Evan and Mary Ann had known each other for fifty-nine years.
Evan was a lad of seventeen, and a sailor in the Royal Navy: the most prestigious institution in all the British Empire. He had sailed over the Atlantic and Indian Oceans, before berthing in the Indies. His duty was to moor the boat on the docks, in that land where the air was heavy with the scent of spices. Under the white sun he pulled the ropes with all his might, dust clinging to his forehead and sweat stinging in his eyes. His sailor’s cap seemed fastened to his skull, an extension of his thought. He was a sailor, and he thought as one. He had felt so strong back then; invulnerable even. Back then his muscles unfurled without pain or stiffness, like the sails of a ship, under his white uniform. The sea had been his home, comforting and troubling all at once; she was like an unpredictable woman, but the only one who truly knew him. That said, as all folks who lived in port towns knew, sailors were no strangers to the pleasures of dry land. But these were fleeting pleasures fuelled by alcohol, and the weariness and exhilaration of travel. There was no real love in the life of a sailor, only brash camaraderie and manly rivalry. He did not miss the company of men, despite the bonds of friendship he had formed along his journeys.
Even in those younger days, there had been one girl who haunted his thoughts. She was but a memory of long ago, one he cradled over the waves on lonely nights of melancholy. He dreamed of Mary Ann, the pretty brunette he’d asked to walk with him along the Thames one cold and russet afternoon in autumn, of the kind only England can produce. The river ran gently that day, its waters blue and green. It looked almost like a painted watercolour. Evan and Mary Ann had been fifteen years old then. The young girl’s green eyes were so piercing that he struggled to hold her gaze, so beautiful was she. Evan had tried to kiss her, but she had refused him with a shy smile. It was not their time; not yet. Now Mary Ann worked at the Royal Post Office, where she sorted the mail to be dispatched to the British colonies. Perhaps this was a sign of destiny; something had connected them across that vast distance. Almost two years after that gallant encounter, Evan received a letter from the pretty postmistress. His commanding officer had handed him the letter with a winking eye, for who would have sprayed an envelope with perfume before sending it to a navy ship? Not someone’s mother, he mused. Evan had held his breath as he opened it. It was indeed a love letter; she had not forgotten him. He had leaned against the ship’s balustrade, the wind billowing in his white shirt as he gorged upon each line.
After twenty years of loyal service, Mary Ann was promoted to the rank of Head Postmistress for mail departing for South Africa. Her colleagues were filled with jealousy, accusing her of being a gossip who opened other peoples’ mail, or a thief who emptied parcels of their contents. Mary Ann was too proud to respond, but wrote of the pain she felt in her letters to Evan; he was powerless to help, but sympathised from across the globe. To lift her spirits he would send her spices from India in his letters, always seeking out the gayest colours: golden saffron, scarlet chilli, and still other powders in brown, purple, green and even blue. Mary Ann kept them all safe in her little bedroom, breathing in their exotic scents and dreaming of her love. It would be so long until he returned, and she felt like Penelope awaiting Ulysses.
Then one fine day in the month of May, Evan left the service of the Royal Navy – he was home for good. Mary Ann felt reborn; never again would she be left waiting. To excuse himself for his long absences, Evan swore to give her flowers every day. He picked out the gayest colours to console her; golden daffodils, scarlet tulips, and still others in pink, purple or even blue.
Alan Alfredo Geday