Fred was a postman. He worked in Brixton. It is a densely populated part of London, and has the curious reputation of harbouring more criminals than any other suburb because trams run to it from across the river all night long, so that when a man has done a job of housebreaking in the West End he can be sure of getting home without difficulty. Fred liked his job. Brixton is a district of innumerable streets lined with little houses inhabited by the people who work in the neighbourhood and also by clerks, shop-assistants, skilled workers of one sort or another whose jobs take them every day across the river. He was strong and healthy and it was a pleasure to him to walk from street to street delivering the letters. Sometimes there would be a postal packet to hand in or a registered letter that had to be signed for, and then he would have the opportunity of seeing people. He was a sociable creature. It was never long before he was well known on whatever round he was assigned to. After a time his job was changed. His duty then was to go to the red pillar-boxes into which the letters were put, empty them, and take the contents to the main post-office of the district. His bag would be pretty heavy sometimes by the time he was through, but he was proud of his strength and the weight only made him laugh.
One day he was emptying a box in one of the better streets, a street of semi-detached houses, and had just closed his bag when a girl came running along.
'Postman,' she cried, 'take this letter, will you. I want it to go by this post most particularly.'
He gave her his good-natured smile.
'I never mind obliging a lady,' he said, putting down his bag and opening it.
'I wouldn't trouble you, only it's urgent,' she said as she handed him the letter she had in her hand.
'Who is it to-a feller?' he grinned. 'None of your business.'
'All right, be haughty. But I tell you this, he's no good. Don't you trust him.'
'You've got a nerve,' she said.
'So they tell me.'
He took off his cap and ran his hand through his mop of curling red hair. The sight of it made her gasp.
'Where d'you get your perm?' she asked with a giggle.
'I'll show you one of these days if you like.'
He was looking down at her with his amused eyes, and there was something about him that gave her a funny little feeling in the pit of her stomach.
'Well, I must be on my way,' he said. 'If I don't get on with the job pretty damn quick I don't know what'll happen to the country.'
'I'm not detaining you,' she said coolly.
'That's where you make a mistake,' he answered.
He gave her a look that made her heart beat nineteen to the dozen and she felt herself blushing all over. She turned away and ran back to the house. Fred noticed it was four doors away from the pillar-box. He had to pass it and as he did so he looked up. He saw the net curtains twitch and knew she was watching. He felt pleased with himself. During the next few days he looked at the house whenever he passed it, but never caught a glimpse of the girl. One afternoon he ran across her by chance just as he was entering the street in which she lived.
'Hullo,' he said, stopping.
'Hullo.'
She blushed scarlet. 'Haven't seen you about lately.' 'You haven't missed much.'
'That's what you think.'
She was prettier than he remembered, dark-haired, dark-eyed, rather tall, slight, with a good figure, a pale skin, and very white teeth. 'What about coming to the pictures with me one evening?'
'Taking a lot for granted, aren't you?'
'It pays,' he said with his impudent, charming grin.
She couldn't help laughing.
'Not with me, it doesn't.'
'Oh, come on. One's only young once.'
There was something so attractive in him that she couldn't bring herself to give him a saucy answer.
'I couldn't really. My people wouldn't like me going out with a fellow I don't know. You see, I'm the only one they have and they think a rare lot of me. Why, I don't even know your name.'
'Well, I can tell you, can't I? Fred. Fred Manson. Can't you say you're going to the pictures with a girl friend?'
She had never felt before what she was feeling then. She didn't know if it was pain or pleasure. She was strangely breathless.
'I suppose I could do that.'
They fixed the night, the time, and the place. Fred was waiting for her and they went in, but when the picture started and he put his arm round her waist, without a word, her eyes fixed on the screen, she quietly took it away. He took hold of her hand, but she withdrew it. He was surprised. That wasn't the way girls usually behaved. He didn't know what one went to the pictures for if it wasn't to have a bit of a cuddle. He walked home with her after the show. She told him her name. Grace Carter. Her father had a shop of his own in the Brixton Road, he was a draper and he had four assistants.
'He must be doing well,' said Fred.
'He doesn't complain.'
Gracie was a student at London University. When she got her degree she was going to be a school teacher.
'What d'you want to do that for when there's a good business waiting for you?'
'Pa doesn't want me to have anything to do with the shop-not after the education he's given me. He wants me to better myself, if you know what I mean.'
Her father had started life as an errand boy, then became a draper's assistant, and because he was hard-working, honest, and intelligent was now owner of a prosperous little business. Success had given him grand ideas for his only child. He didn't want her to have anything to do with trade. He hoped she'd marry a professional man perhaps, or at least someone in the City. Then he'd sell the business and retire, and Gracie would be quite the lady.
When they reached the corner of her street Gracie held out her hand.
'You'd better not come to the door,' she said.
'Aren't you going to kiss me good night?'
'I am not.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't want to.'
'You'll come to the pictures again, won't you?'
'I think I'd better not.'
'Oh, come on.'
There was such a warm urgency in his voice that she felt as though her knees would give way.
'Will you behave if I do?' He nodded. 'Promise?'
'Swop me bob.'
He scratched his head when he left her. Funny girl. He'd never met anyone quite like her. Superior, there was no doubt about that. There was something in her voice that got you. It was warm and soft. He tried to think what it was like. It was like as if the words kissed you. Sounded silly, that did, but that's just what it was like.
From then on they went to the pictures once or twice a week. After a while she allowed him to put his arm round her waist and to hold her hand, but she never let him go farther than that.
'Have you ever been kissed by a fellow?' he asked her once.
'No, I haven't,' she said simply. 'My ma's funny, she says you've got to keep a man's respect.'
'I'd give anything in the world just to kiss you, Grade.'
'Don't be so silly.'
'Won't you let me just once?' She shook her head. 'Why not?'
'Because I like you too much,' she said hoarsely, and then walked quickly away from him.
It gave him quite a turn. He wanted her as he'd never wanted a woman before. What she'd said finished him. He'd been thinking of her a lot, and he'd looked forward to the evenings they spent together as he'd never looked forward to anything in his life. For the first time he was uncertain of himself. She was above him in every way, what with her father making money hand over fist and her education and everything, and him only a postman. They had made a date for the following Friday night and he was in a fever of anxiety lest she shouldn't come. He repeated to himself over and over again what she'd said: perhaps it meant that she'd made up her mind to drop him. When at last he saw her walking along the street he almost sobbed with relief. That evening he neither put his arm round her nor took her hand and when he walked her home he never said a word.