One Stamp

The post office counter was at the back of the village shop, behind the bread and the newspapers. Bernice had worked it for twenty-two years. It was going to close on Friday.

All week the same people came. A man sent a parcel to his son in Australia. A woman posted eleven Christmas cards in October, because she was going to be abroad in December. Bernice weighed everything, said the price, and put the stamps on straight.

At ten to five on Friday a girl came in with a small white envelope. She was perhaps fourteen, and she had run from the bus.

“Does it get there for Monday?” she asked.

“Second class won’t. First class will.”

“First class, then.”

Bernice put the envelope on the scales. Eighteen grams. One stamp, no extra postage. The girl counted the coins onto the counter.

“It’s a competition,” the girl said. “You have to think of a name for the horse. I’ve thought about it for three days.”

“Then it’s worth first class,” Bernice said.

She stamped the envelope and put it in the grey sack with everything else. At five the postman took the sack out to the van, the way he always did, and Bernice turned off the light above the counter.