Going Postal полностью

‘. . . 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 whilst trying desperately not to make a sound, and in the end Crispin Horsefry gave up on the second aim and just swung on the doorknocker.

The noise echoed through the empty street, but no one came to their window. No one in this select street would have come to the window even if a murder was going on. At least in the poorer districts people would have come out to watch, or join in.

The door opened.

‘Good evening, thur—’

Horsefry pushed past the stumpy figure and into the dark hallway, waving frantically to the servant to close the door.

‘Shut it, man, shut it! I may have been followed— Good grief, you’re an Igor, aren’t you? Gilt can afford an Igor?’

‘Well done, thur!’ said the Igor. He peered out into the early evening darkness. ‘All clear, thur.’

‘Shut the door, for gods’ sakes!’ moaned Horsefry. ‘I must see Mr Gilt!’

‘The marthter ith having one of hith little thoireeth, thur,’ said Igor. ‘I will thee if he can be dithturbed.’

‘Are any of the others here? Have they— What’s a thwawreath?’

‘A little get-together, thur,’ said Igor, sniffing. The man reeked of drink.

‘A soiree?’

‘Exactly tho, thur,’ said Igor impassively. ‘May I take your highly notitheable long hooded cloak, thur? And be tho kind ath to follow me into the withdrawing room… ’

And suddenly Horsefry was alone in a big room full of shadows and candlelight and staring eyes, with the door closing behind him.

The eyes belonged to the portraits in the big dusty frames that filled the walls, edge to edge. Rumour was that Gilt had bought them outright, and not only the pictures; it was said that he’d bought all the rights in the long dead as well, deed-polled their names, and thus equipped himself with a proud pedigree overnight. That was slightly worrying, even for Horsefry. Everyone lied about their ancestors, and that was fair enough. Buying them was slightly disconcerting, but in its dark, original stylishness it was so very Reacher Gilt.