From: Chapter 6 ...
The
Postmasters’ office was down a long empty corridor, lined on either side by
small windowless rooms filled with undelivered and undeliverable mail. The floor was mirror shiny and reflected his
shoe-falls as he slowly marched toward the plain grey office door at the
bottom. The click of each footstep echoed
in his ears like a freeform jazz drummer following him with a personal soundtrack.
What could
the Postmaster want with me, he thought, I’ve never been late, I’ve never
failed to deliver and there isn’t a dog I can’t outfox. Perhaps he wants to promote me, or move me at
the very least, a new round, a new life …. away from Him in Number 27. He reached the door of the Postmasters’
office, it was yet another grey windowless affair. He put his hand on the handle then quickly
changed his mind and raised the back of his knuckles to the door frame to
knock, but before he could strike the wood a voice called out from inside,
“Come in.”
The Postman stood nervously shifting
his weight from one foot to the other. For him the Postmaster was a daunting
figure, a Pope-like high office in the Queen’s Royal Postal Service, he felt he
should bow or genuflect in the presence of such a man.
The
Postmasters’ little plump body was jammed into a swivel chair, his undersized
arms and legs appeared to be glued onto his body as an afterthought and his
oval pumpkin-like head was filled with a wide face that only a mother could
love and even then she probably only tolerated it. In his pasty white hands he held a slip of
pink paper.
‘Pink
paper’, thought the Postman, ‘that can only mean one thing; special
delivery’.
“Something
has arisen,” said the Postmaster through his adenoids, “a special delivery on
your route.”
“Yes sir,”
said the Postman.
“Normally
of course we have men assigned to such deliveries, men trained to handle such
delicate customers’ needs, years of experience and a van licence,” continued
the Postmaster.
“Yes sir.”
“But, there
has been a complication.”
“And what
is that sir?” asked the Postman, his feet now in a fast bulwark rhythm.
“They, that
is these men who deal with such special deliveries, have all called in sick,”
said the Postmaster examining the pink slip of paper as he did.
“I see
sir.”
“All of
them, on the same day, in every post office in London and for forty miles
around. Do you think that a little
strange?” he asked.
“I’m sure I
wouldn’t know sir. Not my job sir,”
stated the Postman.
“Not your
job, I hope you’re not one of these ‘trade unionists’.” The Postmaster drew the words ‘trade
unionists’ out of his throat like he was about to spit out a live badger.
“Noooooo
sir!”
“Good. I would hate for any black marks to appear on
your permanent record.”
“So would I
sir.”
“I have
high hopes for you someday; a man like you could become a Team Leader in charge
of outgoing franked mailing services.”
The Postman
gulped, what a promotion that would be, franked mail, a dream job.
“But”
continued the Postmaster, “there is the matter of this special delivery.”
“I’m sure
it’s nothing I can’t handle, sir.” The Postman’s chest swelled, “It’s
Personal,” he stated to the world in general.
“Yes,” said the Postmaster hesitating, “Not much of a motto
for Her Majesty’s Mail but it’s ours.”
The Postmaster held out the pink slip of paper in his
spindly T-rex-like arms, “Take this to its destination, it’s to be a
non-returnable.”
Non-returnables
were the rarest and primary challenge of a postman’s career, the Postman felt
he was walking on air, at last after years of dealing with dogs, misaddressed
parcels and … Him, a chance to prove himself.
He leaned over the desk and plucked the pink slip from the
Postmaster’s greasy little hand, “You can count on me sir. This is the
opportunity that I’ve been waiting for.”
“Good man,” squeaked the Postmaster.
‘Good man, he said good man to me’, thought the Postman, ‘at
last my dedication to duty is paying off’.
There was an awkward moment when the two men said nothing.
The Postman noticed that his feet had stopped hopping from one to the other,
but the moment he thought about this they returned to their nervous dance.
“Best of luck,” said the Postmaster finally.
“Yes sir,” the Postman turned and opened the office door,
just as he did the Postmaster added a last few words.
“Oh … and …err … don’t get eaten.”
