Read Online Going Postal by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Pratchett
Tags: Fantasy:Humour
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the greengrocer. “He’s out the back, tackling a difficult cabbage—”
“This is his,” said Moist. “Postal delivery.” He put the envelope on the counter and walked quickly out of the shop.
Shopkeeper and customer stared down at the pink envelope.
“S.’W.A.L.K?” said Mr. Parker.
“Ooh, that takes me back, Mr. Parker,” said the woman. “In my day we used to put that on our letters when we were courting. Didn’t you? Sealed With A Loving Kiss. There was S.W.A.L.K., and L.A.N.C.R.E. and…” she lowered her voice and giggled, “K.L.A.T.C.H., of course. Remember?”
“All that pas’sed me by, Mrs. Goodbody,” said the greengrocer stiffly. “And if it mean’s young men are s’ending our dad pink envelope’s with s’walk on them, I’m thankful for that. Modern time’s, eh?” He turned and raised his voice. “Father!”
W ELL , that was a good deed for the day , Moist thought. Or a deed, in any case .
It looked as though Mr. Parker had managed to acquire some sons, one way or another. Still, it was…odd to think of all those letters heaped in that old building. You could imagine them as little packets of history. Deliver them, and history went one way. But if you dropped them in the gap between the floorboards, it went the other.
Ha. He shook his head. As if one tiny choice by someone unimportant could make that much difference! History had to be a bit tougher than that. It all sprang back eventually, didn’t it? He was sure he’d read something about that, somewhere. If it wasn’t like that, no one would ever dare do anything .
He stood in the little square where eight roads met, and chose to go home via Market Street. It was as good a way as any other.
W HEN HE WAS SURE that both Stanley and the golem were busy on the mail mountains, Mr. Groat crept away through the labyrinth of corridors. Bundles of letters were stacked so high and tight that it was all he could do to squeeze through, but at last he reached the shaft of the old hydraulic elevator, long disused. The shaft had been filled up with letters.
However, the engineer’s ladder was still clear, and that at least went up to the roof.
Of course, there was the fire escape outside, but that was outside , and Groat was not overkeen on going outside at the best of times. He inhabited the Post Office like a very small snail in a very large shell. He was used to gloom.
Now, slowly and painfully, his legs shaking, he climbed up through the floors of mail and forced open the trapdoor at the top.
He blinked and shuddered in the unfamiliar sunlight, and hauled himself out onto the flat roof.
He’d never really liked doing this, but what else could he have done? Stanley ate like a bird and Groat mostly got by on tea and biscuits, but it all cost money, even if you went round the markets just as they closed up, and somewhere in the past, decades ago, the pay had stopped arriving. Groat had been too frightened to go up to the palace to find out why. He was afraid that if he asked for money he’d be sacked.
So he’d taken to renting out the old pigeon loft. Where was the harm in that? All the pigeons had joined their feral brethren years ago, and a decent shed was not to be sneezed at in this city, even if it did whiff a bit. There was an outside fire escape and everything. It was a little palace, compared to most lodgings.
Besides, these lads didn’t mind the smell, they said. They were pigeon-fanciers. Groat wasn’t sure what that entailed, except that they had to use a little clacks tower to fancy them properly. But they paid up, that was the important thing.
He skirted the big rainwater tank for the defunct elevator and sidled around the rooftops to the shed, where he knocked politely.
“It’s me, lads. Just come about the rent,” he said.
The door was opened and he heard a snatch of conversation: “—the linkages won’t stand it for more than thirty seconds—”
“Oh, Mr. Groat, come on in,” said the man who
“This is his,” said Moist. “Postal delivery.” He put the envelope on the counter and walked quickly out of the shop.
Shopkeeper and customer stared down at the pink envelope.
“S.’W.A.L.K?” said Mr. Parker.
“Ooh, that takes me back, Mr. Parker,” said the woman. “In my day we used to put that on our letters when we were courting. Didn’t you? Sealed With A Loving Kiss. There was S.W.A.L.K., and L.A.N.C.R.E. and…” she lowered her voice and giggled, “K.L.A.T.C.H., of course. Remember?”
“All that pas’sed me by, Mrs. Goodbody,” said the greengrocer stiffly. “And if it mean’s young men are s’ending our dad pink envelope’s with s’walk on them, I’m thankful for that. Modern time’s, eh?” He turned and raised his voice. “Father!”
W ELL , that was a good deed for the day , Moist thought. Or a deed, in any case .
It looked as though Mr. Parker had managed to acquire some sons, one way or another. Still, it was…odd to think of all those letters heaped in that old building. You could imagine them as little packets of history. Deliver them, and history went one way. But if you dropped them in the gap between the floorboards, it went the other.
Ha. He shook his head. As if one tiny choice by someone unimportant could make that much difference! History had to be a bit tougher than that. It all sprang back eventually, didn’t it? He was sure he’d read something about that, somewhere. If it wasn’t like that, no one would ever dare do anything .
He stood in the little square where eight roads met, and chose to go home via Market Street. It was as good a way as any other.
W HEN HE WAS SURE that both Stanley and the golem were busy on the mail mountains, Mr. Groat crept away through the labyrinth of corridors. Bundles of letters were stacked so high and tight that it was all he could do to squeeze through, but at last he reached the shaft of the old hydraulic elevator, long disused. The shaft had been filled up with letters.
However, the engineer’s ladder was still clear, and that at least went up to the roof.
Of course, there was the fire escape outside, but that was outside , and Groat was not overkeen on going outside at the best of times. He inhabited the Post Office like a very small snail in a very large shell. He was used to gloom.
Now, slowly and painfully, his legs shaking, he climbed up through the floors of mail and forced open the trapdoor at the top.
He blinked and shuddered in the unfamiliar sunlight, and hauled himself out onto the flat roof.
He’d never really liked doing this, but what else could he have done? Stanley ate like a bird and Groat mostly got by on tea and biscuits, but it all cost money, even if you went round the markets just as they closed up, and somewhere in the past, decades ago, the pay had stopped arriving. Groat had been too frightened to go up to the palace to find out why. He was afraid that if he asked for money he’d be sacked.
So he’d taken to renting out the old pigeon loft. Where was the harm in that? All the pigeons had joined their feral brethren years ago, and a decent shed was not to be sneezed at in this city, even if it did whiff a bit. There was an outside fire escape and everything. It was a little palace, compared to most lodgings.
Besides, these lads didn’t mind the smell, they said. They were pigeon-fanciers. Groat wasn’t sure what that entailed, except that they had to use a little clacks tower to fancy them properly. But they paid up, that was the important thing.
He skirted the big rainwater tank for the defunct elevator and sidled around the rooftops to the shed, where he knocked politely.
“It’s me, lads. Just come about the rent,” he said.
The door was opened and he heard a snatch of conversation: “—the linkages won’t stand it for more than thirty seconds—”
“Oh, Mr. Groat, come on in,” said the man who
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