Going Postal

Inside the hall extra makeshift tables had been set up. They were crowded with people.

‘We're selling them the envelopes and paper,' said Groat. ‘The ink is free gratis.'

‘Did you think that up yourself?' said Moist.

‘No, it's what we used to do,' said Groat. ‘Miss Maccalariat got a load of cheap paper from Spools.'

‘Miss Maccalariat?' said Moist. ‘Who is Miss Maccalariat?'

‘Very old Post Office family, sir,' said Groat. ‘She's decided to work for you.' He looked a little nervous.

‘Sorry?' said Moist. ‘She has decided to work for me?'

‘Well, you know what it's like with Post Office people, sir,' said Groat. ‘We don't like to—'

‘Are you the postmaster?' said a withering voice behind Moist.

The voice went into his head, bored down through his memories, riffled through his fears, found the right levers, battened on to them and pulled. In Moist's case, it found Frau Shambers. In the second year at school you were precipitated out of the warm, easy-going kindergarten of Frau Tissel, smelling of finger paint, salt dough and inadequate toilet training, and on to the cold benches governed by Frau Shambers, smelling of Education. It was as bad as being born, with the added disadvantage that your mother wasn't there.

Moist automatically turned and looked down. Yes, there they were, the sensible shoes, the thick black stockings that were slightly hairy, the baggy cardigan - oh, yes, arrgh, the cardigan; Frau Shambers used to stuff the sleeves with handkerchiefs, arrgh, arrgh -and the glasses and the expression like an early frost. And her hair was plaited and coiled up on either side of her head in those discs that back home in Uberwald had been called ‘snails' but in Ankh-Morpork put people in mind of a woman with a curly iced bun clamped to each ear.

‘Now look here, Miss Maccalariat,' he said firmly. ‘I am the postmaster here, and I am in charge, and I do not intend to be browbeaten by a member of the counter staff just because their ancestors worked here. I do not fear your clumpy shoes, Miss Maccalariat, I smile happily in the teeth of your icy stare. Fie on you! Now I am a grown man, Frau Shambers, I will quake not at your sharp voice and will control my bladder perfectly however hard you look at me, oh yes indeed! For I am the Postmaster and my word here is law!'

That was the sentence his brain said. Unfortunately it got routed through his trembling backbone on the way to his mouth and issued from his lips as: ‘Er, yes!' which came out as a squeak.

‘Mr Lipwig, I ask you: I have nothing against them, but are these golems you are employing in my Post Office gentlemen or ladies?' the terrible woman demanded.

This was sufficiently unexpected to jolt Moist back into something like reality. ‘What?' he said. ‘I don't know! What's the difference? A bit more clay... less clay? Why?'

Miss Maccalariat folded her arms, causing both Moist and Mr Groat to shy backwards.

‘I hope you're not funning with me, Mr Lipwig?' she demanded.

‘What? Funning? I never fun!' Moist tried to pull himself together. Whatever happened next, he could not be made to stand in the corner. ‘I do not fun, Miss Maccalariat, and have no history of funning, and even if I were inclined to funning, Miss Maccalariat, I would not dream of funning with you. What is the problem?'

‘One of them was in the ladies'... rest room, Mr Lipwig,' said Miss Maccalariat.

‘Doing what? I mean, they don't eat, so—'

‘Cleaning it, apparently,' said Miss Maccalariat, contriving to suggest that she had dark suspicions on this point. ‘But I have heard them referred to as "Mister".'

‘Well, they do odd jobs all the time, because they don't like to stop working,' said Moist. ‘And we prefer to give them Mister as an honorific because, er, "it" seems wrong and there are some people, yes, some people for whom the word "Miss" is not appropriate, Miss Maccalariat.'

‘It is the principle of the thing, Mr Lipwig,' said the woman firmly. ‘Anyone called Mister is not allowed in the Ladies. That sort of thing can only lead to hanky-panky. I will not stand for it, Mr Lipwig.'

Moist stared at her. Then he looked up at Mr Pump, who was never far away.

‘Mr Pump, is there any reason why one of the golems can't have a new name?' he asked. ‘In the interest of hanky-panky avoidance?'

‘No, Mr Lipvig,' the golem rumbled.

Moist turned back to Miss Maccalariat. ‘Would "Gladys" do, Miss Maccalariat?'

‘Gladys will be sufficient, Mr Lipwig,' said Miss Maccalariat, more than a hint of triumph in her voice. ‘She must be properly clothed, of course.'

