Post – About Post
Saturday 20th September 2014
My interest in – obsession, fortunately, is something I am almost never troubled with – becoming a post-woman started when I was about ten. We lived in Wellingborough, on a road called The Pyghtle, pronounced Pitle, rhymes with title. This suburban road is a hill, and our house was right at the top. If you cycled away from our house in either direction, you first went down a thrilling hill, but of course, you had to climb back up later.
My aunt in Manchester was making me a dress. Aunty Doreen was a talented dress and coat maker, I had sketched a dress that I wished for, and she had agreed to make it. It was going to be green, with puffed sleeves. This is because I was, and still am, Ann of Green Gables.
But the dress making had to be fitted in between her other sewing work, and I didn’t know when it would arrive. However, I did know it would come by post. It was rare for me to get any post, let alone a parcel. My Aunty Florence posted things quite often, usually to my parents, but including once, for me, a gourd or squash from her garden which she had varnished as an ornament. I had a sulky and intermittent pen-pal in France, but that was about it for me.
This was in December, the school holidays. If I stood in the bay window of my parents’ bedroom (and in order to do this I had to first squeeze into the space behind the dressing table and mirror) – and leaned forwards, I could see the postman once he was about one quarter of the way up The Pyghtle. A small figure appearing and re-appearing. There is a cul-de-sac about half way up the hill and he would vanish into this bit of The Pyghtle for ages. Once out of the cul-de-sac, he was really only about thirty houses away, and I could see him quite clearly.
In this era, and during the winter – post-codes were in their final phases of introduction, I time all my notable life-events according to Royal Mail developments at that time, for example:
– it was cold in our house, unless you were in bed, in the bath, or in the sitting room where the fire was lit, in which case, your front was warm. In the front bedroom, it was often intensely cold. So the window pane misted up, causing me to rub it clear and sometimes draw and write on it to pass the cul-de-sac time. Mum asked me to stop doing that as it then needed cleaning, but by and large she was happy for me to pop on my duffle coat every morning after breakfast and resume my vigil in her bedroom window.
Often, he did call at our house, but I knew within moments of his getting into plain sight, if it was going to be Dress Day, because if he had The Dress, he would have a parcel and usually he had only letters. Brown ones. Sometimes, about every third day or so, we had no post and he just walked past us and went to Mrs Thompson’s next door.
During this time, I thought a lot about his job. Not in a systematic way. I didn’t think at all about the merits of the Royal Mail pension scheme, or the state of the vans and bicycles. After all, I was only at junior school, as it was then called. But I thought about what he was carrying. In my imagination, and despite my experience with impenetrable letters from my boring French pen-friend and the varnished gourd, he brought only nice things.
It never once occurred to me that he might have sad news, bad news, hard-to-pay bills or just a heap of circulars. I didn’t think about letters that might herald tears or anger or fear. I thought about how happy it must make
him, to be the bearer of happy news, birthday cards, maybe love letters – and puffed-sleeved dresses. It is fair to say he didn’t
look all that happy, but he did begin to notice me, and sometimes, he’d almost smile.
One day, and even now, my stomach lurches when I remember this, and I feel happy and nervous, it was clear that he
did have a brown paper parcel. The parcel did not go to Mr and Mrs Pentenny’s house, or to the man next door whose grandson was called – very modern! –
Tod, and to whom we were not allowed to talk because he (not Tod) kept two very large Alsatian dogs and had inadequate fencing, said my mother. It came to
us. I skidded down the stairs, in my knitted pixie-hood/duffle coat combo and with wet, cold hands, I answered the door myself.
The Dress was absolutely perfect. Puffed sleeves, with a ruched bit at the elbow so there were
two sections of puff. Soft, green, with a lovely full-skirt. Not a shirt-waister, the usual design of hand-made dress for which I was, probably very obviously, a bit ungrateful. It was a proper dress.
Oddly, the arrival of The Dress left a bit of a void in my morning routine, and for the next few days, I trailed back up to the front bedroom and watched the postman anyway – but it wasn’t the same. I think we both knew it was over. And then I suppose it was Christmas, and then it was back to the place I hated most on earth, Victoria Junior School.
From this period on, I became very keen on being a post-women myself. Despite a serious problem with number dyslexia (I am sure it has its own name), absolutely no sense of direction, and a dread of the cold and wet, in many ways I think I’d be ideal. I simply love dogs, and I decided I’d be the sort of postie who keeps dog biscuits in her pockets. I really like older people and I think that, for them maybe, the postie can be a sort of friend. Being outdoors (though, see earlier remarks regarding cold and wet) is something I love. Cycling is my main hobby. And finally I think it would be amazing to be the person with all that life-changing stuff in her hands, just before it plops through the letter box – that and the thousands of Domino Pizza voucher brochures.
And I very nearly did it. Much to the amusement or horror, depending on the friend, of most of my friends. I am, however, sort-of glad that I didn’t realise this dream, because maybe the Royal Mail pension scheme would have become more important to me than delivering dresses.
Lovely! I remember thinking the postie was pretty lucky too, delivering all of those nice things! I didn’t think of the bills, which is most of my post these days. By the way, I think ‘number dyslexia’ is called dyscalclia, but I can’t remember where I got that from. I think a teacher may have told me I have it.
Ah. Ok thanks – it’s a draw back with knitting 🙂
Haha I think you’ll find it’s “Anne” with an E (the E is important after all – so much more distinguished!). I absolutely loved those books too :o)
You’re right, it IS with a E 🙂