After forty years of delivering bills, birthday cards and catalogues nobody requested, Lionel retired with sore knees and an excellent understanding of neighbourhood tension. He knew who had borrowed ladders, insulted roses and never returned casserole dishes.
He began sending tiny envelopes of pepper with handwritten notes. To Mrs. Cole: For the soup you never got to apologise over. To the twins at number eight: For eggs, with courage. To Mr. D’Souza: For the tomatoes Mrs. Grant pretends not to admire.
Within a month, people were knocking on each other’s doors holding bowls, jars and awkward smiles. Lionel denied everything, though everyone recognised his handwriting. He said pepper worked because it did not sweeten the past; it gave people something lively to do with it.