Joan loved waiting for the
post.
She
sat on her chair in the kitchen – the chair that gave her a view of the street
– so that she could see the postman trudging up the road, laden down with
letters, bills, parcels, birthday cards. She could see who got what and when.
She could imagine their reactions, and it made her smile.
It
was, she realised, the highlight of her day.
The
post came slip-sliding through the letterbox, landing with a hopeful, happy
smack on the mat that sat behind the front door. Joan, ninety years old, alone
and bored, stood with a grunt, the effort of leaving the hard pine chair
lessened only by the thought that she now had something to do.
Joan
shuffled onwards, through the hallway and to the door. Then she bent, her back
aching and creaking, to retrieve her mail. Shiny envelopes that she knew were
filled with rubbish; pre-approved credit cards (that required her to fill in a
form and send off for that approval), pizza menus, curry menus, Thai and
Chinese, and, of course, the letter that she and hundreds of other people had
received, telling her that she had definitely, absolutely, positively won a huge sum of money.
That
was it.
That
was all.
That
was more than enough.
Joan
gathered everything up with only the slightest twinge now, her interest in what
might have arrived in her home blocking anything else out. She returned to the
kitchen, slumped back into the chair, and spread the junk mail out on the
table. She poured herself a cup of tea from the pot and cut a slice of cake.
It was
time. Finally. The postman had been a little late today, fifteen minutes, and
Joan had almost, almost, had a sneaky
slice of the jam and cream filled sponge. She had almost, almost, had half a cup of tea. But now she was glad she had waited.
It was
worth it.
Joan
always opened the post, whatever it was. Every envelope, even the ones addressed
to The Homeowner. And then, when they
were all open, when everything was spread out on the table, Joan filled in the
forms.
A free
trial of a hearing aid… That was a good one. The form was only short, but the
hearing aid looked like quality. She carefully printed the details, a black
block letter in each tiny box. She checked it over once, twice, three times,
and then sealed it safely in the pre-paid envelope. Next was a subscription to
a book club, and there was an offer of two free books as well (assuming more
were bought within a certain period, of course, of course, nothing was ever really free). That form was longer, with
lots of details asked for so that the people behind the books could work out
which offers to send out, how to get the most money from their ‘customers’.
And so
it went on. Life insurance, pet insurance, car insurance… Credit cards and
holiday offer DVDs… Requests for brochures on curtains, carpets, whole house
cleans…
Joan
particularly enjoyed finding the fake cheques made out to her for ridiculous
sums. She kept all of them. She added up the total and kept it in a little
notebook, carried with her always. Her will, she called it. And she teased her
family – the ones who never visited, who never called, who never even sent a
letter – with the promise of money when she was gone. Oh, there was money, all
right. Millions by now. But it was all pretend, just like their love for her.
She often thought it was a shame that she wouldn’t be around to see their
faces, her children, grandchildren, even the great-grandchildren, when they
realised what fools she had made of them.
She
pulled her coat on and popped all of the neatly filled in forms into her bag.
Now to post them. Then she could sit back and wait. And laugh. In a few days’
time, the postman would be weighed down with packages. A free hearing aid (free
until the bill came) for Mia, the girl next door who played her music so, so
loudly. A curtain catalogue for old Mrs Jenkins across the road who loved to
watch the street with her beady little eyes. Details on car insurance for the
silly boy who so enjoyed whizzing up and down the street in his old banger.
Joan
loved waiting for the post.
