Going Postal полностью

Moist automatically turned and looked down. Yes, there they were, the sensible shoes, the thick black stockings that were slightly hairy, the baggy cardigan - oh, yes, arrgh, the cardigan; Frau Shambers used to stuff the sleeves with handkerchiefs, arrgh, arrgh -and the glasses and the expression like an early frost. And her hair was plaited and coiled up on either side of her head in those discs that back home in Uberwald had been called ‘snails’ but in Ankh-Morpork put people in mind of a woman with a curly iced bun clamped to each ear.

‘Now look here, Miss Maccalariat,’ he said firmly. ‘I am the postmaster here, and I am in charge, and I do not intend to be browbeaten by a member of the counter staff just because their ancestors worked here. I do not fear your clumpy shoes, Miss Maccalariat, I smile happily in the teeth of your icy stare. Fie on you! Now I am a grown man, Frau Shambers, I will quake not at your sharp voice and will control my bladder perfectly however hard you look at me, oh yes indeed! For I am the Postmaster and my word here is law!’

That was the sentence his brain said. Unfortunately it got routed through his trembling backbone on the way to his mouth and issued from his lips as: ‘Er, yes!’ which came out as a squeak.

‘Mr Lipwig, I ask you: I have nothing against them, but are these golems you are employing in my Post Office gentlemen or ladies?’ the terrible woman demanded.

This was sufficiently unexpected to jolt Moist back into something like reality. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I don’t know! What’s the difference? A bit more clay… less clay? Why?’

Miss Maccalariat folded her arms, causing both Moist and Mr Groat to shy backwards.

‘I hope you’re not funning with me, Mr Lipwig?’ she demanded.

‘What? Funning? I never fun!’ Moist tried to pull himself together. Whatever happened next, he could not be made to stand in the corner. ‘I do not fun, Miss Maccalariat, and have no history of funning, and even if I were inclined to funning, Miss Maccalariat, I would not dream of funning with you. What is the problem?’

‘One of them was in the ladies’… rest room, Mr Lipwig,’ said Miss Maccalariat.

‘Doing what? I mean, they don’t eat, so—’

‘Cleaning it, apparently ,’ said Miss Maccalariat, contriving to suggest that she had dark suspicions on this point. ‘But I have heard them referred to as “Mister”.’

‘Well, they do odd jobs all the time, because they don’t like to stop working,’ said Moist. ‘And we prefer to give them Mister as an honorific because, er, “it” seems wrong and there are some people, yes, some people for whom the word “Miss” is not appropriate, Miss Maccalariat.’

‘It is the principle of the thing, Mr Lipwig,’ said the woman firmly. ‘Anyone called Mister is not allowed in the Ladies. That sort of thing can only lead to hanky-panky. I will not stand for it, Mr Lipwig.’

Moist stared at her. Then he looked up at Mr Pump, who was never far away.

‘Mr Pump, is there any reason why one of the golems can’t have a new name?’ he asked. ‘In the interest of hanky-panky avoidance?’

‘No, Mr Lipvig,’ the golem rumbled.

Moist turned back to Miss Maccalariat. ‘Would “Gladys” do, Miss Maccalariat?’

‘Gladys will be sufficient, Mr Lipwig,’ said Miss Maccalariat, more than a hint of triumph in her voice. ‘She must be properly clothed, of course.’

‘Clothed?’ said Moist weakly. ‘But a golem isn’t— it doesn’t— they don’t have… ’ He quailed under the glare, and gave up. ‘Yes, Miss Maccalariat. Something gingham, I think, Mr Pump?’

‘I Shall Arrange It, Postmaster,’ said the golem.

‘Will that be all right, Miss Maccalariat?’ said Moist meekly.

‘For the present,’ said Miss Maccalariat, as if she regretted that there were currently no further things to complain of. ‘Mr Groat knows my particulars, Postmaster. I will now return to the proper execution of my duties, otherwise people will try to steal the pens again. You have to watch them like hawks, you know.’

‘A good woman, that,’ said Groat, as she strode away. ‘Fifth generation of Miss Maccalariats. Maiden name kept for professional purposes, o’ course.’

‘They get married?’ From the mob around the makeshift counter came the ringing command: ‘Put that pen back this minute! Do you think I’m made of pens?’

‘Yessir,’ said Groat.

‘Do they bite their husbands’ heads off on their wedding night?’ said Moist.

‘I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing, sir,’ said Groat, blushing.

‘But she’s even got a bit of a moustache!’

‘Yessir. There’s someone for everyone in this wonderful world, sir.’

‘And we’ve got other people looking for work, you say?’

Groat beamed. ‘That’s right, sir. ‘cos of the bit in the paper, sir.’

‘You mean this morning?’

‘I expect that helped, sir,’ said Groat. ‘But I reckon it was the lunchtime edition that did it.’

‘What lunchtime edition ?’

‘We’re all over the front page!’ said Groat proudly. ‘I put a copy on your desk upstairs—’