Poem - Blankney Post Office

In all the years I have lived in Blankney one of my most favourite people was Mrs Reilly. Edith Reilly kept the village Post Office and shop. She was also a woman I respected and admire, she was honest, hard working, called a spade a spade, and certainly didn't suffer fools gladly. Sadly, by the time I wrote the following poem Mrs Reilly had died. The poem is a dedication to her.

Blankney Post Office

Mrs Reilly how we miss you
Sharp tongue and silver hair
Running Blankney Post Office
From the bottom of your stair
Appearing from the parlour
Summoned by the noise
Of the jingle of the door bell
Set off by girls and boys
Who with great anticipation
Before your cabinet stand
Trying to decide what sweets to buy
Sixpence clutched in hand
Sweet cigarettes, two birds eggs
And a sherbet dip
Were usually too much money
And you would bite your lip
Then their indecision
And too long standing looking
Would hear you say 'I haven't all day
I've left my dinner cooking'
I remember well dark winter nights
The shop felt cold and damp
The old blue book, partitioned off
For each different value stamp
But stamps and postal orders
Were not the only things to sell
Laces, string and stationery
Ailment cures as well
Buttercup syrup and lozengers
And if they were not enough
A tonic called Blakey's Oatmeal
For those feeling really rough
Cards of this and cards of that
Carefully arranged and displayed
On a beam that ran from wall to wall
Above the counter, roughly made
The quarry tiles so walked upon
Scrubbed daily on your knees
Reflected in their cleanliness
Your eagerness to please
The little shop has gone now
Along with many a familiar face
For whom it was not just a shop
It was the village meeting place

Rodney Garlant