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- Herausgeber: Merlin Unwin Books
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Liam Mulvin loves his job as a country postman. For decades he has crossed farmyards, fields and hills to deliver the mail to his appreciative rural customers. Liam shares here, in a series of short essays, the country characters he comes across, the unexpected dilemmas and dramas he encounters as he goes about his work. He muses about the unusual wildlife behaviour he observes, he battles with the weather – and he delivers the mail, come what may. This is a refreshing celebration of a rural community which functions best when knitted together by those cheerful workers, like Liam, who go that extra mile.
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To my wonderful daughters, Fiona and Lucy and to my beloved wife Linda for her unfailing support and encouragement in getting me to believe in myself and in my writing
Contents
Don’t Worry, He Doesn’t Bite
Above are the five simple words that have increased my anxiety levels over the years tenfold. Never a claim made by most dog owners, inevitably they are uttered by an innocent customer who truly believes what he or she is saying, namely that their dog:
a) Can do no wrong at all
b) Is as obedient and intelligent as Lassie
c) Can be controlled by said owner via voice alone
Only once in his career does a postman believe this claim – and that is the first time he hears it. Never again will those five little words bring him any other feelings except terror.
These words ‘Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite,’ are the opening salvo to which two further sentences will then be added.
Swiftly follows the most incredulous, shocked voice you will ever hear in your life, stating:
‘Well, he’s never done that before!’
Which then leads, as night follows day, to the third line which is delivered smoothly and glibly,
‘You must have done something to upset him.’
When faced with any unknown dog, I wish to assure the world on behalf of all Posties everywhere: it is a dead cert that none of us has the least intention of upsetting anything that has teeth.
Most dogs are friendly whenever you meet them and that’s in the nature of things. However, we do understand certain principles a dog must abide by. He is after all a pack animal by nature; and territorial and protective, he will defend his home and his pack if he feels there is danger.
The female can be even worse if she believes the young of the pack are being threatened; no sane Postie will get between a mother and her young: that’s suicidal.
But in the cases of the ‘biters’, I look at the owners and ask myself: is it just possible the fault of the aggressive dog could lie with someone else, perhaps?
Royal Mail Shorts
One of the most frequent questions I’m asked as a postman is: ‘Why are you wearing shorts?’
In fairness, this question is normally put to me in the depths of winter when it is raining, snowing, or blowing a hoolie.
Normally, before I have time to answer, I am thrown a few suggestions that the questioner thinks might be my reasons, namely:
Is it for a bet?
Is it for charity?
Has something happened to your normal trousers?
or – the most popular one –
Are you mad?
I don’t recall ever being asked any of these questions as a young schoolboy back in the Fifties and Sixties when I wore exactly the same basic ensemble, as part of my school uniform. Nobody seemed in the least concerned about me getting cold in the depths of winter then.
The reality for me (and I expect a lot of other Posties as well) is very simple: wearing shorts is the most comfortable way of doing the job. We work a very physical day which is different from most other physical jobs in that we are constantly moving from A to B. From the moment I leave the office, I am walking; from the moment I leave my van, I am hurrying. I walk up hill and down dale, climb steps and walk paths; I am moving all the time.
Shorts keep my legs cool and stop me overheating; and most of us don’t feel the cold when the blood is pumping through the old veins.
Of course, sometimes it’s really cold. An east wind blowing snowflakes up the leg of your shorts is not a fun way of working, believe me. However, when it rains, I would sooner have bare legs than have cold, sopping wet trousers flapping around and clinging to me. Amazingly, bare legs stay warmer and they certainly do dry off quicker.
I learnt that as a schoolboy. Try it yourself – it works.
Surprise Visitor
There is a strict rule in Royal Mail that ‘no unauthorised passengers’ are allowed in the mail vans. I had one in mine the other day… and he came through the window!! The van was parked in somebody’s driveway, I returned and climbed in, and there he was.
Sitting quietly in my mail tray on the front passenger seat, and looking like he owned the place, was a small Robin Redbreast. Did he know that postmen were called ‘Robins’ in earlier times because of their red jacketed uniforms?
Unafraid and seeming at ease in his surroundings, he watched me across the gear stick, and cocked his head on one side. I gazed spellbound at him for a moment and then grinned.
‘I can’t drive this thing with you sitting there.’
Unconcerned by this revelation he cocked his head on the other side before hopping around the edge of my post tray and getting closer to me. He then turned his head and his sharp eyes seemed to peer into every part of the van.
Obviously used to being in close proximity to humans, he happily hopped and fluttered around the van before flying up and standing on top of the steering wheel. He was barely an inch away from my hand.
Warm black eyes stared brightly at me from above a smart red breast, as each of us quietly regarded the other.
