Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [39]
“What? No! Not at all! Er…no!” said Moist.
“I’m sure you shall,” she said, smiling sweetly. “And while we’re very grateful to you, I would advise you to propose in person. We do so much look forward to seeing you on Saturday!”
Moist watched her scurry away after her long-lost swain.
“You delivered a letter?” said Groat, horrified.
“Yes, Mr. Groat. I didn’t mean to, but I just happened to be—”
“You took one of the old letters and you delivered it?” said Groat, as if the concept was something he could not fit into his head—
His head was all over the wall…
Moist blinked.
“We are supposed to deliver the mail, man! That’s our job! Remember?”
“You delivered a letter…” breathed Groat. “What was the date on it?”
“I can’t remember! More than forty years ago?”
“What was it like? Was it in good condition?” Groat insisted.
Moist glared at the little postman. A small crowd was forming around them, as was the Ankh-Morpork way.
“It was a forty-year-old letter in a cheap envelope!” he snarled. “And that’s what it looked like! It never got delivered and it upset the lives of two people. I delivered it and it’s made two people very happy. What is the problem, Mr. Groat— Yes, what is it?”
This was to a woman who was tugging at this sleeve.
“I said is it true you’re opening the old place again?” she repeated. “My grandad used to work there!”
“Well done him,” said Moist.
“He said there was a curse!” said the woman, as if the idea was rather pleasing.
“Really?” said Moist. “Well, I could do with a good curse right now, as a matter of fact.”
“It lives under the floor and drives you maaad!” she went on, enjoying the syllable so much that she seemed loath to let it go. “Maaad!”
“Really,” said Moist. “Well, we do not believe in going crazy in the postal service, do we, Mr. Gro—” He stopped. Mr. Groat had the expression of one who did believe in going crazy.
“You daft old woman!” Groat yelled. “What did you have to tell him that for?”
“Mr. Groat!” snapped Moist. “I wish to speak to you inside!”
He grabbed the old man by the shoulder and very nearly carried him through the amused crowd, dragged him into the building and slammed the door.
“I’ve had enough of this!” he said. “Enough of dark comments and mutterings, do you understand? What’s going on here? What went on here? You tell me right now or—”
The little man’s eyes were full of fear. This is not me, Moist thought. This is not the way. People skills, eh?
“You tell me right now, Senior Postman Groat!” he snapped.
The old man’s eyes widened. “Senior postman?”
“I am the postmaster in this vicinity, yes?” said Moist. “That means I can promote, yes? Senior postman, indeed. On probation, of course. Now, will you tell me what—”
“Don’t you hurt Mr. Groat, sir!” said a ringing voice behind Moist.
Groat looked past Moist into the gloom and said: “It’s all right, Stanley, there’s no need for that, we don’t want a Little Moment.” To Moist he whispered: “Best you put me down gently, sir…”
Moist did so, with exaggerated care, and turned around.
The boy was standing behind him with a glazed look on his face and the big kettle raised.
“You mustn’t hurt Mr. Groat, sir,” he said hoarsely.
Moist pulled a pin out of his lapel. “Of course not, Stanley. By the way, is this a genuine Clayfeather Medium Sharp?”
Stanley dropped the kettle, suddenly oblivious to everything but the inch of silvery steel between Moist’s fingers. One hand was already pulling out his magnifying glass.
“Let me see, let me see,” he said in a level, thoughtful voice. “Oh, yes. Ha. No, sorry. It’s an easy mistake to make. Look at the marks on the shoulder, here. See? And the head was never coiled. This is machine-made. Probably by one of the Happily Brothers. Short run, I imagine. Hasn’t got their sigil, though. Could have been done by a creative apprentice. Not worth much, I’m afraid, unless you find someone who specializes in the minutia of the Happily Pinnery.”
“I’ll, er, just make a cup of tea, shall I?” said Groat, picking up the kettle as it rolled backwards and