The Candlewatch Bay Lost Post Office

Dear Anna,

Thank you for your application. We are delighted to offer you a position as our Day Postmaster here at the Candlewatch Bay Lost Post Office. Please find your uniform and all necessary paperwork in the package provided. It is wonderful to have you with us.

Sincerely,

The Night Postmaster,

CBLPO

—*—

I must be crazy.

Why else would I be standing in this abandoned post office, in this starched, blue uniform and cap, waiting for a response I know isn’t coming. The stiff newness of the fabric makes me feel insecure. I clutch the red-papered note, creased and worn from endless folding and unfolding.

“Hello?” I call out anyway. Definitely crazy.

The central reception desk is unmanned and relatively bare, save for a single stick of incense in a ceramic holder, its heady smoke wafting lazily from its tip. Dust motes dance on the few stray sunbeams that creep through the wooden shutters. Outside, the waves crashing on the beach sound a thousand miles away. Abandoned isn’t the right word for this place. Consecrated feels more apropos.

“Are you the new postie?”

I squawk as I spin to see a plump, red-faced woman enter, banging the door shut behind her. A bell clangs above, cheerfully breaking the serenity.

The woman’s hair is a wild storm cloud of grey, barely contained under a red scarf, and she is dressed in patchwork overalls. The faint smell of saltwater and diesel follows her in.

“Ah, lass, you’ve got city written all over you!” she guffaws, taking my limp hand in a powerful grip and shaking it so vigorously I fear I might lose my arm.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I wince as I massage my hand, self-consciousness bubbling under my skin. The locals are all a bit like this. Like they’re all in on the joke, and you are always the punchline.

I had arrived in Candlewatch Bay only a week ago in my crumbling white hatchback, my whole life crammed into its sagging boot. I had been desperate for a change when I left the city and my cushy corporate job. Maybe too desperate.

I was right to leave, at least. I was right to leave David and that life I had settled for. I just wasn’t sure that I was right about… this.

Immediately, I’d set about looking for work, never one to feel comfort in being idle. Finding a job in a remote town like this was never going to be easy, but I wasn’t expecting a creepy post office to be my only option. There is only one shop in town — it serves as the petrol station, bakery, grocery store, and internet café. According to the crotchety goat of an old man behind the counter, it didn’t need any more staff.

A strong union of one, I suspect.

That was how I found myself at the town noticeboard, where the only job advertised was for a postmaster at the Lost Post Office. No other details given. No other options available. It was this, or fishing. And I can’t fish for shit.

On Wednesday, I had left my application on this same front desk. Last night, a parcel arrived at my door, uniform folded neatly, the now scrunched acceptance note pinned to its collar. Embroidered on the pocket in gold thread was my name and the letters: CBLPO. It seemed I had got the job.

“Uh, yes, ma’am. I am,” I finally answer her.

Her eyes crinkle as she smiles, freckly cheeks making them almost disappear.

“Good lass, good! You call me Joanie. Can you check if Hugh’s replied to my letter?”

Not wanting to back down from a challenge, no matter how daunting, I give Joanie a weak nod and walk towards the pigeonholes that line the far wall. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

“Call me Joanie,” she chides as she takes a seat on one of the creaking stools near the door.

The shelves are packed with postcards and envelopes in all varieties of colours and paper stock. One side is dedicated to ‘To’, the other ‘From’. Hoping for a miracle, I start my search. Giving a few in the ‘To’ shelves a cursory glance, I find the senders’ details for these seem to originate from all over the world, though all of them are addressed simply in the same fashion: a name and the letters ‘CBLPO’. Just like the embroidery on my jacket. No stamps, either, just a gold imprint of a candle in a circle.

The ‘From’ side is thinner, neater too. These envelopes come only in thick black card. The names are inscribed on the front in delicate gold handwriting; the sender details are all blank, smattered only with a faint silver dust. Their uniformity is odd, compared to the wild variety on the other shelves. On instinct, I assume Joanie’s letter will be amongst these. It can’t hurt to at least look.

