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      Maple Drive might possibly be the least festive place on his post route, Jack decided, as he took in the sad, token sprig of holly tied to the door knocker of number 13. It was as if they’d all forgotten about Christmas until the last moment, then decided it wasn’t really worth the bother. There was the odd wreath, a glimpse of a fake Christmas tree through a couple of windows, but that was it. Well, apart from the tasteful string of icicle lights hanging along the bedroom windowsill at number 12. And even those looked a little forlorn in the grey, pale, winter sunlight.

      It wasn’t that Jack thought that every house needed a light-up Santa on the roof, along with eight creepy glow-in-the-dark reindeer. Still, a little festive cheer wouldn’t go amiss. He’d even taken to humming Christmas carols on his rounds, just to try and raise the street’s spirits.

      But apparently Maple Drive was the wrong place to be looking for cheer, festive or otherwise.

      ‘And will you look at that travesty of a decoration across at number 12? Makes the place look like a red light zone.’ Mrs Templeton, grey haired and sternly disapproving, shook her head. She reminded Jack of a head teacher he’d had when he was five, who had been scarier than all his superiors in the army put together. Who knew that returning to civilian life after ten years in the forces would still hold such opportunities to quake in his boots?

      Mrs Templeton pointed forcibly towards number 12 and Jack felt obliged to look, if he had any hope of her signing for her parcel. All he could see was the delicate icicle lights under the windowsill. A small patch of brightness in the dark, winter day.

      ‘I quite like them, actually,’ he said mildly, earning himself a glare from Mrs Templeton.

      ‘Well. I suppose you would.’ She looked him up and down, and Jack wondered what she saw. Mild-mannered postman or ex-Corporal Tyler? Some days, he wasn’t sure which one he was any more, either.

      Mrs Templeton sniffed. ‘She’s pretty enough, I suppose. In a blowsy, overblown sort of way.’

      Ah. That was what she was thinking. Well, she was right, to a point. The occupant of number 12 Maple Drive was pretty. Very pretty, in fact. But in a sad, lonely way, Jack had always thought.

      And given the number of parcels he’d delivered to her house over the past few months, he’d had plenty of time to develop that opinion. Holly Starr, 12 Maple Drive, Surrey, seemed to order her entire life online, as far as Jack could tell.

      ‘And that cat of hers! Look, there it goes now, racing about all over the place!’ Jack turned to look, and saw a fluffy black and white streak flying across the road. Then, falling behind, a small, black and white dog scampering after it, his oversized ears flapping in the breeze. ‘Oh, and don’t get me started on the dogs on this street—’ Mrs Templeton said, as the dog gave up the chase and slunk back to the pavement and, Jack assumed, home.

      ‘If I could just get you to sign here …’ Jack interrupted, proffering his electronic pad again, and holding in a sigh when Mrs Templeton sniffed at the very sight of it.

      ‘Modern gadgets.’ She took the plastic stylus gingerly between two fingers. ‘I don’t know what was wrong with a pen and paper, personally.’

      Jack gave her what he hoped was a patient smile. Unfortunately she seemed to take it as encouragement.

      ‘That’s what’s wrong these days. Too much reliance on electronics. Especially the children. Even my grandson Zach is glued to his computer thing … but that’s because his mother doesn’t know how to control him. He never plays on that device in my house.’ She pointed the stylus at him, somewhat menacingly. ‘I remember when there was none of that. Children listened and played outside in the street and they didn’t act up if they knew what was good for them. And there was none of this gaudy … Americanisation of Christmas.’ The stylus waved towards the icicle lights again. ‘Really. Lights. On the outside of the house!’

      Jack couldn’t resist. ‘You should see the houses on Cedar Avenue,’ he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘One of them has a full set of Snow White and the seven dwarves lit up on their roof.’

      Mrs Templeton gasped with predictable horror. ‘But … that’s not even festive!’

      Jack shrugged. ‘Well, there’s also one with the Nativity. Maybe you’d like that one more.’

      ‘I sincerely doubt it.’

      So did Jack. ‘Anyway …’ He glanced meaningfully at the stylus, still punctuating Mrs Templeton’s every thought. ‘If you could just …’ He shook the electronic pad again.

      ‘Humph.’ Mrs Templeton scrawled a few lines across the screen, and Jack decided that was good enough. He handed her the parcel, along with a few Christmas card-sized envelopes on the top. She scowled at them. ‘And look at these stamps! What happened to a good, old-fashioned Nativity scene for a Christmas stamp? I ask you.’

      Jack quite liked the cartoon Santas, but Mrs Templeton had already shut the door before he could say so.

      ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs Templeton,’ he called, through the closed door. ‘You miserable old bat,’ he added under his breath.

      This wasn’t what he’d expected when he’d moved to Maple Drive. Fresh out of the army, he’d taken a job as a postman and, when he was assigned to an area of the suburbs with nice, neat houses, friendly looking front doors and well-kept lawns, he’d thought he’d stumbled onto exactly what he’d been looking for. Somewhere peaceful, friendly, and properly British. The sort of place he might get invited in for the occasional cup of tea or a biscuit. Or, at least, somewhere he might make new friends, and find a new community to replace the family he’d left behind when he left the forces.

      He was so sure this was what he was looking for, he’d even rented one of the smaller terrace houses on the edge of the estate, just at the corner of Maple Drive.

      It hadn’t taken long for the illusion to be shattered.

      Maple Drive might look like friendly, community-spirited suburbia, but those neighbourhood watch signs and hedges trimmed into animal shapes were misleading. The street was filled with curtain-twitchers, busy workers who left post-it notes asking him to leave their parcels in strange hiding places, and Mrs Templeton. In three months, he could count the number of actual conversations he’d had with his neighbours on one hand – and most of them had been to do with the declining standards of the postal service. He doubted anyone on Maple Drive even realised that he actually lived there too.

      With a sigh, Jack trudged back along the street, away from Mrs Templeton’s house at the top of the cul-de-sac. He dropped a few cards through the letterbox at number 11, the McCawleys’, and was about to cross the street to deliver the small parcel in his bag for Holly Starr at number 12 – her of the icicles – when he spotted something shining on the driveway. Frowning, he bent down to pick it up. He held the small, silver key between two fingers and considered it. It looked like the sort of key that might open one of those padlocks that came in Christmas crackers, or maybe a secret journal or something. Probably nothing important, but still … Turning, he pushed it through number 11’s letterbox to land on the cards. At least that way, they’d find it in case they needed it.

      With a satisfied nod, he marched across the street to number 12. After all, it was Christmas. And the pleasure of delivering presents to Holly Starr was basically the only present he expected to get this year.

      Maybe he’d even tell her he liked her icicles.

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