Januariad

Elizabeth sits stately at the post office counter, receiving one by one the visiting townspeople. Her voice adjusts minutely for each the caller and their business. Not her accent nor her pitch—her lilt and timbre are powerfully local—but for those who need it she provides a bone to gnaw, still others get a hard word, and others just a postage stamp.

Elizabeth is the young, soft-eyed lord of all who present at the glass. Judges and barristers from the courts, locals from the flats, clenching shadows from the clinic down the road. Their desires are as varied as themselves. Envelopes, both full and empty. Parcels awkwardly shifted through the hole in the window. Forms to fill, forms to file. Who to approach, who to avoid. Everyone in search of reassurance and wit, and both are amply given. She inhabits without representing, siding with all complaints, nodding dismissively towards the office around her as if she were not currently its only occupier. ‘I agree! It’s terrible. Shocking.’

Watch her, without weight or condescension, persuade a destitute to overcome his anxiety and accept the ‘flu jab. The opening of this exchange is loose and conversational, but it ends with gentle pointedness. He leaves in the direction the surgery. To the next in line she sells a book of international stamps with the same grin and the same soft crinkle around her eyes.