Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [43]
• Mailslide! • Mr. Lipwig sees it • Hoodwinked
• The Postman’s Walk • The hat
STANLEY POLISHED his pins. He did so with a look of beatific concentration, like a man dreaming with his eyes open.
The collection sparkled on the folded strips of brown paper and the rolls of black felt that made up the landscape of the true pinhead’s world. Beside him was his large desktop magnifying glass and, by his feet, a sack of miscellaneous pins bought last week from a retiring needlewoman.
He was putting off the moment of opening it, to savor it all the more. Of course, it’d almost certainly turn out to be full of everyday brassers, with maybe the occasional flathead or line flaw, but the thing was, you never knew. That was the joy of sacks. You never knew. Noncollectors were woefully unconcerned about pins, treating them as if they were no more that thin, pointy bits of metal for sticking things to other things. Many a wonderful pin of great worth had been found in a sack of brassers.
And now he had a No. 3 Broad-headed “Chicken” Extra Long, thanks to kind Mr. Lipwig. The world shone like the pins so neatly ranged on the felt rolled out in front of him. He might smell faintly of cheese, and have athlete’s foot extending to the knee, but just now Stanley soared through glittering skies on wings of silver.
Groat sat by the stove, chewing his fingernails and muttering to himself. Stanley paid no attention, since pins were not the subject.
“—appointed, right? Never mind what The Order says! He can promote anyone, right? That means I get the extra gold button on m’sleeve and the pay, right? None of the others called me Senior Postman! And when all’s said and done, he delivered a letter. Had the letter, saw the address, delivered it, just like that! Maybe he has got postman’s blood! And he got them metal letters put back! Letters again, see? That’s a sign, sure enough. Hah, he can read words that ain’t there!” Groat spat out a fragment of fingernail, and frowned. “But…then he’ll want to know about the New Pie. Oh yeah. But…it’d be like scratching at a scab. Could be bad. Very bad. But…hah, the way he got them letters back for us…very good. Maybe it’s true that one day we’ll get a true Postmaster again, just like they say. ‘Yea, he will tread the Abandoned Roller Skates beneath his Boots, and Lo! the Dogs of the World will Break their Teeth upon Him.’ And he did show us a sign, right? Okay, it was over a posh haircut shop for ladies, but it was a sign, you can’t argue with that. I mean, if it was obvious, anyone could show it to us.” Another sliver of fingernail hit the side of the glowing stove, where it sizzled. “And I ain’t getting any younger, that’s a fact. Probationary, though, that’s not good, that’s not good. What’d happen if I popped my clogs tomorrow, eh? I’d stand there before my forefathers, and they’d say, ‘Art thou Senior Postal Inspector Groat?’ and I’d say no, and they’d say, ‘Art thou then Postal Inspector Groat?’ and I’d say not as such, and they’d say, ‘Then surely thou art Senior Postman Groat?’ and I’d say not in point of fact, and they’d say, ‘Stone the crows, Tolliver, are you telling us you never got further than Junior Postman, what kind of Groat are you?’ and my face will be red and I will be knee-deep in the ignominy. Dun’t matter that I’ve been runnin’ this place for years, oh no. You got to have that gold button!”
He stared at the fire, and somewhere in his matted beard a smile struggled to get out.
“He can try walking the Walk,” he said. “No one can argue if he walks the Walk. An’ then I can tell him everything! So it’ll be all right! An’ if he don’t walk to the end, then he ain’t postmaster material anyway! Stanley? Stanley!”
Stanley awoke from a dream of pins.
“Yes, Mr. Groat?”
“Got a few errands for you to run, lad.” And if he ain’t postmaster material, Groat added in the privacy of his creaking brain, I’ll die a junior postman…
IT WAS HARD to knock at a door while trying desperately not to make a sound, and in the end Crispin Horsefry gave up on the second aim and just swung on the