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me on the knuckles
for fooling about in her creek. I wait to be dismissed. Glancing
away from her while she makes up her mind what to do about
me, I see a robin sitting on a nearby gate post. It's looking at
me with great interest, as if it too is wondering what to do
with a recalcitrant postwoman.
    After a long pause Eleanor says, with a long-suffering sigh,
'You'd better come in for a cup of tea. You'll catch a chill, else.'
    It is a command not an offer, as is the cup of tea she puts
in front of me. She commands me, like a brusque nanny, to
drink it while it's hot. I'm wet and cold enough to do so gratefully,
looking around at her kitchen as I do so. It is as it should
be: a place for everything, and everything in its place. Eleanor,
whom I address as Miss Gibland of course, makes tea with
loose English Breakfast leaves in a round brown teapot and
doesn't ask if I take milk, just pours it into the cup first from
a blue-and-white striped jug. As we drink our tea she asks me
several pointed questions, such as my marital state, my background
and my origins of birth. She wants to make quite sure
that Susie's relief postie is of the right sort. I answer without
going into too much detail. I am trying hard to be friendly and
pleasant, though it's starting to be something of a struggle.
Though she's drowning me in tea, she hasn't once smiled.
    When I finish my tea she says abruptly, 'Will Susie be back
tomorrow?'
    I assure her that she will. 'Oh thank goodness for that,' she
exclaims, smiling for the first time. It's definitely not a smile
for me, though. She's already standing up, snatching my empty
cup away.
    I leave with a mega sense of failure. The fact that she's
known Susie for eighteen years does nothing to stem the tide
of inadequacy drowning my modest ambition to be a really
good postwoman. I'm just not cut out for this , I think sadly as I
plod back into the rain. Eighteen years, Susie's been a postwoman.
At this point I doubt if I'll stick eighteen days.
    As I climb back into my van and set off, I start musing
about where I was all those years ago. I didn't even know Ben
then, I think as I drive on to the little hamlet down the road.
It's hard to remember how it was before I met him. The way
we met, though, is unforgettable. Not because it was romantic,
but just too bizarre to forget.
    I was in London, on a diploma aromatherapy course. Working
for a cosmetics firm, having learned about the benefits of various
plants and oils not just for cosmetic purposes but also for
therapeutic ones, I wanted to learn how to use them for healing
and massage.
    I'd read the blurb about the course, stating that on the first
day there would be background lectures, theory, history and
so on. This was fine by me and I came dressed accordingly,
wearing a new, casual white tracksuit.
    When I got there I felt relieved that I'd worn something
fairly flattering. The white of the outfit set off the tan I'd
acquired on a recent work related week in Florida. I'd worn
my hair down, as we wouldn't be doing practical work, and it
tumbled around my shoulders, even blonder than usual because
of the sun streaks. There were mostly women on the course,
already waiting when I arrived, and a handful of men.
    One man caught my eye immediately. Dishy but with an
open, intelligent, good-humoured face that I instantly liked.
As if he knew I was looking at him, he turned to me and
smiled.
    I by-passed the others and sat in the chair next to his. 'Hi,
I'm Tessa.'
    'Ben.'
    We eyed each other appraisingly. This was going to be a
good course, I thought.
    All went well until the lunch break, when our tutor
announced that we should choose a partner to do some
practical work in the afternoon. Ben turned to me. 'Can we
work together?'
    I panicked. There was nothing I'd like more but there was
a huge problem. I had nothing on under my track suit bottoms.
Because they were white and fitted snugly, there was a visible
panty line if I wore them, so I did without. How was I