"Mary Postgate" is a short story by English author Rudyard Kipling. It was first published in 1915 and tells the story of Mary Postgate, a middle-aged spinster who lives in a small village in England during World War I.
At the beginning of the story, Mary is shown to be a bitter and resentful woman, who is unhappy with her mundane and solitary life. She takes pleasure in causing trouble for others and delights in the misfortunes of her neighbors. Her only companions are her cat and her servant, Nellie.
One day, a young soldier named Dick returns to the village on leave from the front. He is the son of one of Mary's neighbors and was injured in battle. Mary initially shows no compassion towards Dick and is annoyed by his presence, as she believes that he is disrupting her routine.
However, as Dick's stay in the village continues, Mary begins to develop feelings of affection towards him. She starts to care for him and even allows him to sleep in her own bed. When Dick is ordered to return to the front, Mary is devastated and realizes that she has grown to love him.
Tragically, Dick is killed in action and Mary is left alone once again. She becomes even more bitter and resentful, and takes solace in the fact that she will outlive her neighbors and be the last person left in the village.
In the end, Mary's hatred and resentment towards others is shown to be a result of her own loneliness and unhappiness. The story serves as a poignant reminder of the human need for connection and the dangers of living a life filled with negativity and hatred.
Classic Short Story: ‘Mary Postgate’ by Rudyard Kipling
Now Wynn was dead, and everything connected with him was lumping and rustling and tinkling under her busy poker into red black dust and grey leaves of ash. Once it ceased abruptly. That's why we didn't notice it. Did this aviator kill Edna with a bomb? She lifted her lean arms towards it. You were up that day, Monkey? They were just parting opposite the 'Royal Oak,' when a gun, they fancied, was fired immediately behind the house.
Mary Postgate
They spent the evening putting away well-remembered civilian suits, underclothes that Mary had marked, and the regiments of very gaudy socks and ties. There was no doubt as to his nationality. Miss Fowler, who always looked facts in the face, said, 'He must have it. You'd better take the big clothes-basket and get Nellie to help you. On the lowest fork a helmet with dependent strings, showed like a bird's-nest in the light of a long-tongued flame.
Mary childhealthpolicy.vumc.org
Wynn told her too, that trees were useful things to break an aviator's fall, but in this case the aviator must have been broken or he would have moved from his queer position. A sheep would know more than you do, Postey. Of course, as they broke, they would make a noise just like a gun. The room was coming to rest now. She checked printed clothes-lists, and unitemised bills of extras; wrote to Head and House masters, matrons, nurses and doctors, and grieved or rejoiced over half-term reports.
Mary Postgate by Rudyard Kipling
He was a good chap — a first-class fellow — a great loss. Cheape to the rank of cook, with occasional cleaning bouts; and the reduced establishment moved forward smoothly. Grant's son who, his mother said, was devoted to the ministry; and, very early indeed, it took Wynn Fowler, who announced on a postcard that he had joined the Flying Corps and wanted a cardigan waistcoat. It was no question of reading horrors out of newspapers to Miss Fowler. She read it and carried it to Miss Fowler. She had been careful to keep her finger off the trigger for fear of accidents.
Mary Postgate
It was followed by a child's shriek dying into a wail. She lifted her lean arms towards it. That was the wet December when it rained six inches to the month, and the women went abroad as little as might be. Miss Fowler, who always looked facts in the face, said, 'He must have it. Fowler had been killed during a trial flight. She leaned forward and listened, smiling.
English Book Club: Mary Postgate, by Rudyard Kipling
He has done his duty as much as Mrs. In a few weeks the mere land and sea battles which she read to Miss Fowler after breakfast passed her like idle breath. The rain was damping the fire, but she could feel—it was too dark to see—that her work was done. But this thing hunched under the oak-tree had done that thing. A second trunk was needed, and, after that, a little packing-case, and it was late next day when Cheape and the local carrier lifted them to the cart.
