Second Class Post

He pushed open the regulation green door of the small post office. Mary, the postmistress, sat behind the glass of one of two at the end of the small room festooned with official notices about this and that. They were of little interest to him. Behind her, her husband, earphones on, manned the local telephone exchange that fulfilled the connection needs of the few people at the bottom of the village and the telephone box in the centre that covered the rest of the 400 odd souls. He turned his head and nodded to the new customer.

“Friday again Dermot. I’ve prepared the envelope for you. Second class stamp as usual I suppose. How much do you want to send this week?”

Dermot nodded. He reached inside his donkey jacket, spattered in mud from the winter building site, and pulled out the brown pay packet.

“Twenty as usual Mary. No need to break old habits.” He pulled the two tens out and passed them under the glass screen. Mary had already half- finished filling in the postal order. She thumped the official stamp in the space provided and slid it back to Dermot with the stamped addressed envelope.

“How’s that brother of yours doing in England? I see he still rings his mother at the phone box at 6 o’clock on Sunday. He was always a good lad. I usually cut in a couple of minutes before if there is someone else in the box. Most people understand when I tell them the call is from England. Fits in nicely for your mother to take the call before she goes up to the church for the devotions. Two birds with one stone.”

“He’s still at the nursing. I don’t get to speak to him that often. The mother always takes the call by herself. She insists there isn’t enough room for two in the box. Even the father doesn’t go with her. I suppose you know as much as me about how he is doing what with you managing the exchange at weekends”

People in the village were convinced that Mary had the facility to listen into calls. Her love of gossip sometimes made her volunteer information that could only have been gleaned from that source.

Mary eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’d be otherwise engaged that time on a Sunday evening getting ready for work on the Monday.”

“Well Mary I can’t say I ever found the church very interested in the likes of me. At least when I hand in my money at Eamonn’s I’ll get something in return. I don’t see any return for money in the collection plate and I can’t afford to wait until the next life to see if there’s any benefit.”

Mary’s husband, who was getting interested in the conversation, turned back to the flashing light on the telephone exchange.

Dermot picked up the envelope with his own name and address written in Mary’s careful handwriting, slid the postal order inside, licked and sealed it and deposited it in the slit of the green letterbox on the wall.

Mary’s well known nosiness got the better of her.

“Dermot, I have to ask you why you post money to yourself every payday.”

“Dermot looked round to make sure he was still the only customer.

“Well between you me and the wall Mary it’s very simple. As I’m sure you know I’m partial to the odd pint. If I keep all the money at home it will be gone by Monday. It’s hard to go through the rest of the week in this godforsaken place with nothing else to do. And I’m sure there’s no need to tell you that the second class post in this country is unpredictable so I can be sure I won’t get this envelope before Tuesday or Wednesday. That postal order will see me nicely through until next payday.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “Well Dermot. I thought I’d heard everything, but that beats Banagher.”

“Now Mary, before I go, only you and I know about the contribution the Post office makes to my financial arrangements. So I don’t expect to be hearing about it from anyone else.”

Before she could reply he turned away from the counter, pulled up the collar of his working jacket and headed out into the winter evening.

Excerpt from Big Tom or Ozzy by Bill Griffin