Going Postal полностью

‘—a rat, thank you… but suddenly you’re the darling of the big religions, the saviour of the Post Office, official snook-cocker to the rich and powerful, heroic horseman, all-round wonderful human being and, of course, you rescued a cat from a burning building. Two humans, too, but everyone knows the cat’s the most important bit. Who are you trying to fool, Mr Lipwig?’

‘Me, I think. I’ve fallen into good ways. I keep thinking I can give it up any time I like, but I don’t. But I know if I couldn’t give it up any time I liked, I wouldn’t go on doing it. Er… there is another reason, too.’

‘And that is—?’

‘I’m not Reacher Gilt. That’s sort of important. Some people might say there’s not a lot of difference, but I can see it from where I stand and it’s there. It’s like a golem not being a hammer. Please? How can I beat the Grand Trunk?’

Miss Dearheart stared through him until he felt very uncomfortable.

Then she said, in a faraway voice: ‘How well do you know the Post Office, Mr Lipwig? The building, I mean.’

‘I saw most of it before it burned down.’

‘But you never went on to the roof?’

‘No. I couldn’t find a way up. The upper floors were stuffed with letters when… I… tried… ’ Moist’s voice trailed off.

Miss Dearheart stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Go up there tonight, Mr Lipwig. Get yourself a little bit closer to heaven. And then get down on your knees and pray. You know how to pray, don’t you? You just put your hands together - and hope.’

Moist got through the rest of the day somehow. There were postmastery things to do - Mr Spools to speak to, builders to shout at, the everlasting clearing up to oversee and new staff to hire. In the case of the staff, though, it was more ratifying the decisions of Mr Groat and Miss Maccalariat, but they seemed to know what they were doing. He just had to be there to make the occasional judgement, like:

‘Do we embrace divertingly?’ said Miss Maccalariat, appearing in front of his desk.

There was a pregnant pause. It gave birth to a lot of little pauses, each one more deeply embarrassing than its parent.

‘Not as far as I know,’ was the best Moist could manage. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘A young lady wants to know. She said that’s what they do at the Grand Trunk.’

‘Ah. I suspect she means embrace diversity,’ said Moist, recalling Gilt’s speech to the Times . ‘But we don’t do that here because we don’t know what it means. We’ll employ anyone who can read and write and reach a letter box, Miss Maccalariat. I’ll hire vampires if they’re a member of the League of Temperance, trolls if they wipe their feet, and if there’re any werewolves out there I’d love to hire postmen who can bite back. Anyone who can do the job, Miss Maccalariat. Our job is moving the mail. Morning, noon and night, we deliver. Was there anything else?’

Now there was a glint in her eye. ‘I don’t have any difficulties with anyone who speaks up about what they are, Mr Lipwig, but I must protest about dwarfs. Mr Groat is hiring them.’

‘Fine workers, Miss Maccalariat. Keen on the written word. Hardworking, too,’ said Moist briskly.

‘But they do not tell you what their— what they— which— if they’re ladies or gentlemen dwarfs, Mr Lipwig.’

‘Ah. This is going to be about the privies again?’ said Moist, his heart sinking.

‘I feel I am responsible for the moral welfare of the young people in my charge,’ said Miss Maccalariat sternly. ‘You are smiling, Postmaster, but I will not be funned with.’

‘Your concern does you credit, Miss Maccalariat,’ said Moist. ‘Special attention will be paid to this in the design of the new building, and I will tell the architect that you are to be consulted at every stage.’ Miss Maccalariat’s well-covered bosom inflated noticeably at this sudden acquisition of power. ‘In the meantime, alas, we must make do with what the fire has left us. I do hope, as part of the management team, you will reassure people on this.’

The fires of dreadful pride gleamed off Miss Maccalariat’s spectacles. Management!

‘Of course , Postmaster,’ she said.

But, mostly, Moist’s job was just to… be. Half of the building was a blackened shell. People were squeezed into what was left; mail was even being sorted on the stairs. And things seemed to go better when he was around. He didn’t have to do anything, he just had to be there.

He couldn’t help thinking of the empty plinth, where the god had been taken away.

He was ready when dusk came. There were plenty of ladders around, and the golems had managed to shore up the floors even up here. Soot covered everything and some rooms opened on to blackness, but he climbed ever up.

He struggled through what remained of the attics, and clambered through a hatch and on to the roof.

There wasn’t much of it. The descent of the rainwater tank had brought down a lot of burning roof with it, and barely a third remained over the great hall. But the fire had hardly touched one of the legs of the U, and the roof there looked sound.