She was about the age you’d be now. It’s how I noticed her. That cold December morning on Raven Row, where the rough-sleepers bed down behind the sorting office. Sixteen years a postie, clocking faces every day — and hers stood out.
Something about the way she held her head — reminded me.
She caught me looking, jumped out of her sleeping bag, came straight at me. But not the usual begging routine. She pulled a red crisp packet from her pocket, worked her hand inside. Suddenly a Santa puppet.
“A fiver for Santa?”
I side-stepped. “No cash.”
She matched me. “What, no Johnny Cash?”
I smiled and raised a hand. “Stop.”
“Zip,” she mimed. “Stopped.”
She turned to the rough-sleepers and grinned.
“What's your name?” I said.
“Beckie. What’s yours?”
“I'm Dan.”
“Dan, Dan, the postie man.” She did a little dance. Tried to get me to join in.
“Listen,” I said, “I knock off around two. Could take you for a sandwich — or something hot?”
“Buy me a meal?” She turned away. “Buy you a feel more like.” Then spun back, pointing a finger. “Alright, I'll hold you to that.”
Back with her mates, she was watching me still. Her brow knit tight. As I imagine yours would be.
Head down, I press on to work. Pause for breath by a clothes bank.
It started with your clothes. And then your bottles, your blankets, your cot — anything you'd touched. And then newspapers, magazines — all about babies who didn't last.
I like being a postie. It suits me. All that exercise. The early mornings. The stillness. Up and out before everyone else, and home before anyone’s noticed. Just me and my cart. Always on the move. People saying hello, but I can't stop to chat. Letters to deliver. Ready-made excuses.
I knock doors, hoping they're not answered, take signatures I can't read, and eavesdrop in doorways — waiting. And then there’s talking to you.
On the estate I ring a doorbell, package in hand. From inside:
“…of course I care for him.”
“…more than me?”
“…it’s not a competition.”
The door yanks open, a hand snatches the package, door slams shut. No acknowledgement. Argument continues. I move on.
A sun lounger lies by a skip in the park. Rusting, back slashed, facing a wall. Bare trees. Frost on the grass.
Young guy on a doormat staring at a phone. He looks up and points at the parcel under my arm. ‘That’s mine.’ Tracking it to the last step. He tears it open — looks disappointed.
Black cat in a window — licking. Looks at me — and yawns. I move on. A wind chime catches the light. Stops me dead, blinking. I knock. Leave a card. Move on.
A magpie flies by and winks. One for sorrow. I walk on by. One door hardly opens. Hallway stacked high with boxes. The woman jokes about online shopping. I smile, say nothing.
No one told us how to be. Your mum and me. We were kids when we met. Not much older when we had you.
After work, I pass Raven Row. A few rough sleepers. But no Beckie.
Returning home, around two-thirty, I close the door on everything. I don’t want for much in my modest two-bed. Room to spare.
I make tea. Breathe while it brews. Pour a mug — milk, two sugars — and stand by the window. I was a twitcher as a kid and know the birds by name. You wouldn't believe what I've seen from my window in Whitechapel. Jays, goldfinches, even a peregrine. And always a robin.
I don’t bother much with Christmas — or decorations. But I like other people’s — the trouble they go to. For years, the flat opposite had a rope ladder slung over the balcony. With Santa climbing up — or down. Delivering presents — or nicking off with them? I never could tell.
Light was fading into mist. Street lights haloed. A robin was singing. Soon we’d be past mid-winter. Days’d get lighter. Then snowdrops and crocuses. I pulled the curtains and turned on a reading lamp.
“Does your mum know?” I said.
Beckie’s brow furrowed.
“Nah. Don’t care,” she said, attacking a full English.
“She might.”
“Only one thing she cared about: gear. Where to get it.”
I looked at my shoes.
“D’you have kids?” she said.
"I did,” I said. “Briefly.”
It was three days later. I’d kept an eye out and seen her that frosty morning. When I passed again about half two, she was standing, waiting.
“Public place,” I’d said. “You choose.”
And of course, she’d chosen the one caff all the posties go to.
We didn't talk much. Ordered. Sat. Waited.
She was halfway through her apple pie, when Ken — a postie I know — walked in. He saw us and came to sit next to me.
“Budge up.”
I shuffled along. He sat — and squinted at Beckie. She carried on eating.
“She’s definitely got your eyes, mate.” He laughed, pleased with himself.
Beckie drained her tea, wiped her mouth.
“I’m done. Can we go?”
I went to stand. Ken stopped me.
“Sit down. It’s sleeting out.”
