Gordon Smith 1949-1977 account of life in the PO

[Matt James]

Gordon Smith 1949-1977 account of life in the Post Office

Chapter 1

Like most people I can remember my first day at work very clearly as this was the first big step into adulthood. Reporting to the personnel officer as instructed at nine O’clock, I was faced with a huge pile of forms to complete and sign, including the infamous Official Secrete Act. After agreeing to have two pence deducted from my pay for one, and a penny for other obscure funds each week, I was taken to the telegraph delivery section which was situated above the main post office counter of the town.
After introductions had been made I was asked the most important question of all, "Can you ride a bicycle?" As I could there was no problem for the supervisor apart from finding a spare one for me to ride until a new one, ordered months before, would arrive. As all of those cycles looked alike, being the same make and colour, I wondered how he could tell which was a spare one. Some saddles were set higher than others, and some had a few dents in the mudguards, but recognition was by the official number stamped into the frame below the saddle.. I then wondered if the supervisor had to remember all the numbers, and which cycle had been allocated to which youth, and more important, did we.

I got the impression that my ability to ride a bicycle hadT
Spoiled a bit of fun for the other young postmen, which was confirmed when the next recruit started a few weeks later.

Everyone not out with a delivery of telegrams watched his
Attempts to learn with much amusement, as the supervisor ran by the side of the bicycle holding firmly onto the saddle, trying
to stop the lad from falling off. It was the former who was the object of fun and he knew it, but within the day the lad had
got the hang of it well enough to be left on his own to get in some practice on the back streets behind the office, before he could be allowed to travel on the busy main roads.

After a spare bicycle had been found for me, for the next few days I was to learn the job of Junior Postman by accompanying other youths around the delivery area on their Journeys, On this first day my new
Companion and I were given just a small number of telegrams to deliver as it was near to the time his official meal break was due. Hurrying
Out of the office as fast as we could, we pedaled energetically along the main street towards our first call, in an effort to finish quickly and make a bit of time so that we could extend the length of the meal break. The telegrams were carried in a leather pouch held by loops to a thick leather belt which had a brass buckle, and which had to be kept highly polished. The centre of the buckle had a crown motif, with the Royal motto 'Dieu Et Mon Droit1 (God And My Right) running around it.
Andy gave me some good advice about various aspects of the job, including how to stand smartly as you waited until the recipient had read the message which often prompted them to give you a tip. We were always to ask if there would be a reply, and if there was we had to accept it on an official form, a supply of which was carried in our pouches. If there was a reply we had to be careful that we charged the correct money, for when we paid it in at the Head Office counter, we had to make good any shortage ourselves. If we accidentally overcharged, then there could be a complaint from the sender if they discovered this,
The delivery completed Andy and I went to wash our hands prior to going to the canteen, which was in the same building as the Sorting Office and the Administration Section, I picked up a piece of soap lying on the wash basin and lathered my hands only to hear a man who was drying his hands on the roller towel thunder "What the hell do you think you are playing at?" I had committed my first cardinal sin, assuming that the soap had been provided by my new employer.

It hadn't, they didn't, and I shouldn't have. "How long have you been working here" he asked sarcastically, "it's my first day",
I replied feeling extremely embarrassed. With a rather superior smirk on his face, he told me that he would forgive me on this occasion, but if I wanted to wash my hands with soap in future I would have to carry some about with me. Fortunately this man although of supervisory rank was from the telephones side and not the postal. I had learned very abruptly the peculiarities of government departments of that era.
It was obvious what our status was, being indicated on the metal plate screwed to the washroom door. We were not Gentlemen, not even men, merely males, with the opposite gender designated females. All this however was regardless of rank at that particular office. In higher classes of office, the ranks were rigidly segregated even for such mundane activity of washing hands.

