightly and I found myself gasping a little as I spoke to one of the elderly ladies behind the counter.
“Francesca?” I asked. “Where is Francesca?”
The lady, who in reality was undoubtedly younger than me, looked sympathetically up at my strained face.
“Francesca left us last week, on Tuesday afternoon. It wasn’t much longer after you came in that day.”
I was flabbergasted.
“Why did she…?”
The lady nodded understandingly at my inability to complete sentences.
“She didn’t give any reason for leaving. She said she just needed to leave.”
I blinked uncomprehendingly, nodded vaguely and turned abruptly to leave. My feet took me home, led me to my bedroom where I sat rigidly at my writing table. Mechanically, I placed the unsent letter to my mother back on the table it had been composed at that morning. Francesca, my only constant in an ever-changing life had suddenly pulled herself out of it. My heart, as it so frequently did when Francesca was involved, tore at the thought of no one knowing she was now gone. No one knowing how much she meant to me.
“Oh Francesca,” I sighed softly.
No one would know the difference it made, when Francesca just ceased to be with me.