Par Avion

Braebury is a one postman town and Gordon Drake is the postman. Back in the days when there was a telegraph operator in the back room of the post office dot-dashing away on his morse key or writing out the telegrams as they were received, Gordon was the telegraph messenger who deliver them on his bike. It wasn't actually his bike but standard Australia Post issue and built for durability rather than speed -- not the kind of machine you would want to ride in the Tour de France. Later, when he was promoted to postman after old George What's-his-name retired, he rode the same type of bike with his bag of letters strapped to the handle bars. Now he delivers the mail riding up and down the footpaths on a little Japanese put-put motor cycle.

It was Mrs. Ivy Milhurst, the town's rich widow, who began the practice of sending Gordon postcards from wherever she happened to be on one of her frequent 'little trips'. He was so delighted to get that first card with its photograph of the Eiffel Tower that he showed it to anyone and everyone even after Mrs. Milhurst returned to Braebury. Soon, most people in town, particularly the children, would send a postcard to Gordon Drake, c/o Post Office, Braebury, whenever they were out of town, even if they were only spending a few days in Sydney or Melbourne.

He bought a cork covered display board which he hung on his enclosed back veranda to pin up his postcards but soon needed a second board. When that was also full, he cleared off the first board and put the cards in a shoe box and so the process went on over the years until he had boxes and boxes full of postcards stored in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom. But, despite this, he was a lonely man.

At the time the young men and women of the town were pairing off and marrying Gordon was burdened with his mother who was frail in all respects except for her tongue, which was sharper than a razor. As one of her few friends remarked after the funeral, "If she hasn't ended up in Heaven, Old Nick will be getting what for." No young woman in her right mind would have anything to do with Gordon while she was still around and by the time she wasn't, all the eligible ones had found partners, even if they weren't married -- except for Enid Prior.

In Enid's case it had been her elderly father, a frail old man who should have been in a nursing home. Enid wouldn't hear of it and nursed him at home until he died. Since his death she had taken a part-time job on the desk at the library. Only a few people in the town were great readers, and she didn't see many people there, but, at least, she had first pick of the new books.

An Express Delivery package for the library gave Gordon the opportunity he was looking for. While Enid was signing for it he said, "I believe the new chef at the Royal Hotel is very good. Would you like to have dinner there with me on Saturday evening so we can find out for ourselves?"

"No. No, I'm sorry. I can't."

"Perhaps some other time?" he said but she made no response.

On the Wednesday of the following week there were several readdressed letters for a Mrs. R. J. Prior at Enid's address. When he pulled up at Enid's letterbox to deliver them, a pleasant looking, elderly lady was weeding in the front garden.

"You Enid's mother? Then most of these are for you."

He waited while she rose to her feet and handed the letters to her.

"I'm not her mother, she died some years ago. I'm her aunt. I don't like these window face ones. Usually bills. Oh no, that looks like a cheque from Medicare. Let's be thankful for small mercies. I understand you're the one who invited Enid out to dinner on Saturday, and she used my visit as an excuse not to accept. Stupid girl. She doesn't like to eat too late. I suggest you book a table for 7.30, and I'll see to it that she is ready for you to pick up about 7.00. That will give you time for a pre-dinner drink. I presume you have a car, and she won't have to ride pillion on that motor cycle.

He laughted. "Yes, I have a car. Thanks for your help."

He didn't know whether her aunt said anything to her but he was pleasently surprised by how well dressed and attractive she looked when he called for her on Saturday night. He was glad he had worn his only suit. During the third of these Saturday night dinners at the Royal in as many weeks, Enid blushed and stammered, "Aunt Rose is going home tomorrow. I could... I mean if you'd like... I could cook dinner at my place next Saturday night. And then..." she blushed again, "And then... if you park your car out of sight behind the house, I could also cook you Sunday breakfast.

As it turned out, it would have been more appropriate to call it Sunday brunch.