As this was my first day and I had started at nine o'clock, I was allowed to finish at five. For the rest of the week my hours differed every day to give me a taste of what to expect, and to allow me time to decide whether or not I wished to stay. I cannot remember if I was allowed Saturday off or not, but as this was always the busiest day, I doubt it.
It didn't take me long to decide that I liked the job. Riding around on a bike all day I found to be most pleasurable, especially as I was getting paid for it and there was always the possibility of a tip. More so if you delivered a telegram bearing good news, like the birth of a new baby into the family. Our pay was some fifty percent above what was the norm for school leavers at that time, and there was often overtime on top of that. I regret to say that I blew the lot on The pleasures of life such as they were

The first time I was sent out on my own I got lost. Being early autumn it was dark in the evening and although I knew all the main roads and where each district was situated, I wasn't very well up on the names of all the side streets. After asking several people where a particular avenue was without success, by chance I met another of My new colleagues returning from a previous journey. He hadn't a clue where the place was either when I asked him but on reading the address on the envelope he burst out laughing. Not being used to the writing of the telegraphist I had misread it and had been asking for a thoroughfare which didn't even exist. He accompanied me to several nearby placed addresses, then pointing me in the right direction set off back to the office. The rest of the journey I managed to complete without mishap and I arrived back at the office a little late and a great deal wiser, as I had discovered that the job wasn't all that easy. The following week I was scheduled to perform the vacant duty, and henceforth worked my way through the rota along with the other lads.

A few weeks later the new cycle arrived and it was officially allocated to me which meant that I became responsible for its general maintenance, being paid a daily allowance to keep it clean and another one for riding it. In order to claim this money the supervisor had to complete an official form every week, stating how much each of us were entitled to receive depending on how many days we had cycled. If you had a day off sick you received your wage but no cycle allowance. The cycle number had to be entered against our names; therefore we had to remember it. After thirty years I can still remember mine '66722', but I was lucky as it was easy to remember. The new lads would tend to forget, and the supervisor would make them go and look for the number on the cycle in the basement. After climbing back up two flights of stairs they would often have forgotten it again, and would have to go all the way down again. Many became very angry when they found out that he had a complete list of who had which cycle, in his desk drawer. Why they didn't paint your official postman's number on the mudguard I just do not know. It is a pity that I didn't think about it then, I might have been given a monetary award for suggesting it.

I learned that protocol played a large part in the running of the Post Office. All walls were painted the same colour, green on the lower half then cream above that. We did not go to work, we reported for duty and it was necessary to sign on and off duty every day. As some duties were split ones, requiring two attendances, by the end of the week the attendance sheet looked as if a spider had crawled all over it after falling in the ink well. This was when ball point pens had only just appeared on the market, and were not yet officially approved. The roller towel had to suffice for a week regardless how dirty it became. Summer was officially designated from 1 May, and the heating was turned off regardless of how cold it became. No doubt to make up for this, on 1 October as winter had officially arrived, the heating was restored even though as on more than one occasion we were blessed with an Indian summer, and the heating was not required.

Practically everything was decided by seniority, the main purpose being the choice of leave periods. We supposed that it was called leave as the term holiday sounded as if you were entitled to enjoy yourself. Two youths joining the service on the same day discovered that there were rules which decided how this minor problem would be resolved, the eldest would become the senior. A comparison of dates of birth revealed that they had been born on the same day. The rule further explained that the one born earliest would hold the honored position. Had they been twins then the same criterion would have applied. Neither of them knew at what time they had been born and they had to fall back on the time honored method of tossing a coin to decide the issue.

Even the head offices were classified according to size, with rates of pay depending upon it. One lad out stationed at a salaried sub-office, therefore being lower in status had received the same rate of pay as the rest of us for a year before the error was discovered, he had been overpaid to the extent of sixpence(2 1/2p) a week. Receiving a letter requesting that he pay the collective amount back, he passed this on to his father who replied stating that they should deduct each week the same amount that they had overpaid him. The clerical staff didn't like this but had to accept the situation.

Shortly after I commenced employment there, management decided on reorganization within the office. The clerical staff along with management were moved from the sorting office building, much to the relief of the postmen, into the same building that we were in, which didn't go down very well with the other staff. There would be too many prying eyes. In addition the room we had used as a rest room was taken off us and in exchange we were allowed to use one in the basement which was cold, dark, and depressing, and therefore shunned like the plague in winter.
Ours was a class four medium sized office, having a Head Postmaster and one Assistant Head Postmaster, who worked in adjoining rooms, the higher ranked person being entitled to the larger room of course. Even then the difference in rank was emphasized by the rule that the assistant was not allowed a fully fitted carpet, but was required to have a surround of lino showing to a precise measurement as in all government offices at that time.

