**Diary Entry The Postgirls Wedding**
It was the day of Liddys weddingour postgirl. Oh, what a wedding it was More like a bitter sorrow than a celebration. The whole village gathered by the parish office not to rejoice, but to judge. There stood our Liddy, slight as a reed, in a plain white dress shed stitched herself. Her face was pale, her wide eyes frightened yet stubborn. Beside herthe groom, Stephen. Folks called him “the Convict” behind his back. Hed returned a year ago from prison.
No one knew exactly why hed served time, but rumours swirled, each darker than the last. Tall, brooding, sparing with words, a jagged scar running down his cheek. Men greeted him through gritted teeth, women shielded their children, and dogs tucked their tails when he passed. He lived on the outskirts in his grandfathers crumbling cottage, a loner taking the hardest jobs no one else would touch.
And it was this man our quiet Liddyan orphan raised by her auntchose to marry.
When the registrar declared them wed with a dry, “You may now congratulate the couple,” not a soul stirred. The silence was so heavy, you could hear the crow caw from the elm tree.
Then, through the crowd, stepped Liddys cousin, Peter. Hed treated her as a younger sister after her parents died. He fixed her with an icy stare and hissed loud enough for all to hear:
“Youre no sister of mine now. From this day on, I have none. Youve shamed us, tangled with God knows who. Never set foot in my house again.”
He spat at Stephens feet and shouldered through the crowd like an icebreaker. Her aunt followed, lips pursed.
Liddy stood motionless. A single tear trailed down her cheekshe didnt wipe it. Stephens jaw clenched, fists tightening. I thought hed lunge. Instead, he looked at Liddy, took her hand gentlyas if afraid shed breakand murmured, “Lets go home.”
And they walked. Just the two of them, against the village. He, tall and grim; she, fragile in her little white dress. The whispers and glares burned at their backs. My heart ached watching them. *Lord, how much strength will they need to withstand it all?*
It began, as these things do, with something small. Liddy delivered posta quiet, unassuming girl. One autumn evening, as rain turned the lanes to mud, a pack of strays cornered her at the edge of town. She screamed, dropped her heavy sack, letters scattering in the filth. Then, out of nowhere, Stephen appeared. No shouts, no sticksjust a step toward the lead dog, his voice low and rough. The brute tucked its tail and slunk away, the rest following.
Silently, he gathered the sodden post, wiped it clean as best he could, and handed it to her. She looked up, tearful, whispering, *Thank you*. He only grunted and walked off.
From then on, she watched him differently. Not with fear, like the others, but with quiet curiosity. She noticed what they ignored: how he fixed old Marys fenceunaskedwhen her city-bound son never visited; how he pulled a neighbours calf from the river; how he tucked a shivering kitten into his coat. He hid these acts, as if ashamed of kindness. But Liddy saw. And her heart, just as bruised and lonely, reached for his.
They met by the far well at dusk. He listened as she spoke of small things, his stern face softening. Once, he brought her a wild orchid, plucked from the treacherous marshes. That was the moment she knewshe was lost.
When she announced the marriage, the uproar was deafening. Her aunt wept; Peter swore to break Stephens bones. Yet she stood firm. *Hes good. You just dont know him.*
Their life was hard. Work was scarce for him; her post wages barely covered bread. But their tumbledown cottage stayed spotless, oddly cosy. He built her bookshelves, mended the porch, planted a tiny flowerbed beneath the window. Each evening, exhausted from labour, hed sit at the table, and shed set a bowl of hot soup before him. Their silence held more love than any grand words.
The village never accepted them. The shopkeeper short-changed Liddy; children hurled stones at their windows. Peter crossed the street to avoid them.
Then came the fire.
A windy, ink-black night. Peters barn caught first, flames leaping to the house. The village rallied with buckets and shovels, but the inferno roared, a pillar of fire clawing the sky. Peters wife, clutching their infant, shrieked: *”Maggies inside! Our girlstill asleep!”*
Peter lunged for the door, but the flames drove him back. Men held him*”Youll die, fool!”*as he writhed, howling.
Then Stephen barrelled through. He doused himself with water from a barrel and vanished into the blaze.
The crowd held its breath. Beams cracked; the roof collapsed. No one expected him to return.
But from the smoke staggered a scorched figureStephen, clutching Maggie wrapped in a soaked blanket. He crumpled, passing her to the women before losing consciousness.
The child lived. Stephen? His hands and back were raw meat. In delirium, he whispered one name: *Liddy*
When he woke in my surgery, Peter knelt beside him. No wordsjust trembling shoulders, rough cheeks wet. He pressed Stephens hand to his forehead. That silent bow said everything.
The floodgates opened. Slowly, then all at once, warmth flowed to Stephen and Liddy. His scars remained, but now they were badges of courage, not shame.
The men rebuilt their cottage. Peter became Stephens shadowfixing the porch, bringing hay for their nanny goat. His wife, Helen, brought Liddy cream and pies, their gazes soft with remorse.
A year later, their daughter Maggie arrived, fair and blue-eyed like Liddy. Then a son, JohnnyStephens spitting image, minus the scar. A solemn little lad, always frowning.
That once-derelict house brimmed with laughter. The brooding Stephen, it turned out, was the gentlest father. Black-handed from work, hed hoist the children, tossing them to the rafters amid shrieks of joy. Evenings, hed carve Maggie wooden toyshorses, birds, little menrough hands crafting wonders.
I remember once checking Liddys blood pressure. The yard was a painting: Stephen, massive and soot-streaked, crouched over Johnnys tiny bicycle while Peter held a wheel. The boysJohnny and Peters sondug in the sandbox together. Peace hung thick, just the tap of a hammer and bees humming in Liddys flowers.
My eyes stung. There was Peter, whod cursed his sister, now shoulder-to-shoulder with the “Convict.” No bitterness, no pastjust shared labour and playing children. As if the wall of fear had melted like spring snow.
Liddy stepped onto the porch with two mugs of cider. She caught my eye, smilingthat quiet, radiant smile. In it lay all the hard-won happiness of a woman whod followed her heart against the world.
Now, I look down their lane. Their cottage blooms with geraniums. Stephen, silver-streaked but sturdy, teaches teenage Johnny to chop wood. Maggie, nearly a woman now, helps Liddy hang sun-washed linens. They laugh over some girlish secret.
She wasnt wrong. She chose her souls matchand won it all.