I flick through the envelopes under ‘J’ until finally, a card stands out addressed to a Mrs. Joan Burnett.

“Here you go, ma— I mean, Joanie. There are no other ‘Joans’ that I could find, so I hope you’re Mrs. Burnett.”

Hands shaking, she takes it from me, and I’m shocked to see tears in her eyes.

“Th-thank you, lass. It’s been a long time since anyone’s called me Mrs. Burnett,” her voice is husky, a completely different woman from the blustery Joanie who’d bruised my hand not half an hour ago, “I’ll be off now.”

Without much else of a goodbye, she leaves, and I stand in the wake of her departure, more lost and confused than when she’d walked in.

—*—

That evening, I sit on the deck of my rental shack. I like it here, situated up on the headland, just outside of what little town there is. The craggy outlook lets me watch on like the outsider I am, the gentle roar of the sea sounding like conversation I’m not privy to.

The interaction with Joanie had been strange, but the rest of my day had passed without interruption. I had cleaned the office, tidied up the ‘To’ shelves, and tried to find some instructions on what I was supposed to be doing. There was only a note written in the same neat handwriting as on the ‘From’ envelopes and the red note still stuffed in my jacket pocket.

When the living come seeking their letters, give them their closure as best you can.

When new letters arrive that seem undeliverable, sort them accordingly and I will find them a home.

Always keep the tea brewing.

It’s very clear that this post office is no ordinary delivery service, but where do the black envelopes come from? Where do the others, sent with such love, and in some cases, from so far away, end up?

As the sun dips further below the horizon, my thoughts wander, as they always do in quiet moments, down the well-worn path back to Rue. My only reason for being here.

There isn’t much in Candlewatch Bay. Just a lot of fisherfolk with sunburnt cheeks. Rue had found it in some obscure travel guide once, a long time ago. She loved the idea of visiting remote places like this together when we were old enough.

We never made it here together, in the end. She had never got the chance. A semi-trailer made sure of that.

But Candlewatch Bay had stuck with me, like an echo of her. I’d lie awake at night, imagining sea salt on my tongue, wondering where life could have taken us. I guess I had come here looking for the part of me that she took with her. Not that I’d needed much of an excuse after seeing the ring box in David’s tie drawer.

I’d never been good with confrontation. Running off to Candlewatch Bay just seemed like the easier option. I should feel bad, but I don’t.

Down in the bay, I can see the little lights flickering on, the fisherfolk on the beach bringing in the day’s haul like little ants dismantling their prey.

It’s peaceful.

It’s lonely.

In the city, it’s hard to miss someone. The frenetic bustle of life around you drowns out the ache. Out here, the spaces they leave feel so much bigger. You feel so much smaller.

A cold breeze sends a shiver down my spine, and for a moment, I think I smell vanilla. Just like the perfume Rue used to wear. I shiver again, trying to shake her from my senses like cobwebs.

As I head to bed, that sweet vanilla is all around me, and I swear I hear Rue calling my name on the wind.

My sleep is painfully dreamless.

—*—

Joanie is back in the post office, clasping my hand in hers.

“Thank you, for helping my Hugh send me those words. You have no idea what it meant to me.”

She’s brought in a fresh basket of eggs and some lemons from her garden. I try not to be embarrassed by this outpouring of gratitude.

“Don’t thank me, Joanie, I barely know what I’m doing,” I say, but she only bats at me with her other hand as if I’m being ridiculous.

“It might seem nothin’ to you, lass, but folks come from all over for a chance to get one of these letters. You do ‘em all a service.”

She pauses here and again seems overcome with emotion. Alarmed, I guide her down onto the same stool she sat on yesterday as she breaks out into heaving sobs. I gently pat her back, unsure of how to proceed.

