Lark Rise to Candleford (61 page)

Working hours in such small post offices as that where Laura
was employed were then from the arrival of the seven o'clock morning mail till
the office was closed at night, with no weekly half-day off and Sunday not
entirely free, for there was a Sunday morning delivery of letters and an
outward mail to be made up in the evening. Slave's hours, she was told by those
employed directly by Government in the larger post offices, where they worked
an eight-hour-day. And so they would have been had life moved at its present-day
pace. At that time life moved in a more leisurely manner; the amount of
business transacted in such village post offices was smaller and its nature
more simple, there were no complicated forms with instructions for filling in
to be dealt out to the public, no Government allowances to be paid, and the
only pensions were the quarterly ones to ex-Service men, of whom there would
not be more than three or four in such a place. During the day there were long,
quiet intervals in which meals could be taken in comparative peace, or reading
or knitting were possible, while where two were engaged in the business, as at
Candleford Green, there were opportunities of getting out into the fresh air.

Most important of all, there was leisure for human contacts.
Instead of rushing in a crowd to post at the last moment, villagers would
stroll over the green in the afternoon to post their letters and stay for a chat,
often bringing an apple or a pear or a nosegay from their gardens for Laura.
There was always at least one pot of cut flowers in the office, pink
moss-roses, sweet williams and lad's love in summer, and in autumn the
old-fashioned yellow-and-bronze button chrysanthemums which filled cottage
gardens at that time.

In time Laura came to know these regular customers well. Some
letter or telegram they had received or were sending opened the way to
confidences and often, afterwards, she was treated as an old friend and would
ask if the daughter in Birmingham had made a good recovery from her confinement,
or if the son in Australia was having better luck, or how the wife's asthma
was, or if the husband had succeeded in getting the job he was trying for. And
they would ask Laura if her people at home were well, or compliment her upon a
new cotton frock she was wearing, or ask her if she liked such-and-such a
flower, because they had some at home they could bring her.

The morning mail arrived from the head office by walking
postman at seven o'clock, and it was Laura's first duty of the day to attend to
the opening of the mailbag and the distribution of its contents in what had in
times past been one of the numerous out-buildings of the house, wash-house,
brew-house, or pantry. New-floored and new-ceiled and with sorting-benches
placed around, it made a convenient little sorting office, although, with no
other means of heating than an oil stove, it was cold there in winter.

Every morning, the postman who had brought the mail remained
to sort out his own letters for the village delivery, and the two women letter-carriers
who did cross-country deliveries to outlying houses and farms had their own
sorting. The elder woman, Mrs. Gubbins, was an old country-woman who wore for
her round a lilac sunbonnet with apron and shawl. She was a crabbed old
creature who seldom spoke beyond grunting a 'Good morning', except when some
local scandal was afoot, when she could be voluble enough. The other postwoman
was still in her thirties and as pleasant in manner as Mrs. Gubbins was
uncouth. Her name was Mrs. Macey, and more will be told about her later.

The morning postman, Thomas Brown, was a stockily built man
with greying hair, who had, as far as was known, always led a quiet,
respectable life. Until recently he had taken great interest in local affairs
and had had such good judgement that he had occasionally been asked to arbitrate
in local disputes. A teetotaller and a non-smoker, his only known vice had been
an addiction to grumbling, especially about the weather, which, he seemed
convinced, was ordered by some one with a special grudge against postmen.

Then, just before Laura knew him, he had been converted at a
chapel revivalist meeting and the people who had formerly lain in wait for him on
his round to ask his advice about their worldly affairs—what, for instance,
could they ask from the M.F.H. for those three hens that old fox'd carried off
in the night, or for the cabbage patch the hunt had trampled—now almost ran in
the opposite direction when they saw him coming, lest he should ask impertinent
questions about their souls. 'How is it with your soul?' he would unblushingly
inquire of any chance-met acquaintance, or, more directly, 'Have you found salvation?'
and, in face of a question like that, what could a man or woman do but mumble and
look silly.

