One of the finest ways for a lonely pensioner to gain the attention of the postman is to offer him a cup of tea or coffee during his rounds. Here in North Yorkshire, our mail comes early — mine arrives between 7.15 a.m. and 7.45 a.m. as a rule and we do receive it on time. Some Londoners think our papers arrive a day late and our letters spend a week in transit! This is not the case — in my morning mail, I receive lots of letters date-stamped the previous day in London and elsewhere, even those bearing second-class stamps. For us, the service is superb, especially as it is carried out on such a personal basis.
The postman knows us and we know him. I know that if we are away, he’ll leave the mail next door or even keep it until we return; if we’re still in bed when he arrives, he’ll tuck it under the front step or even call back if the morning weather is likely to harm any mail he leaves for us. He will take the trouble to decipher difficult handwriting or incorrect addresses, and he’ll share our joy when postcards arrive from friends in exotic places, or commiserate with us when we get final reminders from the income tax authorities or the electricity people. He’ll say ‘I see your Aunt Agatha’s leg is getting better’ or ‘What’s that lad of yours doing in Sri Lanka?’ This kind of relationship is not regarded as prying, for, in a village community, knowledge of another’s life-style and habits can sometimes be a life-saver. Any good policeman knows that — as does the nurse, the doctor, the vicar and, of course, the postman.
Even in the depths of winter when snow, ice or fog can render other services impotent, the post manages to get through and so it maintains the enviable reputation of the Royal Mail. Few of us bother to say ‘thanks’ for this remarkable achievement — but we do blame the postman if the letters we are expecting bring bad news! This harks back to primitive times when emperors executed messengers who delivered bad news! We still blame the man who carries the letter rather than the person or organization that wrote it.
Here in North Yorkshire, with vast uninhabited areas to cover along with daily visits to isolated farms and cottages, our postmen must begin their day very early. Some occasional deliveries involve a trek of up to two miles through countryside that is rough enough to make a fine training ground for tanks, or remote enough to be utilized as a practice range for firing cannons. Consequently the delivery of some letters can be a tiring and long-drawn-out affair. By ten o’clock in the morning, therefore, most rural postmen (and in that term I include postwomen) are ready to sit down with a cup of hot tea and a biscuit. And it is a wise person who offers that kind of sustenance and sanctuary. The benefits can be tremendous.
This is where the lonely or house-bound person can score lots of Brownie points with the postman. A cup of tea or coffee and a hot, buttered scone can be like a feast to a tired and footsore postal delivery operative, especially on a wintry day. And, in return, the postman will offer to undertake small chores. I know one lady pensioner in a moorland village who feeds passing postmen with meals large enough to be described as banquets; in return they do her shopping and run her messages. As she cannot easily get to the shops or call on tradespeople, the postman of the day will take her order and obtain the necessaries, delivering them when next he calls for his coffee and buns. It is an admirable arrangement.
I know of postmen and postwomen who light fires for pensioners, who feed dogs and cats for people at work, who collect laundry, shopping, dry-cleaning and pensions, who change library books, collect eggs and deliver sacks of potatoes or turnips. One collects fish-and-chips on Fridays and another checks the snares laid by a farmer who is rather lame — that postie’s reward is the occasional rabbit or hare. This is a most useful kind of barter system, and it helps to keep a community happy and in touch with one another. In these modern times, the postman can quite easily store a sack of potatoes or a case of wine in his van for delivery to a local house; in the good old days, it would not have been so easy, for there was a limit to what could be carried on a postman’s bike or in the sack on his back.
But there was one postman who had another kind of regular commitment, one which I did not know about for some time. He was Postie Win. His name was Winston Charlesworth, a man whose unfortunate initials had earned him the childhood nickname of Closethead. Even at that time, the mid-1960s, not every village home had a water closet or WC as they were known; some continued to use the earth-closets, sometimes known as thunder-boxes, johns or necessaries, abbreviated to nessies.
