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‘These beans are out of date,’ barked Herbert Cranshaw, shuffling towards the counter.	They couldn’t be, sighed Mrs Crispin to herself. The mild-mannered and kindly shopkeeper was usually meticulous when it came to her stock. Nonetheless, almost every morning since she took over the village shop fourteen years ago, old Mr Cranshaw managed to make her wish she had stayed in bed.	‘Is there a problem, Mr Cranshaw?’ Her sweet smile masked that sinking “here we go again” feeling. 	‘These beans. They are out of date,’ he repeated. ‘Never happened in my day. When I worked in the NAAFI, we did a weekly inventory and checked……’	‘Okay, Mr Cranshaw,’ she cut him off politely but with a look that told him to quit while he was ahead. Mrs Crispin feared the consequences of having to hear another lecture about Herbert’s days as a young man over in England working for the Royal Air Force.	She took the can, which he had been holding accusingly in front of her face. 	‘Let me get you another,’ she offered.	‘Did I say I wanted beans?’ he snapped ungraciously. ‘What?’ Mrs Crispin was confused.	‘I was just pointing out a failure in your stock control system. Not once did I say I wanted to purchase this item.’ Herbert was getting angry. ‘That is the problem with people nowadays. They never listen….’ He stormed out muttering to himself.Mrs Crispin stared after him in disbelief. He was worse than usual today. What could life have done to this eighty-one-year-old man to make him this bitter, this angry, she wondered to herself. She turned to go down the aisle. Better have another look at these beans.&nbsp;	‘Morning, Herbert.’ Jim Clegg was his usual cheerful self.Herbert was heading away from the shop across the green, in the direction of his own house. Jim Clegg was the closest thing Herbert had to a friend in life. Both men attended the local primary school together over seventy years ago. They were the last of their generation left in the village. The others had either emigrated years before or passed away. There was a two-month age difference between them. At this moment, Jim was kneeling beside his West Highland Terrier, about to free the little fellow from his lead. 	‘I don’t know how you put up with that flea-ridden beast.’ Herbert was not a dog-lover. 	‘Tell you the truth, Herbert, I don’t know how he puts up with me.’ Jim’s eyes sparkled with genuine affection for his little companion. ‘He keeps me alive. Gives me something to get up for. You’d be surprised how much work is involved in caring for a little chap like him.’	The dog stared suspiciously at Herbert. Jim went on, ‘but I’d never complain. He’s the best company in the world. When I lock that door at night…’Herbert had had enough. ‘I have to go,’ he cut Jim off rudely. ‘Those weeds won’t pull themselves, and I’m best getting them done before it rains.’ He glanced skywards to a vision of blue heaven as he spoke.	‘Well, I might see you over yonder later on?’ Jim nodded to the park bench where the two old friends usually met for a chat on a fine day. He looked forward to that time with great anticipation. There were so few people left who could speak his own language. Even if it meant having to listen to an old grouch like Herbert for an hour, at least they understood each other. He knew Herbert enjoyed their chats as well, but of course would never admit as much.	‘You’d better bring your mutt if it’s company you’re after. Not sure if I’ll be out today,’ said Herbert evasively and Jim knew he was covering something up.	‘Well, you know where I’ll be.’	‘I do,’ answered Herbert, scuttling off.Jim gazed after him and knew that all wasn’t right with Herbert. He also knew better than to pester him about it at the moment. He’d come out with it in the end. He always did, the old fool.&nbsp;Herbert was not one to let his advancing age slow him down. He hurried towards his house, exasperated to see that the gate was open. It was then that he saw the postman walking down the path from the front door.	‘Hello, Mr Cranshaw.’ The young postman raised his cap, a gesture that impressed Herbert. You did not always get that kind of courtesy from younger folk today. His name was Richard something or other. Herbert could never recall his surname, but he did know he was from the neighbouring village. This was only his fourth week on the job, and he was already extremely popular in the village.	‘Morning,’ Herbert nodded as he spoke. ‘Anything today?’	‘Just one or two,’ smiled Richard, ‘don’t think I’ve brought you any bills today though.’ He headed out the gate.	‘Now that would make a change.’Closing the gate behind him, Richard winked at Herbert, ‘Sorry to disappoint you about the bills. See you tomorrow, Mr Cranshaw.’	‘God willing,’ replied Herbert. It frustrated him that he found it so difficult to be grouchy towards this utterly likeable young postman. Funnily, it made his bad mood a bit worse. Turning the key and pushing open his front door, Herbert picked up the two pieces of mail on the mat just inside. He carried them towards the kitchen and left them on the table where he set about making his traditional mid-morning tea. He set a slice of sweet cake, as people of his generation called it, on a plate on the table and switched on the radio while he waited for the kettle to boil. The topic was the weather.	‘Yes,’ said the presenter to his meteorologist guest, ‘even though this is likely to be the hottest summer in twenty years, why are we having so much rainfall?’Even a reminder of the hottest summer in years could not lift Herbert’s sour mood as he poured boiling water onto the teabag in his cup. As he stirred his tea, he knew that what Mrs Crispin and Jim Clegg took to be a sour mood was something completely different. No, this was a deep and insurmountable sadness, masked as a sour mood, because that was the only way Herbert knew to protect himself from the inevitable questions. He sat and tucked into the comfort and warmth of his tea and sweet cake.