All but Miss Lane, who, suddenly asked in an earnest tone,
'Miss Lane, are you a Christian?' replied haughtily, 'I do not see that whether
I am or not is any business of yours, but, if you particularly want to know, I
am a Christian in the sense that I live in a Christian country and try to order
my life according to Christian teaching. Dogma I leave to those better
qualified than myself to expound, and I advise you to do the same.'

That last was a shrewd thrust, because he had recently become
a local preacher, but he did not feel it as such, for he only shook his grey head
and said mournfully, 'Ah, I see you've not found Christ yet.'

Laura was pleased when she heard that his wife had been
converted, for, outside his home, he found little sympathy. His position seemed
to her quite clear. He had found, as he thought, a priceless treasure which all
mankind might share if they would, and he wanted to make it known to them. The
pity was that he himself was so poor an advertisement of the change of heart he
wished them to experience. His expression and voice when he spoke of Divine
Love failed to light up or to soften, and, although he now declared that he had
been the chief of sinners, his outward life had always been so exemplary that
there could be no sudden change there to illustrate and enforce his new faith.
Moreover, he was still grumbling and censorious.

But at least he had the courage of his convictions. Laura
discovered that in him once when one of the higher officials was paying the
office a visit of inspection. He was a very great man officially and had arrived,
wearing a top-hat and an immaculate morning suit, in the station fly. When the
office had been surveyed and a few criticisms made, none of them very severe,
because the business was really well run and the delicious tea which followed
the survey had softened the edges before they were delivered, he announced that
he had to see Postman Brown, then about due with a letter-box collection.
Laura, quietly sorting the night mail, could not help hearing what was said at
this interview.

'About this new Sunday evening collection, now, began the
surveyor in his high-pitched, public-school-boyish accent, 'I hear you object
to doing it.'

Postman
(subdued, but not intimidated): 'Yes, sir, I
do object.'

Surveyor
: 'On what grounds, may I ask? Your colleagues
have agreed, and there is extra pay for it. It is your place, my man, to carry
out the duties laid down for you by the Department, and I advise you for your
own good to withdraw your objection immediately.'

Postman
(firmly): 'I can't, sir.'

Surveyor
: 'But why, man, why? What do you usually do
on a Sunday evening? Got another job? Because, if so, I warn you that to
undertake outside employment of any kind is against the regulations.'

Postman
(manfully and with spirit): 'My job on Sunday
evenings, sir, is to worship my Creator, who Himself laid down the law,
"Keep holy the Sabbath Day", and I can't go against that, sir.'

By that time the man was trembling. He knew that his post and
the pension he had so nearly earned hung in the balance. He drew out a big red,
white-spotted handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Yet there was still a
certain dignity about him far removed from his ordinary demeanour.

The gentleman appeared to less advantage. His easy, urbane, authoritative
manner dropped from him, and there was an ugly sneer in the way he pronounced
the words: 'Takes a lot out of you, I suppose, this worshipping business!
Better attend to the work which provides you with bread and butter. But you can
go now. I will report what you have said and you will hear further about it.'
Then, to Laura, as Brown went out with a humble 'Good night, sir': 'A
cantankerous man. I know his kind. Out to make trouble. But he will find he
will have to fit in the Sunday evening work with his psalm-singing.'

But, although highly placed, it appeared that Mr. Cochrane
was not all-powerful. Some one at headquarters was more sympathetically
disposed to Sabbatarian principles, or perhaps the head postmaster, who was a
bit of a psalm-singer himself, interceded for Brown, for, after a few weeks of
suspense, he was excused Sunday evening attendance. The other postmen did his
collection with pleasure, for it brought them in a little extra pay, and he
continued to add to his already high weekly walking mileage by tramping the
countryside to preach in little local chapels.