Winston had the sense to make fun of his own name and initials, and this confounded those who tried to mock him. As he matured, he wooed and married a local girl, but for some reason they had never produced any children.
This was sad because Winston had come from a large and caring family and loved children — he was Father Christmas at village parties and was a friendly character who bred rabbits and guinea pigs in his tiny back garden.
Winston earned his living as the postman for Elsinby, covering several tiny villages, including Waindale, Ploatby and Thackerston. He knew everyone and they knew him; he was the kind of good-hearted fellow who would undertake any of the chores 1 have already mentioned but who expected nothing in return. His tastes were simple and he was always whistling and singing as he went about his multifarious jobs. And to do his work, he rode a red post-office bicycle with a large front tray which sometimes seemed too full of parcels to be safe on the roads. Yet he coped, even if he did sometimes wobble.
Like all his rural colleagues, his round began very early each morning, about 6.30, and when I was undertaking any of my early patrols, we would often meet. We would stop for a chat and would swop yarns — we’d mention people we knew who might have developed the need for a quiet helping hand, or if there had been any crimes in the locality; I would ask if he’d seen any suspicious characters in the area. In his work, he saw far more than I, and so I could warn him of outbreaks of housebreaking, damage or vandalism, and he told the householders to beware of strangers and to lock up their goods. He kept a constant eye open for malefactors and we had a good mutual understanding.
I found it odd, therefore, one Friday morning, when I couldn’t find him. There had been a hit-and-run accident near Elsinby; I knew he would be in the village, so where had he gone? I needed to find him urgently to ask him about the incident.
The reason for my anxiety began about 7.15 a.m. one late January morning. A 22-year-old girl called Jenny Green was riding her bicycle from Ploatby to Elsinby along the narrow lane which linked the two communities. It was a frosty morning and there were patches of ice on the roads; furthermore, it was dark, but Jenny knew the dangers and was riding carefully. She was on her way to Elsinby to catch the 7.30 a.m. bus to York where she worked in a shop. It was a trip she undertook every working day, even on Saturdays. She returned early on Wednesdays, however, that being her half-day. Each day, she left her bike in a shed behind the Hopbind Inn and rode home after work, her return bus arriving just after six o’clock. It was a long day, but she claimed she enjoyed the work and the chance to be involved in a city environment.
On that Friday morning, she had been riding along the correct side of the road, with her bike properly illuminated, when a car had approached her from behind. Jenny, upon hearing the car and seeing the spread of its lights about her as it came nearer, had eased to the left so that she was almost riding on the verge. But the front wing or some other part of the car had collided with her right handlebar; the impact had unbalanced Jenny and thrown her off her bike and into the hedge. The offending car had not stopped, but in her distress, Jenny had not noticed any material details; she couldn’t even say whether it was a large or small, red or blue, Austin, Ford, Vauxhall or Rolls-Royce, nor had she noticed its registration number.
Fortunately, Jenny wasn’t badly hurt although she did suffer a few cuts and bruises and a lot of scratches from the thorns of the hedge. Her clothes were also torn, she had ripped her nice winter top coat, and the front wheel of her bike was buckled. She was more angry than injured and hurried to a nearby cottage
for help. I was told about the accident some twenty-five minutes after it had happened, long enough for the offending car to reach York and get lost in the traffic, but I hurried to Jenny’s parents’ home in Ploatby. I found her battered bicycle outside with Jenny in the kitchen, sipping a cup of hot sweet tea as her mother fussed like a broody hen. I established that she did not need medical attention; Mum would see to the scratches.
I tried to take firm details but Jenny could not provide me with any hint as to the identity of the car; the only thing she could say was that it had never passed her on any previous morning. Normally, no one passed her during that short ride. Only when she reached Elsinby did she see other people and cars.
That morning, of course, she hadn’t got as far as Elsinby and so no one there could help.
