Free Kisses on a Postcard by Terence Frisby

Sunday. But the errand was sometimes forgotten on a busy Saturday and disappointment stared us in the face on Sunday morning. On one such morning Auntie Rose cannily sent me alone on what looked like a pointless mission.
    Acting on instructions I said, ‘Sorry, Miss Polmanor, but Uncle Jack was working on the line yesterday, war work. Auntie Rose was ill in bed and Jack and I were at choir practice. Could you let us have a bottle of pop, please?’
    ‘I can’t sell you anything on a Sunday,’ she said in the shocked tones of one who was appalled at even being asked. ‘Mr and Mrs Phillips know that.’ She was one of the few who did not call them Auntie Rose and Uncle Jack. ‘’Tis against the Scriptures. I’m surprised at them sending you.’
    Somehow I had the wit to say, ‘Oh, but they didn’t, Miss Polmanor. I thought it by myself. I thought you might make an exception.’
    She must have liked that because I saw a rare faint smile on her face and she sounded more gentle. ‘ ’Tisn’t for me to make exceptions, young man. ‘’Tis for God. Be you worth an exception?’
    I couldn’t handle the problem of thinking how God might make an exception for me, so gave up. ‘Sorry to bother you, Miss Polmanor.’ I turned away, looking into a Corona-less Sunday lunch.
    ‘Just a minute, young man. Did you say that you were at choir practice?’
    I was too honest by far, bearing in mind her Wesleyan faith. ‘Yes, Miss Polmanor. But it was Church of England choir practice, at St Peter’s, not at Mr Buckroyd’s.’
    ‘That don’t matter, boy. You was doing God’s will as you saw it.’
    Is that what I was doing, I thought to myself.
    ‘I can’t sell you anything on a Sunday. That’s for sure. But, if you’re very good, I could give you a bottle to take with you and you could pay me tomorrow.’
    I can’t remember what I said, if anything.
    ‘Not a word to anyone, mind, or my life will be a misery.’
    I wasn’t foolish enough to respond to that with a clever remark or old enough to have even thought of one. I stood, respectfully hopeful.
    ‘And only because you was singing to the glory of God. This is just between you, me and Him.’ She gestured upwards. ‘Promise?’
    I did so fervently.
    ‘And will you be good if I do?’
    Another ardent assurance. She certainly demanded her pound of flesh on His behalf.
    ‘There you are, then. And give thanks to God when you drink it.’
    I took it, thanked her and God and ran for it.
    Of course, the minute I was home Auntie Rose had to know how I had drawn ginger beer from that particular stone. When I told her she quietly smiled and I was made to promise to take the money straight after school. Uncle Jack’s eyes lit up when he heard the story. ‘A chink in God’s armour,’ he laughed. ‘Who would’ve thought it.’
    Unfortunately this led to a further intimacy: when I took the money she asked me in. Her house was more old-fashioned than anything I had seen, packed with bric-à-brac, mementoes, religious texts and biblical pictures. There was one item that stood centre on the sideboard that was unmissable: a silver-framed photo of a man. It was turned into a modest shrine, standing on a little tapestry with candlesticks on either side.
    ‘He was a saint,’ said Miss Polmanor, as she saw me look at him. ‘He died abroad for me and Jesus and now I live for both of them. That’s my vocation, willed on me by God.’
    The man just looked ordinary to me, someone from another age. I don’t even remember feeling curious. Realising that I was some sort of favourite, Auntie Rose usually saw that Jack was working on our vegetable patch in the garden with Uncle Jack, something Jack enjoyed and I didn’t, and sent me to buy the Corona on my own. I think she did it as a kindness – to Miss Polmanor, not to me. Objections from me were overridden: it became my job. Miss Polmanor gave me texts and talks and even the occasional glass of Corona along with oblique