It was. Beckie looked at me and rolled her eyes. She sat on her hands.
Ken looked at Beckie. Then at me. Then back at Beckie.
"You local?" he said.
“—ish. I move about,” she said.
He picked up a menu. And put it down. “How d’you know Dan, then?”
Beckie looked at me.
"He feeds me," she said.
Ken laughed. "He never feeds me."
“Maybe you're not hungry enough," she said.
“Touché,” said Ken, smiling. He picked up a menu again.
“Turkey and stuffing’s on this week.”
Beckie turned to the window.
Ken caught my eye.
"So what do you want for Christmas, Dan?”
Beckie looked back.
I looked down. “I don’t.”
“Don't what?” said Ken.
"Want anything.”
"Come on,” said Ken. “Even I've got a list.”
"Not me."
"No?"
"No."
I looked up. Beckie screwed her eyes.
“Couldn't we all do with a bit more nothing?” I said.
“Easy for you to say,” said Beckie, staring.
Ken smiled. Gave a slow hand clap. “I can't get enough. Takes all sorts.”
Beckie turned back to the window.
Ken stretched and stood. “Right, gotta run. Coffee’s on me, yeah?” He dropped a fiver on the table — and was gone.
Beckie clocked the fiver. Looked at me.
"You're right,” I said. “I do have enough. Maybe that's the point. Knowing when to stop.”
“Yeah,” she said. Big grin. “Can I have a hot chocolate — with squirty cream?”
Later, squirty cream on her nose, she laughed. Like the kid you’d be now.
“We could do this every week,” she said, pocketing the fiver.
“Every day if you like,” I said, getting up.
“Let’s see how it goes shall we, postie-man?”
I saw a fair bit of her over the next couple of weeks. Not every day but maybe every other. I’d give her a nod as I passed Raven Row, or she’d see me and come over. And give me a present — or what for.
One day she gave me a bag of chips. And watched as I slowly unwrapped it on my knee. Inside the newspaper — a shiny little bird. Orange foil body, blue metallic wings, painted pencil beak. A kingfisher — like I’d seen down the canal — made of foil and sweet wrappers. Paper clips for feet. She liked that I knew what it was. I took it home. Put it on the windowsill, to catch the light. A shiny thing, like a talisman.
Some days we sat in the park chatting. Sometimes just sat. If it wasn’t dark, I’d point out birds, tell her their names. She liked that. One afternoon a robin hopped up, bold as brass. Puffed its breast out, cocked its head, flew away.
If it was wet, or dark, or cold, we’d go to a caff and talk. She told me how tough it was to get benefits. The hoops she had to jump. Not owing anyone anything — least of all the State. She’d sooner be whatever she was on her own terms. No one else’s.
By mid-December the frost bit hard. Icicles hung round gutters and drainpipes. Short afternoons and long cold nights. A sleeping bag couldn't keep out the cold.
As she turned to go, late one afternoon, I blurted out: “Look, I’ve got a spare key. If you ever need a bed.” I pressed it into her hand. She took it.
“Ta,” she said. That crooked smile again.
On the way home, I took a detour down by the railway arches. Past a wrecking yard. Yesterday's cars, crushed into piles and left out — rusting.
Your mum had no room for anything else. Least of all me.
Christmas Eve and work was brutal. I started early and kept my head down. Done by three. Headed home.
The front door was open. Just a bit. Was some thieving bastard deciding what to nick? I clenched my fists and barged in — ready for a bruising. But Beckie was balancing on a stool.
“What you playing at?” Fists unclenching. Eyes adjusting.
“I thought…” she stepped down and opened the curtains, “I’d bring Christmas to you.”
“I don’t do Christmas,” I said.
And then I looked up.
A paper chain of sweet wrappers and foil — caught the light like little mirrors. Newspaper snowflakes and a silver star suspended from strings. A sprig of holly, red berries, by the window — and a little robin redbreast cut out from a card. Glittering and sparkling.
"You made all these?”
She nodded. “Stuff I found. All clean.”
“They’re… beautiful.”
And they were. I hadn’t had so much as a cracker for years.
We stood side by side, looking up.
Paper chain swaying. Light glinting off foil and toffee wrappers.
I felt her head on my shoulder.
"I never had a dad," she said.
I swallowed back.
We stood.
Silent.
She squeezed my arm. “I’d better be off.”
“Spare room?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
And she was. Same crooked smile.
She took her coat and left.
You’d have liked her.
I sat and sighed — surrounded by stars and snowflakes.
The kingfisher caught the light.
And outside I swear I heard a robin.