It was a magical moment.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I whispered, as his head bobbed up and down, before he tilted it first one way and then the other. Time stood still for a brief moment as he bade a silent goodbye, and then, with a flutter, he turned and flew out of the window.
That close connection, wild creature and human being, touched my very soul.
Bath Night
As I walk my rounds, I have time to remember my childhood and the different kind of rural life we led. Bath night in our cottage was Saturday night. That was mainly because we had church early on Sunday morning.
With a good fire lit in the copper and several buckets of water getting hot, we knew that that was Dad’s cue to bring in the bath. Six feet long, it hung on a nail on the back wall.
Dad lugged it in and put it down in the living room just in front of the fireplace. The fire would be burning with a deep red glow. Mum would then switch the telly off because she didn’t want electrics working with all that water about.
She and Dad would then fill the bath with several buckets of cold water before pouring in the hot from the copper. Then my little sister and I would be hustled into the kitchen and Dad would have first dibs at the bath.
There would be much to-ing and fro-ing to get the water temperature just right and Dad would settle in. He never got a chance for a soak because Mum saw to that. Within ten minutes or so she would have Dad out of the bath. He was expected to be washed and clean.
She would empty away a couple of buckets of water from the bath and then top it up with more hot before she got in. Ten minutes later history would repeat itself…then it was our turn.
There was me at one end, sister at the other; and Mum and Dad washing the pair of us as if our lives depended on it. The already grimy water went darker as our hair was washed and bodies scrubbed.
Then we would be dried off and into the pyjamas while Dad emptied the bath onto his vegetable patch.
What a performance for a weekly bath!
Circus in Town
You can see some very strange sights in our British countryside.
Forty years ago, as a very young and junior postman, I was cycling towards one of my more unusual calls. The circus was in town and my duty crossed the meadow where the whole thing was pitched.
I had been told to look for the ‘booking office’ caravan because that had a letterbox.
Turning off the lane to cross the footbridge, I glanced down the river and slammed my brakes on in surprise. A trumpeting cry greeted me as three elephants and their attendants waded out into the water.
With evident delight the three elephants proceeded to splash water everywhere as they waded about and submitted to the good scrub-down they were receiving from three stiff yard brooms.
Their huge size seemed very intimidating to me, and I was amazed at just how casually the three attendants moved amongst them. However, even to my untrained eye, I noticed that the keepers kept tactile contact with their charges, a simple way of communicating position and intent.
The elephants too, seemed to consider their keepers’ positions before moving through the water. Aside from the vigorous scrub-downs, the whole thing was conducted with a gentleness I didn’t expect. More than once, a scratch or a pat from a human hand was rewarded with an affectionate trunk lightly placed across a shoulder.
My biggest surprise however was the reaction of our native animals. The aquatic birdlife, after the initial panic, soon settled down and ignored the events taking place. Bobbing about on the disturbed water, they continued to forage for food, both in the river and on the bank, totally unafraid.
It was a study in harmony from three very different species, and a pleasure to observe.
Derelict Farm Buildings
There always seems to be the odd building or two in the rural areas I drive the post van which seem to have outlived their usefulness. They sit quietly, as nature takes them over.
Weeds start to grow up inside the building. Some grow so tall you can see their heads nodding out of the windows. Stinging nettles form huge clumps of anguish in the doorways which quickly prevent anybody going in to clear up.
Before long, animals and birds are the only life that enters the place. They drop seeds via one means or another, which in turn bring more vegetation into the building. It isn’t long before some sapling grows tall and spindly as it looks for the sunshine.
I guess it is these saplings that end up breaking any remaining windows. Slowly over time, the wooden bits of the building begin to rot and decay. Insects, as well as the weather, will all take their toll on untreated wood.
It is now, as the building starts to weaken, that wind, sunlight and rain launch their most ferocious attacks on the structure. The roof is normally one of the first constructs to go. The wind lifts tiles and whatever lies beneath. The rain then enters through these gaps and does its worst, by soaking everything and destroying it. With sunlight warping and cracking what it can, it is not long before something has to give.
An old empty barn I drive by has been much ravaged by time and weather over the last year or two. Providing shelter for both flora and fauna, it has slowly buckled and creaked its way into oblivion.
The other day proved to be too much for it. A combination of driving wind and rain has finally caused this old building to partially collapse.
Its days are numbered now.
Broken Eggs
When I was very young, we lived in a cottage, on a farm on the Surrey/Hampshire border. It was an idyllic childhood and I was very lucky. One of only three children in the whole area, we were all given a lot of leeway by the adults around us. My mother told me of one such chap who lived to regret his indulgence towards us.
We three children weren’t related and all aged about four years old. One early morning found the three of us, with our Mums, walking past a small farm and heading towards the village shops.
