The post office in Oldbridge had never felt so alive. Ladies, gather round the table, Emily Anderson called, her voice trembling with excitement. Lets sit together, celebrate the family weve become. Time had slipped away in forty years, yet it seemed only yesterday shed first set foot in this little brick building. She laid out smoked salmon blinis, tiny cucumber sandwiches, a fresh garden salad shed made herself, and hot Cornish pasties fresh from the nearby salonso good youll lick your fingers clean, she laughed. A towering cake waited for the toast, and glasses of ale were lifted. To life, to friendship, to everything that makes us smile.
There was no rush for the young ones. Sarah Whitby, fortyseven, had spent her early career in a bookshop before fifteen years ago she settled at the post office. Shed brought Lucy Miller along, a vivacious woman who never let a moment go dull. Emily had also invited her former supervisor, Margaret Hughes, now retired and spending her days with grandchildren. The room buzzed with the sound of old laughter.
Emily had spent her whole working life at this post office, just down the road from her modest flat in a fivestorey council block. Shed left school without a college place, and her parents and younger brothers had moved into their grandparents cramped house. Emily, barely eighteen, took the job to stand on her own feet. Ill work here awhile, its close, and then Ill decide whats next, she had thought. Margaret, the head clerk, took her under her wing, showing every drawer, every form, every way the post could run smoothly. It wasnt glamorous, but it was steady, and it gave Emily a roof over her head and a purpose.
The staff were a patchwork of divorced women and single mums, much like Emily herself. Their children grew up on the backroom tables, doing homework while their mothers sorted letters. Emilys son, Mick, and Lucys daughter, the nailart specialist from the salon, spent their childhood together, later marrying and bringing grandchildrenLily, a brighteyed little girl, now perched on Emilys knee during the gathering. Years later, Emily had risen to manager, the role Margaret had handed over a few winters before.
Margaret raised her glass, eyes shining. How did you manage without me, girls? she roared. If it werent for the grandkids, Id still be here, polishing the counters! She swirled the ale, then turned to Emily. And you, our commanderinchiefstill running the show? Sarah and Lucy exchanged a glance and burst into laughter. She does it all, Sarah declared. Packages, money transfers, and the charming chats with the old blokes down the lane!
Lucy, ever the tease, leaned forward. Tell us about those blokes, Margaret. The ones that keep slipping through the door? She snatched a bite of her pasty, eyes twinkling. You should come more often, Margaret. You live next door, after all. Bring the grandkidsour little army has grown from parcels and parcels of letters. The room erupted in chuckles, the tension softening.
Emilys cheeks flushed as she set down her pasty. There is one, she admitted, voice low. He came yesterdaydivorced, his son studying in Leeds. He was sending parcels, making a transfer, and bought another lottery scratchcard.
Lucy rolled her eyes. He wasnt here for the post, Emily. Hes waiting for you to step out, not to chat with Sarah.
Margaret lifted her glass again, a mischievous grin on her lips. To love, then! You, Sara, are still a spring chicken. Take a leaf out of Emilys bookmaybe youll end up at a wedding after all. She clinked her glass against Emilys.
Two days later, Konstantin Whitakernow simply George Whitakerstrode into the post office, eyes scanning for Emily. Lucy shouted, Emily, someones waiting for you! George blushed, fidgeting with a crumpled lottery ticket. Im just here to check my ticket, he muttered, pulling it out. Emily, though surprised, kept her composure. She fed the numbers into the computer. The screen flashed: a massive win, zeros stretching beyond counting. Her throat went dry. George, this is your prize, she whispered, handing him the ticket. But youll have to claim it elsewhere. The door slammed shut behind the bewildered winner.
Sarah stared at the empty doorway. Could it really be that big? I thought they were all scams.
The next morning, the post office door swung open to reveal George, now in a crisp new suit, a bouquet of roses in hand. Good morning, Emily Anderson, he began, voice steady but trembling. Ive been a fool not to speak sooner. Youre a brilliant womanmanager, mother, friend. Im a retired soldier, a lonely widower with nothing but this post office to keep me company. Youve given me a lucky ticket, but more than that, youve given me hope. Will you marry me? Lets build a life together, share every sunrise and every sunset. He fell to one knee, the roses trembling in his grip. The room fell silent, then erupted in applausecustomers, colleagues, even the earlymorning regulars cheering the unlikely romance.
The wedding was intimate, held in the back room of the post office, turned into a makeshift banquet hall. Tables were laden with the same smoked salmon blinis, pasties, and cake that had once marked a reunion. Margaret, eyes misty, whispered, I always knew this would be the end of an era.
Soon after, Emily handed in her resignation. George had bought a seaside cottage, promising a future of garden walks and quiet mornings. They spoke of building a new home, of grandchildrens laughter echoing across the beach. Emily gathered her friends at a local restaurant to celebrate her retirement. Tears welled as she thanked them, promising to visit oftenafter all, she still lived just a stones throw away. When her replacement was needed, she recommended Sarah, confident that she too might one day hold a lucky ticket in her hands.