She was adamant that the car’s nearside mudguard or even its wing-mirror had touched her handlebar and unbalanced her, and from that I doubted whether the car would be damaged. Maybe the driver had no idea he’d touched her? That was possible — if his wing mirror had caused the problem, the smallest touch could have unbalanced Jenny. I finished up with no description of the offending car, other than it was well illuminated and it was not driving at excessive speed. That tended to rule out a stolen vehicle being used by a joy-rider.
Nonetheless, I rang our Sub-Divisional office to circulate the car as being involved in a hit-and-run accident, thinking that if the car was going about some illicit mission it might attract attention elsewhere. I realized that it must have driven through Elsinby moments after upskittling Jenny, so perhaps someone there had noticed it? Someone like Postie Win?
By the time I had taken Jenny’s statement, measured the scene and circulated details, it was almost nine o’clock, and when I began inquiries in Elsinby, most of the people who’d been around at 7.30ish had gone to work. But Postie would be around.
I began to look for him, hoping to catch him emerging from a cottage, but I never saw him. Nor did I see his familiar red bike. I began to grow concerned — I hoped the offending car had not knocked him off his bike too!
Was he lying hurt in a ditch somewhere? Had he been knocked into the stream which ran through the village? Was he lying in a hedge, or unconscious in someone’s back garden? I toured Elsinby in my van, looking for Postie and his bike, but failed to find him. I must admit I was growing worried, for he was always delivering in the village around this time. Just after 9.15,1 decided to call at his home. Perhaps he was ill? I had to know.
Mrs Charlesworth answered my knock. ‘Is your Win about?’ I asked.
‘He’ll be at the school,’ she smiled, checking her watch.
‘Of course!’ I had forgotten about the school. It lay half a mile out of Elsinby along a narrow lane, and because there were no cottages there, I’d forgotten he might call there with any letters and had omitted to search that area. I told Mrs Charlesworth the reason for my call and she said she’d ring the Greens to ask after Jenny; maybe she’d need some ointment picking up from the chemist’s? Win would see to that if she asked him …
As I drove towards the school, I was relieved to see the familiar red bike leaning against the wall with its front tray full of parcels and letters. As I climbed from my van to walk towards the school I could hear the children singing their morning hymns: it was assembly time. And then, as I reached the gate, I could see Postie Win.
He was standing at the head of the class, conducting the children and singing louder than them, thoroughly enjoying a spirited rendering of ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind’. And he had a superb voice. I wondered whether to go in … but he spotted me and beckoned me inside. I decided I could justify this intrusion because I could ask if any of the children had seen the car — it was hardly likely, but some youngsters did get up early to feed their ferrets or rabbits, walk their dogs and milk their goats.
The headmistress smiled a welcome.
‘Hello, Mr Rhea. Come in. We’re just finishing assembly.’
‘I see you’ve got a good singer there!’ I laughed.
‘Winston always comes to sing with us,’ she said. ‘Every morning. He leads the children in their hymns.’
At this, Winston joined us. ‘I love a good sing-song,’ he said. ‘Well, I must be off.’
I halted him and told the story of the hit-and-run, but he couldn’t help — he hadn’t seen the car. With the teacher’s help, I asked the children too, but they all shook their heads. I thanked them for helping me and the headmistress asked me to call back sometime, by prior arrangement, to tell them about my work. I said it would be a pleasure. I walked out with Winston and he said he’d keep his eyes and ears open for the car; maybe it was a newcomer to the area, maybe this was his first day at work and he was rushing … it was all maybes.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And well done, singing like that with the children.’
‘I love a good sing-song,’ he laughed. ‘Singing with those kids gives me a marvellous start to the day. I call in every morning. You can’t beat a bit of hymn-singing with the bairns to remind you what life’s all about. Well, I must be off.’
‘Where to now?’ I asked.
‘Old Mr Coates,’ he said. ‘I light his fire for him every morning. Then it’s Miss Bowes. Her washing machine’s playing up -1 think it needs a new belt so I said I’d fix it …’
‘It’s a busy life, being a postman,’ I laughed.
