Page 66 of Strangers in Time

H ERMES

E H, HOW OLD ARE you again, boy?” asked the snowy-haired man with the sharp white collar, the stiff black jacket, and the name Arthur Benedict.

The not-yet-fourteen-year-old Charlie looked up at him and said with authority, “Sixteen.”

Charlie was in a postal office because he had seen that they were hiring telegram messengers.

“You’re a bit small for sixteen.”

“Haven’t hit my growth bit yet, guv.”

“If you’re sixteen why haven’t you sat your Civil Service exam then?”

“Who said I ain’t?”

“Well then?”

“With the war, not many jobs even with that. I need to earn money.”

Benedict’s expression softened. “What’s your name?”

“Ignatius Oliver.”

“That’s quite a name.”

“Named after a saint. Bunch of wild beasts ate him.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard about him from my vicar. Well, it’s true we need the help. Lost four lads to the army just last month and another to one of them unexploded bombs that decided to go off when the poor fellow was riding by. Do you have your own bicycle?”

“Do I need one?”

“No. We have a couple you can use. But it’s just you get paid for mileage if you have your own. Otherwise, you get a weekly wage.”

“How much?”

“Sixteen shillings and four pence,” said Benedict.

“And if I got me my own bike?”

“Four pennies a mile on top.”

“I got me my own bike,” said Charlie promptly.

“Good lad. Now, it does help if you know the lay of the land hereabouts. Our customers expect swiftness. You ever heard the ancient tale of ?”

“Was he a saint that got et, too?”

“Oh, never mind, boy.”

Benedict asked Charlie questions about various locations and the fastest way to them. Charlie answered all of them quickly and correctly and clearly impressed Benedict with the cleverness of several of his shortcuts.

“You’ve clearly been out and about,” noted Benedict. “Almost like you’ve learned ‘the knowledge’ that the cabbies have to. And that takes several years.”

Charlie looked around the postal office. Most homes in England did not have phones. And with the war and the bombings, even those that had phones found they did not always work. Thus, telegrams had become quite popular once more, particularly in London.

“So, do I get the job?”

Benedict peered at him from behind black square glasses that magnified his pupils into fearsome things. “When can you start?”

Charlie had seen a bike lying abandoned in a pile of rubble around the corner. “I just got to… run an errand. Be back in a jiff. I can start after that.”

“All right. We’ll get your uniform and you can work with one of my other boys today, so he can show you the way we do things. Then tomorrow you’re on your own. Hey now, are your parents okay with this?”

“My dad died at Dunkirk. My mum needs all the help she can get. There’s five mouths to feed.”

“Good lord, lad. Your poor mum. Well, go run your errand and I’ll get things organized.”

Charlie was back in less than two minutes with “his” bike. He had to use a postal pump to put air in the tires, and he and Benedict had to straighten the handlebars, but it was otherwise fine.

“Now, your equipment and your uniform get inspected daily. I’ll give you a pass today on the bike, but clean and shine it up good like. Same for your shoes, belt buckle, and everything else. We have a public image to keep up,” he added proudly.

“Yes, guv.”

“Good lad.”

Charlie’s uniform consisted of a navy blue suit with red piping on the jacket cuffs, down the pant seams, and around the collar and edging. The pillbox hat had similar piping and a red button in the crown’s center.

Benedict said, “Now, we provide boots and a coat for winter and proper shoes for summer, along with a cape and leggings for the rain, which this country has more than its share of, so help me God. We’ll find the ones to fit you proper. Now, as to your schedule. Starting tomorrow I’m putting you on the eight a.m. to eight p.m. route. But for today you’ll get off at five, let you get your legs under you, so to speak. But you be here sharp in the morning, boy.”

“Right.”

“Now, when you deliver the telegram you wait for them to read it in case there’s a reply, which you always ask if there is.” He added in a warning tone, “Mind you, there’s no pushing it through the slot and scarpering off. No muckin’ about like that. We’re professionals.”

“How does that work then, this reply thin’?”

“I’ll tell you. In this leather pouch, which you will carry on your belt, are spare telegram forms, envelopes, and business cards. If no one is home, you leave your card to show an attempt was made and what time you will try to deliver the message once more, which you will scribble on the back of the card with this pencil. If they are there and wish to reply, they fill out one of these forms you will present them.”

“Okay, I got that bit. But how do they pay for it, guv?”

“They pay you . In the rule book here, which you will also carry, the charges are set out. Basically, a nine-word telegram—which includes the address, mind you—is six pennies, and a penny for each additional word. Greeting telegrams come in pale blue envelopes, like this one here, and are six pennies extra. Priority telegrams are delivered first and also cost an extra six pennies. Now, are you good at math, Ignatius?”

“Real good, least when it comes to countin’ money.”

“Excellent, because you have to get it exactly right or else it comes out of your wages. And a reconciliation of your takings is done at the end of each day. Now, under penalty of law you are not allowed to accept gratuities of any sort.” Benedict stared pointedly at Charlie, then made a show of looking over his shoulder before turning back and adding, “Now, I have no earthly idea how they manage to enforce that particular rule, but I am bound to tell you, son.” Then he winked.

Charlie nodded with a knowing look. “Right, guv.”

That first day Charlie worked with a young man named Peter Duckett. They both delivered telegrams issued by the office, but Duckett also told Charlie that they could solicit business on the streets by approaching folks about sending messages on the official forms they carried and collecting the money owed. Customers would use the boys’ backs as desks to write down their messages and pay at the same time, Duckett told him.

“But if we get paid the same wage each week, why try and drum up more business?” asked Charlie. “What good’s it?”

“They give out bonuses the more telegrams we get,” explained Duckett, a thin, reedy-necked fellow of eighteen. “And mileage on our bikes, too. More messages is more miles, see?”

“Right,” said Charlie. “Four pennies a mile.”

“And folks tip, too. So the more customers the more tips. Guess old Benedict told you we ain’t supposed to take gratuities .”

“He did,” confirmed Charlie. “But I don’t think he means it.”

“You’re right, he don’t.”

Duckett told Charlie he had failed to qualify for the army because of something odd in his chest. “Didn’t do so well on my Civil either, but this ain’t a bad job.”

“Is the Civil hard?”

“Well, it ain’t easy, mate, I can tell you that. You got to label all these counties and rivers and whatsis on a map ’a England. Then you got to list down what the government does to get folks to buy War Savings. Then you got to know alls ’bout a gent name of Ma-cowber. And then they ask you questions about this quite odd woman from She-lott who keeps lookin’ in a bleedin’ mirror.”

“I don’t know none ’a that,” said a befuddled Charlie.

“Me neither, mate, why I’m ridin’ this here bloody bike.” He paused and his expression turned somber. “People look at you funny, though,” he said. “For not bein’ in the fightin’, I mean. Think I’m a damn coward. But it’s not like I can show ’em pictures of my chest. I didn’t ask to have no funny heart.” He glanced at Charlie with an anxious look. “Least I’m in some sort of uniform. Right, mate?”

“Right,” said Charlie.

“Eh, how old are you anyways?” asked Duckett as they rode back to the postal office for fresh messages to deliver.

“Old enough for this job,” replied Charlie.