‘Clothed?' said Moist weakly. ‘But a golem isn't— it doesn't— they don't have...' He quailed under the glare, and gave up. ‘Yes, Miss Maccalariat. Something gingham, I think, Mr Pump?'

‘I Shall Arrange It, Postmaster,' said the golem.

‘Will that be all right, Miss Maccalariat?' said Moist meekly.

‘For the present,' said Miss Maccalariat, as if she regretted that there were currently no further things to complain of. ‘Mr Groat knows my particulars, Postmaster. I will now return to the proper execution of my duties, otherwise people will try to steal the pens again. You have to watch them like hawks, you know.'

‘A good woman, that,' said Groat, as she strode away. ‘Fifth generation of Miss Maccalariats. Maiden name kept for professional purposes, o' course.'

‘They get married?' From the mob around the makeshift counter came the ringing command: ‘Put that pen back this minute! Do you think I'm made of pens?'

‘Yessir,' said Groat.

‘Do they bite their husbands' heads off on their wedding night?' said Moist.

‘I wouldn't know about that sort of thing, sir,' said Groat, blushing.

‘But she's even got a bit of a moustache!'

‘Yessir. There's someone for everyone in this wonderful world, sir.'

‘And we've got other people looking for work, you say?'

Groat beamed. ‘That's right, sir. ‘cos of the bit in the paper, sir.'

‘You mean this morning?'

‘I expect that helped, sir,' said Groat. ‘But I reckon it was the lunchtime edition that did it.'

‘What lunchtime edition?'

‘We're all over the front page!' said Groat proudly. ‘I put a copy on your desk upstairs—'

Moist pushed the Sto Lat mailbag into the man's arms. ‘Get this... sorted,' he said. ‘If there's enough mail for another delivery to go, find some kid who's mad for a job and put him on a horse and get him to take it. Doesn't have to be fast; we'll call it the overnight delivery. Tell him to see the mayor and come back in the morning with any fresh mail.'

‘Right you are, sir,' said Groat. ‘We could do an overnight to Quirm and Pseudopolis too, sir, if we could change horses like the mail coaches do—'

‘Hang on... why can't the mail coaches take it?' said Moist. ‘Hell, they're still called mail coaches, right? We know they take stuff from anyone, on the quiet. Well, the Post Office is back in business. They take our mail. Go and find whoever runs them and tell him so!'

‘Yessir,' said Groat, beaming. ‘Thought about how we're going to send post to the moon yet, sir?'

‘One thing at a time, Mr Groat!'

‘That's not like you, sir,' said Groat cheerfully. ‘All at once is more your style, sir!'

I wish it wasn't, Moist thought, as he eased his way upstairs. But you had to move fast. He always moved fast. His whole life had been movement. Move fast, because you never know what's trying to catch you up—

He paused on the stairs.

Not Mr Pump!

The golem hadn't left the Post Office! He hadn't tried to catch him up! Was it that he'd been on postal business? How long could he be away on postal business? Could he fake his death, maybe? The old pile-of-clothes-on-the-seashore trick? Worth remembering. All he needed was a long enough start. How did a golem's mind actually work? He'd have to ask Miss—

Miss Dearheart! He'd been flying so high that he'd asked her out! That might be a problem now, because most of the lower part of his body was on fire, not especially for Miss Dearheart. Oh, well, he thought as he entered the office, perhaps he could find a restaurant with really soft seats—

FASTER THAN THE ‘SPEED OF LIGHT'

‘Old-fashioned' Mail Beats Clacks

Postmaster delivers, says: Snook Not Cocked

Amazing Scenes at Post Office

The headlines screamed at him as soon as he saw the paper. He almost screamed back.

Of course he'd said all that. But he'd said it to the innocent smiling face of Miss Sacharissa Cripslock, not to the whole world! And then she'd written it down all truthfully, and suddenly... you got this.

Moist had never much bothered with newspapers. He was an artist. He wasn't interested in big schemes. You swindled the man in front of you, looking him sincerely in the eyes.

The picture was good, though, he had to admit. The rearing horse, the winged hat and above all the slight blurring with speed. It was impressive.

He relaxed a little. The place was operating, after all. Letters were being posted. Mail was being delivered. Okay, so a major part of it all was that the clacks wasn't working properly, but maybe in time people would see that a letter to your sister in Sto Lat didn't need to cost thirty pence to maybe get there in an hour but might as well cost a mere five pence to be there in the morning.