Jacob is lonely and a loner, until events conspire to change his circumstances. A brand new story on Anecdotage for you today…

              The postcard has been on Jacob Cunningham’s shelf for almost ten hours; and for at least two of those hours Jacob has sat and frowned at it, the remaining hours having been occupied by work, sleep, travelling to and from work and shoving a ready meal into the microwave oven. Jacob is not one to prepare elaborate meals, having only himself to feed and care for, so he rises from his armchair, takes his eyes off the postcard just for the time it takes to heat the meal and returns with the plastic tray and a fork to his chair, cutting down the time and effort involved in taking a plate from the drawer and having to wash it up afterwards. It’s a meagre life, almost monastic in its austerity.

              While he chews, Jacob revisits all the thoughts and ideas he’s had so far about the postcard, which is handwritten and unsigned. First of all, could it be from a friend? Jacob ties his brows into a perplexed knot as he considers this. The problem, as far as he sees it, is that he has no friends, or at least nobody who fits into the friend category. He does, of course have colleagues, if you count his line manager at the Co-op and the two check-out staff, Olek and Sue, who greet him when he arrives and bid him goodbye if they catch him leaving. No one at the Co-op, however, would be likely to send him a postcard, would they? And no one knows his address, except perhaps for Big Beryl, his manager, who interviewed him for his role as warehouseman and shelf-stacker. The idea of Big Beryl sending him anything, least of all a postcard is beyond Jacob’s imagination. In any case, she isn’t on holiday and when she has been on leave, she’s returned to work in an even worse humour than usual, having spent her time caring for her unruly grandchildren, not be-sporting herself on a sun-drenched beach in the South of France.

              Jacob plucks the card from the shelf and inspects it again. The photo is of the beachfront at Nice, a curving bay of creamy sand decorated with palm trees and fringed by pastel coloured apartment blocks, the balconies all facing out to an azure sea. The entire scene is bathed in sunlight and Jacob can make out figures walking along the path between the sand and the road, the Promenade des Anglais, as the caption informs him. He’s read it countless times. He flips it over, stares at the stamp, a rectangle with a turquoise, monochrome image of a young woman in profile. She’s wearing a cap and has long, flowing curls escaping from underneath it. The postmark is from three days ago.

              He appraises the handwriting. It’s elegant and curving in an old-fashioned way that is seldom seen these days. He thinks. You seldom see any handwriting at all these days. In fact, you seldom see postcards. No one writes, not letters, not postcards and rarely greetings cards. It’s unusual to receive anything handwritten.

              His next thought is of family members. Neither of Jacob’s parents is alive and he was an only child, much loved- even doted on, by his mother and father. He doesn’t know why he had no siblings but suspects it was more for economic reasons than anything else. His Dad was a skilled man, a tool-maker, but spent the whole of his working life on the same factory floor without ever achieving a promotion like line manager. His mother had worked in a care home, loving the work but receiving little remuneration. They’d been proud people, though, his parents, and kept the small, terraced, two -bedroom house they’d worked to buy spotless and tidy. Jacob closes his eyes. Thank God they weren’t around to see how little he’s made of his life, how he struggles to just about cover the rent on his housing association, one bedroom box of a flat and works as a dogsbody in a supermarket.

              For a moment, he allows the idea that the postcard is from his son, Lee to drift into his mind. How old is Lee now? Early twenties? Mid-twenties? Where is he, even?  The thought that a child of his could be holidaying in such a place, a place for rich, privileged, classy people fills Jacob with a warm, proud glow, before his imagination hits the brick wall of reality. Of course, Lee isn’t rich, privileged and classy; far from it. Lee will have been as lost to life as Jacob is himself, following Jenny’s death. He takes a quick, inward breath when he thinks the words, ‘Jenny’s death’. It isn’t something he often allows himself to dwell on. He wishes it were different, that he’d tried harder with Lee, but then his own, fragile, mental state had been like a raw wound, exposed and ugly as if anyone could see it and recoil from it.

              If only he’d tried harder with Lee when there had been two parents. Jenny was a natural mother, dealing with all the trials and tribulations of parenthood like she was born to it and delighting in all the joys, too, whereas he himself had been at a loss even before she went, never slotting into life as a dad, with all the pleasures that other fathers and sons seem to share- no football games in the back yard, no mock wrestling, no fishing trips or scoffing popcorn in front of the TV. It’s painful to recall how stiff and uncomfortable he’d been as a dad. No wonder Lee had left home as soon as he was able, vacating the house while Jacob was at work, leaving nothing to indicate his whereabouts and not answering any calls. He’d been sixteen then. Jacob had spent many sleepless nights wondering and worrying and feeling he ‘d let Jenny down. The police response had been, at best, lacklustre; too many teenage runaways to deal with, they said. If the boy wanted to disappear then he would.

