The Post Round – Part 1: Up the Lane

"Another one," said Idwal, holding out a letter.

"I'm not expecting any," said Gwen.

"This one is from the council."

"That's what I mean."

She took it from his hand with a grimace. It was raining on the lane above the village, a fine Welsh drizzle that hung in the air like muslin. The hills rose green and grey behind the cottage, wrapped in cloud. Sheep stood in the hedge, chewing. Smoke rose from her chimney. She was fifty-eight, a retired nurse, newly returned after thirty years in Birmingham to the village where she was born, in a thick jumper and borrowed wellingtons, holding the gate with one hand.

The postman was sixty-three, short and sturdy, in a red waterproof and a peaked cap, with a ruddy, weathered face, white eyebrows and a wide kind smile. Idwal. He had walked the round for forty years, six miles of steep lanes and farm tracks, with a heavy bag. He knew every household, every dog and every secret.

"You'll be wanting tea," he said.

"I don't have time."

"You've retired."

"I've got a lot to do."

"Like what?"

She opened her mouth and could not think of one thing. Idwal's eyes crinkled. He stepped into her porch, took off his cap, shook out the rain, and followed her into the kitchen without being asked. It was a small, warm room, with a range, a dresser full of blue plates, and a window over the valley.

"I'm sorry about the mess."

"I've seen worse."

She laughed. He sat at the table, hands folded, while she made tea. He told her who had died, who had married, which farmer had left his wife for a woman in Llanidloes. She listened, amused, and for the first time since returning, she felt at home.

"Can I ask you something?" said Gwen, pouring.

"Yes."

"Why do you still do the round?"

"Because it's the people," said Idwal. "The letters are an excuse."

"Green?" she said, a hedge, a hill.

"Green," said Idwal, with a warm smile. "Very green. Same time tomorrow?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – Last Letter.