The old farmer had been collecting eggs which seemed to be hidden all over the place. He was carrying a galvanised bucket which he was filling with any he found. He stopped to chat to our Mums, but without consulting them first, he turned to the three of us and asked if we would like to collect any eggs we could find and put them in the bucket. He then compounded the error by turning the whole thing into a competition of who could collect the most eggs in the quickest time.
The Mums went white as we hurtled off around the farmyard and hunted for the eggs. Cries of ‘Don’t break any’, and ‘Be gentle with them’, fell on deaf ears. Like the other two, I was determined to collect the most and be quickest.
Minutes later the three of us dashed back to the bucket with a handful of eggs each. To be first, we all had the same idea at the same time, and hurled our eggs into the bucket.
The noise resembled a ‘splashing crunch’ my Mum said. Three very embarrassed parents dragged us away from a very purple-faced farmer.
He never asked us again.
Christmas Eve
When I was very young, a great favourite on the radio was Listen with Mother.
A few days before Christmas one year, the lady from Listen with Mother told us a story about the animals on the farms. She said that if you were in the stables or barns at midnight on Christmas Eve, you would hear the animals talk to each other.
Excitedly, I rushed to tell my parents. My news didn’t seem to fill them with the same sense of wonder that it had me and I was surprised. It appealed to them even less when I asked if we could go out to the barns on Christmas Eve and hear the animals chatting away. This incredible way of spending Christmas Eve didn’t seem to interest them at all.
My parents and their neighbours all informed me that if I was outside at midnight to hear the animals then Father Christmas would not be able to visit the house and leave me any gifts.
But by Christmas Eve I had a plan… and it was a good one.
I lay in bed until Mum and Dad finished saying goodnight and my sister was asleep, before getting up and putting on my dressing gown. I slipped down to the scullery and got my wellies on, and then sat with the dog in the dog basket in order to wait until midnight. I figured the dog and I would nip out at midnight and I would hear the animals and probably see Father Christmas as well. Foolproof.
I woke up in bed the following morning. Not only did I not know how I got there, I never saw Santa or heard the animals talking. I could only assume magic had been used.
To this day, I’m still waiting to hear the animals talking.
First Wages
The first wages I ever earned were for standing with my little sister and cousin at the entrance to the cowyard in the village of Wishanger and stopping the cows from going in.
The men were taking the cows along the road to another field. The old chap in charge asked us if we would stand at the cowyard entrance and shoo the cows away.
For this first job I earned a threepenny bit; we all did. I remember rushing home to show Mum…and that was the last I saw of my thruppence.
The next money earned was when I reached eight years old. I started working with my Dad on his milk round; just weekends and holidays. Up at 4am with him and we worked a good eight hour shift together. Lots of dashing around and no chance of sitting watching him work. It was full bottles going in, empty bottles coming out; I helped him when I could for six years. My old Dad paid me the princely sum of a shilling a day for it.
Aged 14 or 15 I got a job as a paperboy. Seven days a week, I did three hours a day before school, marking up paper rounds and delivering a round of my own. I got nearly four shillings an hour with five shillings an hour on the Sunday. Some weeks I took home a fiver in total!
After that I went gardening and odd jobbing for five shillings an hour before finally joining Royal Mail on the princely sum of £14.32 a week plus overtime.
I’ve never earned a fortune but those jobs and responsibilities I had as a child and young man taught me that you have to earn your wages and nothing is just given to you. It was a very good grounding.
Climbing Trees
A couple of years ago, some old friends and I arranged to visit the area where we grew up together. We had all lived in houses that backed onto a recreation ground.
The huge gated field was in use throughout the summer as a cricket ground. In one corner of the ground stood the cricket pavilion and nets; the pavilion was a great place to play in if it was raining.
What interested us most of all was the fact that the whole field was surrounded by trees. Although some of the trees were fir, the vast majority were good-sized oak, beech, conker trees, and sweet chestnut trees.
For the next six years these trees became our world. Most had low branches to help us get up into the tree.
I spent most of the day up in the trees with my mates. We would climb as high as we could until the tree was too thin to hold us. None of us considered it dangerous to swing on a branch thirty or forty feet off the ground.
When the wind blew strongly we would cling to the trunk as it swayed back and forth and just laugh with the sheer joy of being alive. We would hide in amongst the leaves and watch the people walking on the ground. They never looked up. It was our world and we loved it. Sometimes one of us fell out of a tree; the branches broke the fall…and we always re-climbed the tree.
There is an old saying about never going back…you won’t like what you see. We went back to our field, our trees. Every tree had been trimmed of branches to prevent people climbing them. Our world in the trees will never exist for the next generation of youngsters.