              None of this is shedding any light on the mystery of the postcard. He reads the message again:

Hi there!

Sun, sea, palm trees, French cuisine and all the vin you could want! This place is formidable! I should have done this Europe trip years ago! You should try it, Jacob. It’s true what they say about travel broadening the mind! Leaving tomorrow for Italy. Watch this space! xxx

‘Watch this space?’ What does that mean?

Jacob doesn’t have too long to consider what the words mean. Four days later there’s another postcard waiting on the mat when he returns from work. He stares down at it, at the shiny surface of the photo, pausing and frowning at it before placing his carrier bag with a ready meal and one can of beer on to the floor. He reaches down and plucks it from the mat. This time the photo is of a cluster of yellow and ochre buildings terraced above the sea, the lowest and nearest building looking like a café or bar with white parasols outside. In the foreground there is a row of white boats pulled up on what looks like a road; in the middle distance a greyish beach. He continues to inspect the scene as he picks up the bag and pads the few steps into his tiny kitchenette and slumps down on to his one dining chair. ‘Genoa town beach’ proclaims the caption under the picture, and at the top of the beach he can just make out a restaurant with outside tables bathed in the golden, evening light, tiny figures seated around one. He imagines the scene. They’ll be eating pasta and drinking wine, those people.

At work next day, Jacob withdraws the cards from his back pocket and perches on a palette in the yard. He’s studying them when Sue emerges from the delivery entrance and wanders over to join him.

‘Alright Jacob?’

He nods, glancing up at her then back at the Italian post card.

‘That looks nice. I wouldn’t mind being there now, would you?’

Jacob looks sideways at her as she sinks down beside him on the palette. She nods at the cards in his hand. ‘Well, some bugger’s having a good time, eh? Is it a family member?’

He frowns, shakes his head. ‘Tell you the truth; I don’t know who it is.’ He pauses, searching for the words, unused to conversation. ‘I’ve received these two postcards but they aren’t signed and I don’t know who sent them.’

Sue leans forward, eyes wide. ‘Oooh! I love a mystery, me! Who do you think it might be? Who do you know that travels a bit? Could be a youngster, I should think. What’s the handwriting like?’

He turns the cards over to display the neat, curving script. ‘Maybe not a young person, then’ she suggests, peering at the writing. ‘And look, there’s no surname in the address side.’

Jacob sighs. It feels different, sitting out here with another person. He’s used to taking breaks alone, looking at his phone and sipping from his thermos cup but having Sue’s substantial, interested presence feels soothing somehow and when Big Beryl appears in the doorway to give them both a pointed stare, he feels disappointed that his break is over.

Over the next couple of days Sue asks if he’s any nearer to finding the sender of the cards, then on the day before his day off, while they are outside sharing a break he finds himself having a proper conversation with her, telling her things he’s never shared with anyone- stuff about Jenny and about Lee. He feels like a tap in his head has been undone and some of the pressure released.

‘So you don’t reckon the postcards are from him then, Jacob? From Lee?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, no. I don’t know how he’d have got the money to travel like that. And I think he’d write ‘Dad’, not Jacob.’

On his way out, shrugging into his jacket and picking up his carrier bag of groceries, Sue stops him. ‘What are you doing with your day off? Got any plans?’

He pauses, scratches his head. ‘Bit of cleaning, washing- stuff like that.’

She grins. ‘Not much fun!’

He shrugs. Fun doesn’t figure too much in his life these days. Sue persists. ‘If you don’t have much planned, you’re welcome to join our walking group. We go out most Sundays. It’s not too strenuous and they’re a friendly enough bunch. The more the merrier!’ She tells him where and when the group meets but that there’s no obligation, if he doesn’t fancy going.

              That evening he rummages in the bottom of his narrow wardrobe until he finds a battered, shabby pair of trainers, trying them on before placing them ready by his bed. In the kitchen bin there’s an old plastic bottle which he rinses and puts on the draining board ready to be filled with water. He sleeps a deep, dreamless sleep, untroubled by postcards or anything else.

              He’s up in good time, out on the landing locking his door as his neighbour two doors along steps outside. They nod to each other, the extent of their contact to date since Jacob moved in five years ago. He knows there’s a family there, West Indian, two young children- but hasn’t spoken, having not progressed beyond the nodding stage. Now the young man calls to him.

              ‘Morning!’