A pantomime was enacted more entertaining than anything you would see on the stage, when a new head postmaster arrived and quite sensibly decided that as his assistant was required to interview groups of people more often than he was, then the assistant should have the larger room. A requisition was sent to the Ministry of Works on official forms, for the change to be made, and two workmen duly arrived to transfer the furniture between the rooms. As there was a connecting door between them, this change was relatively simple as the furniture from one could be moved into the corridor while that of the other would go through the connecting door. But before this could be done there was the matter of the carpets.

The completely fitted one in the larger room had to be untacked, folded under all the way around the regulation distance from the wall, then tacked down again. The carpet in the smaller room hadn't been a full one anyway and was thus completely taken up, removed, and another brought in and adjusted to a precise fit by having a long strip cut off one side.

A few years later when the next head postmaster arrived, he didn't like this arrangement at all and demanded the use of the larger room. Once more the same workmen were brought in to execute the transfer. The carpet in the larger room was given back it's former status, but wonder of wonders the new head considering that these protocols were rather outmoded allowed his assistant to keep the carpet he was about to inherit, at it's full wall to wall grandeur. There was just one snag and one foreseen by the workmen when they had made the previous change.

They had folded the carpet under at the insistence of the then head postmaster because they didn't have a carpet of the correct size to replace it. They had predicted that it would wear at the fold, not only on the top but underneath as well, and as they unfolded it sure enough there were large bare patches at the points that had been walked on most of all. The biggest obviously right in front of the door, stood out like a sore thumb. As this clearly would not do, a different carpet had to be acquired which was then fitted to the size of the room.

This influx of the hierarchy was a revelation in the art of bull baffling brains. We were forever being told that we were lucky as a lot of bull had been recently relaxed. Previously the job title had been 'messenger', having been dropped as it was now considered demeaning, but it was still used by a lot of people where old habits die hard. They had been made to report for inspection fifteen minutes before the time their duty commenced and from when they were paid. There was also harsher punishment for more minor misdemeanors. Happily further improvements in condition were soon to come. Soap was provided (perhaps they had heard I was there), the roller towel was changed when it needed to be, and fires were lit and left unlit according to the outside temperature. There was even a choice of colour schemes.

Shorter working weeks were introduced over the years, first from
Forty-eight to forty-four, then to forty-two hours everyone on each grade received the ease rate of pay regardless of class of office, except those in the London area who received more. But it takes a lot to change the attitude of people, as the saying goes, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

The attitude of management was still rather Victorian as the slightest discovered misdemeanor was punishable, but first a ritual
had to be enacted. A specially printed form, encoded with the designation ‘P18B’, began with the words 'You are requested to furnish an explanation as to why...' followed by several blank lines where the person issuing the form or 'skin' as we called it, would enter the alleged irregularity. The reverse side of the form was for your explanation, excuse, or outright lies if you thought you were capable of backing it up.
Initially everything was a minor irregularity which depending upon your reply could become a major irregularity, or minor offence. Tour punishment was usually to be given either two or four hours extra duty to perform, unpaid of course. It wasn't officially considered a punishment as you were 'awarded’ this extra duty.

On one occasion the assistant head postmaster who had been snooping in a section of the basement which was our official recreation area, came into the telegraph delivery room with a smile on his face, and his hands seemingly clasped behind his back. He enquired if there was a boy who had neat handwriting. Thinking that he was volunteering for an easy number one of our brethren stood smartly to attention saying "Yes Sir, me Sir,"? "Then you will no doubt be responsible for this won't you", boomed Sir, producing an eighteen inch square piece of wood from behind his back, upon which had been written a list of the nicknames of the staff. The wood had been left behind by the ministry of works joiner when making alterations in the office. After the ritualistic form filling had taken place, two hours unpaid extra duty was awarded. The terrible crime; despoiling an official piece of wood and using a very mild rude word. It was a well deserved punishment in my view for his attempt at trying to ingratiate himself with the assistant head postmaster.

Management at national level was responsible for some innovations.
As well as introducing a new Job title, they also introduced a policy of day release for the junior staff to attend a Day Continuation College as it was then designated. Having just left school after ten years obligatory attendance, the last thing we wanted to do was to return to this way of life, but return we did. I have long held that further education can be wonderful if organized properly, but what we had to contend with was a rehash of the basic three r's, which we had done some three to four years earlier. The only consolation was that we were getting paid for it. Of the tutors I can only remember three, all of them male. One was an ex RAF type with the obligatory handle-bar moustache, a bewhiskered buffoon if ever there was one. Another either wore a mid-green or rust coloured tweed suit, or any combination of the parts of both. He was very pompous and forever warning us against looking at the magazine 'Health and Efficiency', no doubt because he was frightened of us all going blind.

