“I’m off,” shouted Penny, heading for the door. Her mother was at home again today. She’d been having horrible problems with her varicose veins—standing up doling out big scoops of cabbage, and nowadays chicken twizzlers, to ungrateful schoolchildren for nearly thirty years had pretty much done for her legs. Making it through to Friday tended to be a bit on the tricky side.
“Penny?” shouted her mother as Penny slunk past the sitting-room door. Fat and florid, she lay with her feet higher than her head, and an enormous flask of tea—made by Lizzie—by her side. “Where were you last night?”
“Why?” said Penny sulkily. For goodness’ sake, she was twenty-seven, not fourteen. “I went to Paris to visit Kylie Minogue.”
“Well, could you let me know when you’re going to be so late? I worry about you, you know.”
“Well, you should stop, I pay housekeeping, don’t I?”
“Not very bloody much,” said her mother. “Wouldn’t keep a mouse in cheese.”
Penny rolled her eyes. “I’m running my own life, OK?”
“Just a bit of consideration, darling. That’s all I ask for.”
Penny heaved a sigh. She and her mother had been having this argument for ten years. “What are you watching?”
“The 1979 RSC Macbeth,” said her mum. “Ian McKellen and Judi Dench. One of the best ever.”
“Right. God, that crap is so boring. Do you want me to bring you back some salad?”
Her mother’s face brightened. “Oh, go on then, sweetheart. And what about some potato wedges? And some of the fried chicken?”
“Mum! It’s horrible! I’ve told you where it’s from! It’s not even all real chicken! And the doctor told you to lose weight.”
“I know,” said her mother, looking slightly ashamed. “But it tastes so good.”
Penny tutted, and left the house.
Lizzie marched into work in an even worse mood than usual for a wet Thursday morning.
Stamp importing wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind when, after a school career of almost total mediocrity spent entirely in the shadow of her misbehaving sibling, she’d landed a proper office job in Brandford—and she hadn’t planned to be there for ten years either, but it was undemanding as jobs go—processing stamp orders from overseas. She’d made a friend, Grainne, who controlled reception and the import desk.
Grainne’s hobbies were cats and crisps. It was an undemanding friendship. But it was nice, for once, not to be the shy one, especially when she’d been the one with a boyfriend for a change too. Felix had been tall and slim and handsome, and Lizzie couldn’t believe her luck when she pulled him at an awful party Penny had dragged her to one night. It had taken her six months to realize he was actually as dumb as a stone box full of rocks. Lizzie had thought he was just amenable. His constant mumbled “Whatever you like” to films, TV, and sex had eventually grown tiring, even for Lizzie, for whom the novelty of a real live boyfriend was something that took a while to wear off. And she missed having something to talk to Grainne about; now they were back to pussies and Pringles.
“Nice evening?” said Grainne as she walked in.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Why haven’t you washed your hair? Were you out with a new man?” Grainne lived in fear of Lizzie getting a boyfriend and leaving her.
Lizzie slung her bag in the corner of her desk. It had taken her ages to get back to sleep again when Penny had bowled off to bed, and she felt fuzzy and out of focus.
“No,” said Lizzie. “How’s your cat? Bought her any new outfits?”
“Miss Friss is fine, thanks,” said Grainne. “And she likes getting herself dressed up, don’t you, sweetie?” She was addressing this to one of the photos.
“Are you sure it isn’t a bit cruel to put animals in hats?”
“Oh, I think they’re adorable,” said Grainne. “And Miss Friss loves her little bonnet. She told me.”
The reception phone rang.
“That’s her now,” said Lizzie. “All the mice are laughing at her and she wants to know what to do.” On seeing Grainne’s face she immediately regretted it.
“Actually, it’s Mr. Boakle,” said Grainne. “He wants to see you.”
Lizzie flinched. Why was the boss asking to see her? She had a horror of getting into trouble; she’d spent so much time trailing after Penny into the headteacher’s office. “You’ve got to look after your sister.” She could hear her mother’s voice again. “We’re all she’s got.”
Lizzie sidled into the back office, which was dark, chilly, and piled up with files of colorful stamp samples from around the world.
Mr. Boakle looked at her. “Ah. Yes. Ah, Lizzie, isn’t it?”
Given that she’d worked there for ten years, maybe it would have been nice if he occasionally remembered her name. No matter. She blushed anyway. Lizzie hated her tendency to blush, especially at times like this when really someone else should be embarrassed, surely.
“Take a seat. You may have noticed that it’s been pretty quiet around here recently.”
“Uh.” Actually, it always seemed quiet, but now she thought about it, yes, for the past few months Grainne really had been spending a lot of time knitting Miss Friss a Santa Claws outfit.
“People just aren’t using too many stamps anymore,” said Mr. Boakle sadly. “So they don’t collect them, see. There’s some new invention—can’t quite figure it out myself—called EU mail.”
“EU mail?”
“Yes, you know. Something to do with joining the Common Market, probably.”
“You mean email,” Lizzie ventured. “The thing that’s been around for years.”
“Something like that. Anyway, whatever the bloody thing is called, it’s cutting down on people writing letters something terrible. Sounds like a dreadful thing.”
“How it works is, you type in a letter, then you send it for free and the other person receives it instantaneously. For free,” said Lizzie.
Mr. Boakle paused. “Really? That sounds fantastic.”
“It is,” said Lizzie.
“Hmm,” said Mr. Boakle. “Hmm. That’s not good at all. Do you get many letters?”
“Do council tax summonses count?”
“Those damned franking machines,” said Mr. Boakle, his face going red. “Worst invention ever.”
“Until email,” said Lizzie meekly.
“Well. Anyway, that doesn’t matter because frankly the world of post has gone to hell in a handbasket and as a result I’ve got to lose a member of staff.”
Lizzie suddenly had a horrible vision of herself in a dinner ladies’ uniform and closed her eyes tightly to get rid of it. She couldn’t lose this job. Please no.
“Oh, please,” she said. She’d always thought being quiet and dependable, they wouldn’t mind her staying there . . . but now. What would she do? Well, she hadn’t thought that far ahead. But she couldn’t do what Penny did, shouting at drunks and hollering across hen parties asking who’d ordered the double portion of ribs. But without any qualifications . . .