              Jacob looks up, startled, then rallies. ‘Yes- morning to you, too’ The neighbour approaches as he’s putting his key away.

‘Can I ask you something?’

Flustered, he drops his water bottle then straightens. ‘Er, yes, yes ok.’

‘Have you had any post that wasn’t addressed to you? You know- with someone else’s name on?’

Jacob shakes his head. ‘All my post has my name on’ he says. ‘Sorry- I must dash. I have to be somewhere.’

As he walks down the stairs, the novelty of having to be somewhere swells inside him like a malt whisky. Down in the square he spots Sue milling about among a small group dressed for walking in cagoules and hiking boots and he’s conscious of his scruffy trainers and cheap windcheater jacket. But Sue grins when she sees him, drawing him in and introducing him, although he’s taken aback when she says ‘and this is my partner Raj’.

They set off along the street towards the outskirts of town, Jacob finding himself walking alongside Raj, who engages him in easy conversation. During lulls he wonders if he’d begun to think of Sue romantically and decides he hadn’t, not really; he’d been seduced by her warmth and friendship. Now she’d been generous enough to share her friends with him too. He’s a lucky man.

He’s unused to walking but after a mile or so he finds a rhythm and a stride then he and Raj settle into a companionable silence that enables him to take in his surroundings while his mind meanders into a journey of its own. They’ve got out into the lanes now and are heading towards a village pub where they’ll get lunch- ‘a ploughman’s’, Sue had explained the day before. He settles in the garden at a table with Raj, Sue and a couple of the others. Raj is solicitous, including him in the conversation and asking his opinion.

It’s only when he gets home that he realises how tired he is, sinking into his armchair and kicking off the trainers before closing his eyes. When he opens them it’s late and the first thing he sees are the two postcards, confronting him as if he’s abandoned them for the day, which of course, he has. He spent an entire day without thinking about them- or about Jenny or Lee.

Sitting with Sue on the palette on Monday morning he confesses he’s sore and stiff.

‘But did you enjoy it, Jacob? Will you be coming next time?’

He nods. ‘But I might go and have a look at some proper hiking boots at lunch time though.’

‘Had any more of those postcards yet?’

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out this morning’s arrival. The mystery sender is in Rome, the card a picture of the Coliseum.

Sue takes the card. ‘Wow!’ She gazes at it. ‘Have you travelled much, Jacob?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not much out of the country, no. We went to Devon once, when Lee was little. Stayed in a caravan. It rained a lot so we felt a bit cooped up, you know.’

Next morning, as he’s exiting the flat, his neighbour appears, a rucksack on his shoulders, says ‘Morning’ and strides away down the landing. A young woman, presumably his wife, hangs out of the doorway holding a Tupperware box.

‘Jacob! Jacob!’ she hollers as he disappears down the stairs.

Jacob? Jacob frowns, then dashes along to the stairwell and calls,

‘Hey mate, mate!’

Below him the dark head of his neighbour turns up towards him.

‘I think you’ve forgotten your lunch’.

The other Jacob grins and leaps back up, taking two steps at a time. He runs back, grabs the box and dashes for the stairs, calling ‘Cheers’ as he passes Jacob.

He re-enters his flat and collects the postcards before knocking on the neighbours’ door. When the woman opens it, she’s all prepared to go out, with a toddler in a stroller and another standing in a coat.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he begins, ‘I have a feeling these are your husband’s postcards. You see, I’m called Jacob, too.’

Outside on the palette, he tells Sue of the development. ‘Goodness! What are the odds of having two Jacobs within two doors of each other, do you think?’

Jacob remembers the young woman, Tara’s face as he thrust the misplaced cards at her; remembers her delighted smile and tinkling laughter, the wide eyes of the toddlers on him as he stood in the doorway.

‘Are you up for next Sunday’s walk?’ Sue asks him, ‘we’re going over the downs, weather permitting of course’.

‘Yes. I’ll be trying out my new boots’ Jacob lifts up his feet to display the brand, new hiking boots he’s been wearing to work to get accustomed to, on Sue’s advice.

Later he plods along the landing towards his flat and spots something on the floor by his door. It’s a bottle of red wine and an envelope. He carries the items inside before sitting down and opening it.

‘For our neighbour and friend, Jacob’  it says, ‘to thank you for finding our lost post’

He stares at the card for a long time. At last he stands and places it with almost reverend care on the shelf where the postcards used to sit, then he removes his walking boots and pads into the kitchenette, taking a plate, knife and fork from the cupboard and setting them on the tiny, formica table before placing his meal in the microwave oven.

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/