Country Sayings
My old great-granny had a large arsenal of wise old country sayings which she would fire off at a moment’s notice if the need arose.
If the sky was red at night, she knew it would be a nice day when she got up the next morning.
On any morning if it was pouring down with rain, she would simply do her indoor tasks first, knowing that if it was ‘rain before seven, it’s sun by eleven’. She was certain it would be drier outside later in the day.
On the other hand, if all the cows were lying down in the field, she would bustle about outside getting her chores done before the promised deluge came down, indicated by the cow’s behaviour.
One of her most favourite seasonal sayings was, ‘Never cast your clout ’til May is out’. I used to puzzle over that one, wondering what a clout really was beyond the one I often received on my ear.
She explained that your clout meant your winter clothing and the idea was to always wear it until the start of the summer which she insisted started on 1st June. It seems my great-granny always wore a thick coat and hat from 1st October until 1st June, no matter what the weather was, because those were the rules.
I should think great-granny would have been furious to see me rushing around in my postman’s shorts in the winter months.
She swore by these sayings and believed every one of them.
She had a point though. In that summery weather, one Saturday my wife and I saw two swallows swooping over the garden. The next day we awoke to a hard frost and barely any sign of summer at all.
One swallow doesn’t make…
Dinosaur Machinery
Have you ever noticed how huge and terrifying some farm machinery looks?
The other day I came face to face with one of these, and in mere moments, I felt like I was its prey.
The small country lanes I work in are very narrow and twisted. At times I can barely see a van-length ahead of me so my driving is slow and painstaking. I approached a sharp, left hand bend at a slow speed. Cautiously I crept around it before slamming my brakes on in a panic.
Creeping the other way and now almost directly above my windscreen appeared the sharp-toothed bucket of some type of farm machine. It was attached to the body of the vehicle by an incredibly long hydraulic arm, which thrust itself up and out straight ahead.
If the bucket had turned to look down at me I would not have been surprised. For all the world it looked as if a tyrannosaurus rex had been resurrected from extinction and plonked into a Cornish lane.
Instinct took over and in a blink of an eye I had stopped, slapped the van into reverse, and shot backwards about twenty feet into a wider section of road. The analogy of prey and hunter loomed large in my imagination as the head on the long powerful neck turned towards me and advanced closer.
It was roaring loudly now and I felt powerless beneath its gaze. I knew I was going to be eaten! It crept inexorably onwards towards me before straightening up and continuing past.
The driver gave me a toot and a wave of thanks for letting him go by, and I was free to go.
An ordinary and normal daily incident had, for just a moment, given me an insight into hunter and prey – prehistoric style.
Drinking Tea
I switched off the kettle and tipped the boiling water into my mug. The teabag rose with the level of the liquid and settled quietly in the resulting brew as I added milk and sugar. In moments I had drifted out into the garden and perched on the wall to begin the process of waking up.
I looked into my mug and watched the teabag drifting around as I sipped my tea. I don’t think my old Nan would have been pleased with my cavalier attitude which would have shocked her.
She never used a tea bag in her life.
Any teabags misguidedly brought into her home were quietly snipped open and the dust enclosed added to a caddy of loose leaf tea.
As her kettle boiled she would lay the tray. Doily first, followed by teacup/mug and saucer. The now-boiling kettle would have part of its contents swilled around the teapot. Once warmed; the water would be tipped out and the spoons of tea added; one spoon per person and one for the pot, followed by the boiling water.
The lid and teacosy would then be added. On a special ledge in front of the fire, an old enamel kettle would stand, quietly venting steam out of its spout.
The milk would go in each cup first, followed by the tea. Nan always used a tea strainer to catch the leaves as they rushed out of the spout. These were soon tapped back into the pot.
Sugar was added and the tea could then be sipped and drunk. It took longer to prepare than it did to drink. If the teapot needed refilling Nan would use the brown enamel kettle to top up.
I have to admit that my tea making might be quicker – but it never tastes as good as Nan’s.
Fir Cones
My great-granny lived in a small Devon village all her life. Her time spanned the late Victorian years through to the first man walking on the moon. She witnessed a great deal of the progress of mankind and all the marvels and menaces of the modern age.
She also had a great way about her of ignoring most of these new things and sticking with the tried and trusted methods of her generation. Never a ‘Luddite’ nor closed minded to labour-saving devices and conveniences, she still preferred what she was comfortable with.
This was never more so than with her conviction of the benefits of open fires in the house.
‘If I just flicked a switch to make the cottage warm and cosy I’d never get dressed in the morning. As it is I have to go in and out for logs and coal. I’m not doing that in my nightie.’
Her other reason for her open fire was less practical but just as endearing.