&nbsp;Jim Clegg waited patiently at the counter of Margie Crispin’s modest grocery and light hardware shop. Margie was helping the postman with a couple of new names in the village. He was new to the area, and there were still one or two houses and roads that caused him some confusion.	‘Sorry, Mr Clegg,’ said Richard, stepping away. ‘She’s all yours.’	‘I’m not sure I want to buy her,’ laughed Jim. ‘I only came in for the paper…and a stamp if you please, Margie.’Richard laughed. ‘I’m gone before I get a clip on the ear. I’m not long enough on this beat to start making enemies.’ He waved and went out smiling.&nbsp;	‘So how are you, Jim?’ enquired Margie, ‘a stamp was it?’	‘Yes, please. I see Herbert got out of bed the wrong side this morning.’She put the stamp in front of Jim. ‘I know. Usually, I can manage to squeeze a few civil words out of him. Not today, though. I know he’s not a morning person, but he’s very out of sorts today. I thought the weather might have him in a better mood, maybe even think of a holiday.’	‘Oh, you know our Herbert. It doesn’t always have to make sense. In fact, I remember once when…wait…what did you say? Holiday. What date is today?’					Margie checked the date on the top of Jim’s newspaper. ‘It’s the twenty-seventh.’	Jim took a step backwards and closed the door. Margie was startled when he locked it from the inside and turned the ‘closed’ sign to face outwards. His face was ashen. ‘Come into your back room and make us a cup of tea. It does make sense after all. Sadly, it makes perfect sense.’&nbsp;Herbert cleared away his plate and cup. Tired of listening to the ongoing conversation about the weather, he switched off the radio. How much more chat can they drag from a few sunny days, he wondered. It is true what they say, talk is cheap. He thought he might wander out to the back garden and see if any weeds needed pulling when his unopened mail caught his eye.	‘Well, he said they were not bills,’ he remarked aloud, referring to his earlier exchange with the postman. ‘Where are you?’ he said to his missing glasses. With his mail in his hand, he found them in the sitting room where he had left them at bedtime the previous night. Putting on the glasses, he sat into his armchair and examined his mail. The first was a letter from his bank informing its customers that added charges would be introduced from next month. It might as well be a bill, Herbert thought to himself. He was annoyed that he had taken the time to find his glasses only to learn that news. He put the letter in the open fireplace and took the other piece of mail in his right hand. It was a postcard, but there was something odd about this one. It was not new. In fact, the frayed edges gave it away as being many years old. As his eyes focused on the picture on the front, Herbert got an uneasy feeling.&nbsp;In the makeshift office-cum-storeroom that was the backroom of the village store, Margie listened intently as Jim Clegg made sense of Herbert’s mood.&nbsp;	‘You’ve only been in the village two years, so that you won’t have known this. Nobody ever really talks about it because the memories are too painful. I suppose there aren’t too many of us still around to remember anyway.’Margie topped up his teacup and her own.	‘The fact is, you’ve only known Herbert as a single man living alone.’ Jim paused as if in pain. ‘The truth is, he had a wife – Bella – and a little girl named Sally.’Margie was astonished but remained silent, transfixed now.	‘Every year, Bella liked to travel out to her home-place in England. Brighton. It’s by the seaside, in the south of England. Her parents were still alive there. Now, Jim was no traveler. Could not stand long journeys, you see. He was as impatient then as he is now. Anyway, the last time they visited Bella’s parents, there was a terrible accident. The car that took her and the little one from Brighton back to Liverpool docks to get the boat home was caught in a dreadful storm – wicked thunder and lightning. A spooked animal crossed the car’s path from out of nowhere and drove it down an embankment, where it crashed and caught fire. Nobody escaped.’	‘So…Herbert lost his wife and daughter?’ Margie was horrified and could barely get the words out.	‘He did. It was little Sally’s first visit to her grandparents. And that terrible crash happened twenty-six years ago this day.’&nbsp;Herbert began to feel his heart beat a bit faster. The front of the postcard showed a cartoon image of a family on a beach with buckets, spades, and ice creams, among other things. The caption read ‘Greetings from Brighton.’ His hands were shaking as he turned the card over. The postmark was as clear as the day it was stamped. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, blinking. Herbert was not sure if he was in a terrible dream from which he would soon awaken. Putting his glasses back on, he saw that the postcard was addressed to him at this very house. Gradually, he worked up the courage to read the message. As he did, his emotions crumbled, and he was overwhelmed by tears. Herbert Cranshaw collapsed backwards in his armchair and wept uncontrollably, the postcard falling from his hands and onto the floor. It was postmarked a few days more than twenty-six years ago. The message read simply: Hello Daddy, We are having a wonderful time here at the seaside. Grandma and Grandpa send their love. We miss you so very much, and I promise I will never leave you again! Lots of Love, Sally (and Mummy).

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The Postcard

conorareidy

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The Postcard

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Conor Reidy

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