The flimsy corner door swings in and bangs, jangling the chimes hung above it, as Sylvia shoves the pram through the doorway, maneuvering over the jamb and into the Princess Road post office. She stops just inside the door to untie her rain cap and stamp her boots on the mat; Frieda stamps, too. On a table set to the side, within free reach of customers, lie baskets for various classes of letters, brochures and forms, and several scales, one with individual lead weights and a bowl in the shape of a silver urinal. At the far end of the room, a long hardwood counter with chipped moldings spans the full length of the storefront, from the misty picture window facing the street to the cashier’s grate at the other end. A three-foot-high wire mesh topped with brassy finials encloses the counter, protecting shelves stocked with twine, envelopes, gum erasers, pots of ink, and glue. A tall, middle-aged clerk with greasy hair sits in a criminal hunch behind the bars, his thick assiduous fingers stacking matchsticks into an elaborate model deployed on a sheet of newspaper. He doesn’t look up at the sound of the opening door.

“Excuse me, sir,” Sylvia says, approaching the clerk while pulling off her gloves by the fingertips. “I would like to speak with the telephone manager.” Smiling, friendly but firm.

The clerk looks up, blinking, holding the burnt tips of two matches in midair. “There’s no telephone manager here, madam. You’ll need to ring the head postmaster at the district office.” He looks down again, carefully dipping the matchsticks into a glue pot and affixing them to his model.

“No, you see,” Sylvia continues, leaning into the mesh railing, her gloves dangling from one fist, “I have been ringing the district postmaster. I need my telephone to be installed, and my request for service has been on file for a month. I’ve got the letter of confirmation, and it says my service was to be hooked up ‘as quickly as possible.’ All of my forms have been filed through this post office.”

“Well then, madam,” says the clerk, putting down his matches and resting his huge meaty hands on his thighs, seeming pleased with the assurance of satisfactory performance from all sides, “it appears your paperwork is all in order, then, and you merely need to wait for the engineers to ring you for an appointment. I’ve no doubt you’ve made it onto the waiting list, as the letter you received confirms.”

“Waiting list?” Sylvia asks suspiciously. “The letter said nothing about a waiting list. It simply said my order was to be processed as quickly as possible.” The bells over the door chime unevenly behind her.