Twice a year the head postmaster from Candleford came to
audit the accounts and made a general survey of the office. This was officially
supposed to be a surprise visit, with the object of detecting any shortage of
cash or neglect of duty, but Mr. Rushton and Miss Lane were on such terms that
on the morning of the day of his intended visitation the head postmaster would
himself come to the telegraph instrument and with his own hands signal to
Laura: 'Please tell Miss Lane I shall be paying her a surprise visit this
afternoon.'

That saved trouble all round. By the time Mr. Rushton's
pony-carriage drew up at the post office door, the account books, sheets of
stamps, postal orders, licences, and so on, together with the cash, ready-counted
in neat piles, would be arranged in readiness on the kitchen table. So the
official business did not take long and, that despatched, the occasion became a
social one.

Tea was laid on the round table in the parlour for Mr.
Rushton's visits, with Miss Lane in her best silk, and a long gold chain twice
round her neck and tucked into her waistband, pouring out tea from the best
silver teapot, Mr. Rushton doing full justice to the country fare (there was once
cold duck on the table), and Laura bobbing in and out between her calls to the
post office counter. The first time she was trusted to warm the pot and put in
the tea from the special caddy for this function, she forgot to put in the tea
and nearly dropped on the floor with nervous terror when the other two stared
blankly at the crystal stream proceeding from the teapot.

After tea the garden and chickens and pigs had to be surveyed
and the pony-cart loaded up with country produce, including a huge, old-fashioned
bouquet of flowers for Mrs. Rushton.

It was an old-fashioned way of conducting business and Mr.
Rushton was an old-fashioned postmaster. He was a neat, middle-aged little man,
very precise in his speech and manner, and with what many considered an exaggerated
sense of his own importance. Pleasant, if somewhat patronizing to well-doers on
his staff, but a terror to the careless and slipshod worker. He was under the
impression that his own office staff adored him. 'The crew of my little ship',
he would say when speaking of those under him, 'the crew of my little ship know
who is captain.' It is sad to have to record that the crew in private spoke of
their captain as 'Holy Joe'.

That was because in private life Mr. Rushton was a pillar of
the Methodist Connexion in Candleford town, Sunday School superintendent, occasional
preacher, and the ready host of visiting ministers, a great man locally in his
Church. Which perhaps accounted for his style of dress. In his black, or very
dark grey clothes and round, black soft felt hat, driving his fat grey pony in
the lanes, he might himself have been taken for a minister, or even for a
clergyman of the Established Church. On his salary of at most two hundred and
fifty a year, he was able in those spacious days to keep his own pony carriage,
a maid for his wife, and to entertain his friends and educate his children.

He was liked by the Candleford townspeople, but with those in
the big country houses he was not a favourite. They thought him a too pedantic stickler
for official rules. 'That little jack-in-office', one of the squires called
him, and there was a story of a fox-hunting baronet who had terminated an
interview in the private office marked 'Postmaster' by hurling a stone bottle
of ink at the official head. It missed its mark, fortunately, but some of the
younger clerks in his office still took a pride in pointing out the faint
remaining traces of the splashes on the wallpaper.

At an early stage of their acquaintance, Mr. Rushton promised
Laura the offer of the next vacancy for a learner in his office. But the
vacancy never occurred. His only two women clerks were the daughters of a minister,
a friend of his own, and boarded with his family. They were quiet, refined,
pleasant young women in the early thirties, of a type to which most women
clerks in the post office at that time belonged. The 'young ladies' with the artificial
pearls and bad manners belonged to the early years of this century and
disappeared before the last war. In Laura's time post office employment was
largely the preserve of ministers' and schoolmasters' daughters. It had not
become popularized. The pay of a learner in the larger offices was very small,
not nearly sufficient to live upon away from home, and the smaller offices,
where learners were boarded, demanded a premium. Laura had crept in by a kind of
back door and later she was sometimes reminded of that fact. 'Why should I
teach you? My parents paid for me to learn' was a spirit not unknown in the
service.