‘Being a postman’s the easy bit!’ he chuckled as he rode off. And then he called, ‘I’d better pop in to see if Jenny Green wants anything, eh? Maybe her bike needs fixing!’
I was to learn that he had straightened the buckled front wheel by the simple expedient of laying the wheel flat on the ground and jumping on its rim. It had sprung back into shape. Jenny took the following day, a Saturday, off work and resumed on the Monday, riding her bike as usual to catch the bus.
I had learned a little more about the philosophy and routine of a local postman, but we never did find that offending car.
*
Mortimer Micklethwaite was another rustic postman, but his achievements did not meet the high standards of those undertaken by Postie Win.
In fact, Mortimer’s achievements were practically nil because he was no good at anything. Born to ageing parents, and having suffered the trauma of being born in an era when medical care was not of a high standard, poor Mortimer was one of life’s losers. Some said that if he’d been a tup lamb or a bull calf, he’d have received better care from the vet than he did from the aged midwife who’d delivered him.
Some said his mother had been frightened by a mad donkey just before Mortimer’s birth, some said she’d seen a ghost as Mortimer was entering the world, and others claimed she’d seen the devil himself, but whatever had gone wrong at birth had resulted in Mortimer being rather simple. His mental capacity was likened to that of a frog, so by no stretch of the imagination could Mortimer be described as a bright lad. Locally, it was said he was as fond as a scuttle, as empty as a blown egg, as daft as brush or as soft as putty. In Yorkshire, the word fond, in this instance, means stupid. Poor Mortimer was rarely flattered or praised.
He and his parents lived in Crampton where his father had a joiner’s shop tucked away behind a huddle of red-roofed limestone cottages just off Dale Street. Arthur Micklethwaite was a craftsman, there is no doubt about that, and one of my joys was to visit his workshop, there to watch him at work amid the powerful scents of seasoned timber and wood shavings. His workshop was always warm, even in the depths of winter, and he never seemed to hurry yet always delivered commissions on time.
He did a lot of work for Crampton Estate and his immaculately finished products ranged from superb dining furniture to five-bar farmyard gates via coffins and church benches. He’d even made cart-wheels as a lad and was still a proficient wheelwright, sometimes creating them for people who wanted them to adorn their gardens and patios. A visit to Crampton today will reveal many of Arthur’s cart-wheels still adorning village walls and gardens.
Within a couple of years of my arrival at Aidensfield, Arthur had died, leaving his business to Mortimer. After all, he was Arthur’s only son, and with a bit of coaxing from his mother, Annie, the lad might just be able to scrape a living. But Annie was also in her eighties and a little frail and although she did know a lot about the running of the business, she was unable to provide Mortimer with the necessary full-time guidance. But Mortimer did try.
One brave householder, a newcomer to the village, commissioned Mortimer, now hailing himself as Crampton’s Cabinet Maker, Undertaker and Wheelwright, to replace some rotten window frames. A local person would never have taken that risk but Mr Slater, a retired businessman from Liverpool, did not know of Mortimer’s weaknesses and believed in making use of rural craftsmen. The task was simple — three cottage-style windows along the front of Mr Slater’s country home had rotten frames which must be replaced. Mr Slater would be away for two weeks during which time the work could be done. Mortimer, so proud at being asked to do such an important job, said he’d fix them.
I was in the village when Mortimer’s handiwork was being fitted into the gaping hole from where he had removed the first window. I halted out of curiosity, my interest being aroused by the sight of the diminutive Mortimer actually doing some work. One of his father’s old friends was helping.
Mortimer, a mere five feet tall with a long face and thin, sandy hair, was clad in his father’s old apron with an array of tools in the front pocket like a kangeroo’s pouch. The two men were attempting to fit the window frame into the gaping hole. But from my vantage point at the other side of the road, it was clearly impossible. Mortimer’s newly made window, devoid of glass, was far too small for the hole they had created by removing the existing one, and it was the wrong size for either of the remaining two window spaces.
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 13
