The Island Postmistress – Part 1: Poste Restante

The post office on Skyros-by-the-sea was one room, one counter and a ceiling fan that creaked like a boat.

Helen had come from Norwich, aged fifty-nine, a retired librarian and a widow, to run it for a year. It was an odd, lovely, half-mad scheme. She had a bicycle, a bag of stamps and a view of a deep blue harbour.

Every Tuesday at ten, a fisherman came in.

"Anything for me?" said Stavros, in careful English, taking off his cap. He was sixty-three, weathered and silver-bearded, with hands scarred from net-cord and the clearest eyes she had ever seen.

"I'm sorry. Nothing today."

"Ah." He nodded, unsurprised, and stayed for a coffee. He had a daughter in Athens who never wrote, he explained. A brother in Melbourne. A nephew somewhere. No letters had come in twelve years.

"Why do you keep asking?"

"Because it is Tuesday," said Stavros, simply. "On Tuesday, I ask."

Something in Helen's heart turned over. That night she sat at her kitchen table and wrote him a letter on thin blue paper. Dear Stavros. It is a fine day. The sea is flat. I hope you caught something good. Yours, the Postmistress. She sealed it, stamped it, and hand-delivered it herself to his boat before sunrise.

The following Tuesday, he came in with the letter in his shirt pocket, eyes bright.

"There was something for me," he said, almost shyly. "Somebody wrote."

"Did they?"

"They did. I will not say who. But I answered."

He handed her an envelope. Inside was a drawing of a fishing boat in pencil, and four words in English: Thank you. Come Friday.

"Can I ask you something?" said Helen, with her heart racing.

"Yes."

"What happens on Friday?"

"I cook," said Stavros. "I am told I am not bad."

"Green?" said Helen, feeling like a girl.

"Green," said Stavros, uncertainly, and grinned. "Whatever it means. Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Return to Sender.