After a few hiccups, she continues with some effort, “My Hugh was lost at sea some months ago. Not uncommon ‘round these parts ‘course. We were happy for a long time. Childhood sweethearts ‘nd all. But a bad storm took him away, and…” she pauses, overcome with her grief, “Us ‘ere in the Bay, we all know what the Lost Post Office does. All the undeliverable mail, all those unspoken words… they get sent ‘ere. And somehow, they find their destination. So, I sent a letter, to say goodbye to my Hugh. Tell ‘im I love ‘im one last time,” she snuffles into a large, pink handkerchief.

I’m mystified. This woman, who seems so capable and earnest, is talking absolute nonsense. Letters to her dead husband? Surely this is just a grieving widow having a nervous breakdown. Not wanting to make her feel unwelcome though, I offer her a warm cup of tea from the break room.

It takes some time before Joanie seems ready to leave. We sit and drink tea, as I make reassuring murmurs, and she tells me about Hugh. She gives me a bone crushing hug and promises to stop by again soon.

Before she leaves, she turns to me, and says, conspiratorially, “Most of the time, people are just glad to have someone to talk to, y’know. You’ll do just fine.”

I watch as she ambles further into town, a new spring in her step and wonder if it’s all true.

As the sun burns down over the horizon, I pack my things to leave for the day, and place a simple, white envelope on the front desk, stamped and ready for the night postmaster to sort:

To: Rue

CBLPO

—*—

My Rue,

I love you.

Your Anna

The Day Postmaster

—*—

I pace in my dark living room, nursing a neat whisky, the amber liquid sending honeyed courage down my throat as I sip.

I don’t know why I’m on edge. If I’m wrong, then the letter will simply be where I left it. By morning it will just be a silly fantasy, a misunderstanding.

But if I’m right…

As if responding to my shy faith, that warm-sweet scent of vanilla wafts in the air once more. My eyes dart to my door, the porch light shining through like a beacon on a cliff.

A pause, and then, a knock.

Maybe it’s the booze, but my weightlessness feels more like joy as I rush to rip the door open.

Rue.

Her long dark hair wafts in the breeze, and I lean into that sweet scent of my adolescence. My beautiful Rue, her beaming grin with the uneven teeth and slightly chapped lips. Her button nose and dark brown skin. Her big, wide eyes looking at me like not a day has passed since she died.

I stumble as I reach for her. She giggles as she catches me, grasps my face, studies every part where I have aged and she has not. Her touch is not warm. It’s cool, like peppermint. I shiver.

“I wish I had said it. I wish I had had time. I thought I’d never get a chance to tell you,” I whisper, tears blurring my sight.

“I love you too.” My heart aches to hear her voice again.

We don’t have enough time to talk.

But I do not need words for what I want to convey.

We collide, like the waves crashing onto the beach below. I kiss her like it might keep her on my shores forever, futile as it is. She laughs as she kisses me back, her tears tasting like the sea.

“I love you, I always will,” I whisper as we finally separate.

She is my longest held breath.

I held her because the thought of breathing without her seemed impossible.

But gazing into those sweet brown eyes, my burning lungs relax, finally allowed to exhale. To take that next breath.

And like a sigh, she is gone.

I feel the loss of her cooling touch receding from my whiskey-warmed skin, but I am lighter than I have felt in years.

I am unsurprised to see the Night Postmaster watching from the fence line. He’s an elderly gentleman wearing the blue Post office uniform, a kind, sun-browned face beaming from under his postman’s hat. He waves at me.

“Thank you,” I call, as I wave back.

Job done, he turns away, and the edges of his silhouette shimmer like a mirage.

Like Rue, he disappears between blinks and is gone on the wind.

I close the door and recede into the warmth of my home.

—*—

As the sun rises on another shift, I settle in at my desk, patiently waiting for my next customer. They may come today, they may come in a few months, years, even. When they do, they will bring their grief, their unsaid things, their burdens, and look for somewhere to set them down.

Just like I did.

I look around at this small office, at the shelves of letters between the living and the dead. There is so much sorrow and longing, but more than anything else, love. Love that has nowhere else to go, but here.

The bell above the door jingles, and I look up, a smile and a cup of tea ready.