---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v104) (the March 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book It Was All Preordained (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 320 page January-April 2012 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book After the Apocalypse (prose edition) (the 2012 prose collection book)		get this poem collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Postman, The Toys and The Streets of Meadowbank South

Matt Barden

    People should always know their postman by name. That was the boss’s motto at the city sorting office, conscious of Royal Mail’s image and the decreasing popularity of postal services in the era of i-this and e-that.
    Ray Chubb lived by this motto. His patch may have looked like an unremarkable polygon on any map, a chicken-leg of land squashed between river and canal and separated from Victoria Park by the main railway line, but in reality, at street-level, it was a hive of people. The grassy floodplain that gave Meadowbank its name had long been concreted over as the city spread like a leak across a kitchen floor, but the inhabitants of its streets and terraces and roads were important to Ray. And he was important to them. The neighbourhood watch had fallen to allegations of voyeurism. The residents’ association was ruled by Capt. Bletsoe and stood essentially for the interests of Capt. Bletsoe. In a place where the Big Society was just another kind of B.S., where the milkmen had been replaced by a conveyor-belt of supermarkets and where there were more boobies on the street than Bobbies on the beat, the postman was the friendly face of the community.
    “Morning Mrs Hutton,” he’d say with a smile. “How’s Alf?”
    He knew in which homes lived men who worked and in which slept men who would arise at pub opening time. He knew the names of the kids and could tell their approaching birthdays by the increase in the number of hand-written envelopes addressed to them. Even in the high-rise flats where the children didn’t get many cards, Ray would still spot the balloons hanging from windows like a psychedelic version of a barber’s pole. “Hello Mrs Watts, say happy birthday to Wayne for me.”
    As postman, he was trusted; Ray knew under which paving slab the Borthwicks kept the spare key. He kept his ears and eyes open; Ray could tell when a family had gone on holiday.
    “Do you need a hand there Ray?”
    “Oh no thank you Tommy, Mrs Hutton asked me to drop these parcels in their garage. Don’t mind me.”
    Ray began to tell which packages would contain cash sent from overseas and which houses had the most spoilt children. It wasn’t rare for mail to go missing at the sorting office for an inordinate length of time, so pocketing envelopes aroused little suspicion. Once inside an empty house, it was easy to find an Mp3 player and hide it in his big blue jacket.
    The local evening paper just blamed the crime rate on the lack of police officers, the police blamed the councillors, the council blamed politicians, politicians blamed the migrants, the immigrants blamed the working class, the poor blamed the middle class and the middle class complained to the local paper. No-one thought about the postmen. No-one suspected Ray on his bike.
    The next summer Ray approached his manager, his shirt drenched in sweat. “Can I swap the bike for a van please?”
    “A van in this weather Ray? Are you sure?”
    “I’d prefer the van- less hard work for an old codger like me.”
    “You do insist on wearing your coat though Ray, that can’t help.”
    “Appearances are everything Steve, you taught me that. No, I’ll take the van, no problem. The other lads will prefer to be on foot when the sun’s out anyway.”
    Ray soon found that he didn’t need the coat: the van’s bright red colour and the Royal Mail insignia provided more benefit. He could park on the empty driveways of the larger houses in Meadowbank South, where the fathers worked and where the mothers congregated at coffee shops and leisure centres. Anyone watching would see him take the parcel to the front door, then try around the back and then bring it unsuccessfully back to the van. But Ray was careful not to let them see him retrieve keys from under garden ornaments, or take more items away than he had bought with him.
    December was particularly lucrative, irrespective of Ray’s mode of transport. Everyone celebrated Christmas in the city, even the poor and the Bangladeshis.
    “Merry Christmas Mrs Iqbal. Looks like another card for young Taj.”
    “Thank you Ray; here, have some of these shingaras. And have this little something on us; get you and your family a treat.”
    “Very kind of you, but I’d rather not,” said Ray, embarrassed by her generosity and momentarily ashamed by the teddy bear that he had snuck from Taj’s bedroom two days previously and that currently occupied a pile of toys in his spare room.
    Ray pulled the furry lining of his red coat tight around his chin and clapped his hands together. This December had been colder than for several years and the gradual incline through the cemetery was frozen hard. In the far corner, steam rose plumb straight from the chimney atop the groundskeepers’ hut. Reaching his destination, he knelt down by a small, beautifully-carved headstone.
    “Rest my beautiful one,” he murmured, his tears reassuringly warm on his cold cheek. “I hope God is looking after you. I miss you so much.”
    The bear he took from his bag had a red ribbon around his neck, shining bright against the black fur. Placing it on the grave, he brushed the ice from the grey stone.
    “Merry Christmas my child,” he prayed.
    After his tears had dried, Ray drove his rented white van to the hospital. He grabbed the pillow from the passenger seat and stuffed it inside his coat.
    “So good to see you, Mr Chubb,” said the matron as he approached.
    “You too matron,” he said. “You’re in my prayers this Christmas.”
    “And you in mine.”
    Ray slowly shook hands with each of the nurses in turn and followed matron, his two giant sacks of toys balanced over his shoulder.
    “Ho ho ho,” he laughed loudly. For the occupants of the children’s ward, he’d make sure it would be the best Christmas ever.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...