The third had us reading Lancashire dialect plays, emphasizing that we should be proud of our heritage. He was right, we should and we were, but he insisted that we say nought instead of nowt, I don't know where he was from, it may well have been Lancashire, but I do know that he knew - nowt about Lancashire dialect.

All this amounted to a day of boredom every week, thirty weeks of the year for three years. If we could have had a choice of subjects it may have been different. For instance learning to type properly would have been very useful to both the department and myself in the future, but in a male chauvinistic world, this was considered to be the work of women. I was told this by the principal, who stated that he, would have been very happy for some of the males to join the typing class, but that the postal authorities decided the curriculum.

When the boredom became too much to bear there was always the ploy of going off sick in the afternoon and recuperating in the warmth of a cinema in the winter, and the city park in the summer. To go home would have been fatal for we could have been seen by other post office staff. Cinema visits increased after one lad discovered purely by chance a way of being recorded as present, yet allowing us to make a discreet withdrawal. He had arrived late one afternoon after the class register had been collected from the tutor and returned to the principal's office. It was then necessary for him to report to the secretary and sign the late attendance book.

The trick was obviously to sign late thus by-passing the class tutor, and then does a bunk. However it was prudent not to overdo it and several groups came to an arrangement that one third would go straight into class being marked as present by the tutor. Of the others, after booking late, half would go into class while remainder went to see the latest film. This would give us an afternoon off every three Weeks, or so we thought. Of course this did not last very long as other not so prudent youths, did a bunk every week, and the ever dwindling class numbers gave the game away.

Being found out would have meant a report being sent to our employer, and we would have been in deep trouble. Fortunately it never happened to me or the lad I regularly went to the college with. Bob Jackson however was caught and he had a very difficult time trying to convince an officious clerk that he had gone home because he had felt sick, and that he had forgotten to report this the next day.

Although both male and female juniors had to attend this college, for a couple of years on the day that George and I chose to go, there were no females to keep us company. It may seem unusual in an officious organization, but we did have a choice of when we attended. As this was split between the fourteen young postmen over the five weekdays, we were allowed to change about to suit ourselves.


For a variety of reasons George and I soon found that Tuesday was the best day for us and we stuck to it. Then a new telephonist was employed who chose to go on the same day and who didn't know the way to the college. Being gentlemen we offered to escort her there and back, which she gratefully accepted. We soon discovered that she had no sense of direction as we threaded our way in a zigzag pattern through the maze of streets that criss-crossed the centre of the city. Being young and mischievous we decided to take her a different way there and yet a different way back every week. This went on for a couple of months, then the college principal arranged for the males in their final year to take the first morning period at a swimming pool a couple of miles out of the city centre.

As we revealed the new plan to her she was most upset, for two reasons. One was that she couldn't understand why the females weren't being allowed to go, and the other was that she thought she wouldn't be able to find her way to the college on her own, despite our assurances that she would. The following week with bags containing towels and trunks, we met her as usual at the bus stop. Throughout the journey to the city she kept on saying that she would get lost. Arriving at the terminus we walked straight down the street facing it for about a quarter of a mile, then at a very distinctive shaped building turning her to the right, told her to continue for another quarter of a mile, where she would find the college on the left. The look on her face was a picture as she at last realized that we had been having her on for weeks although we didn't like attending the college, it did have its uses, especially if it was a very wet day or snowing, and we would otherwise have had to work in it. But there was one particular use it had.

As juniors we were allowed one meal voucher every day (Monday to Friday) for use in the office canteen. Up to the age of seventeen these were given free, after that we had to pay a portion of the face value which almost wiped out the rise in pay we had just received. Often our daily duty spanned two meal times, but then we had to pay cash for the other

We later discovered that we should have had one for Saturday but the clerk who issued them was the secretary of the canteen club which was not open Saturday He didn’t want us to spend them elsewhere meal unless we were working overtime, when we were allowed another voucher. There was however a way of occasionally overcoming this problem as attendance at the college gave us the opportunity to obtain extra luncheon vouchers on the black market. Some youths from other offices, especially the city ones, did not always use all of the vouchers they officially obtained free of charge, and they would sell them for one third of the face value, which was most definitely against the rules. The vouchers could not of course be used in our own canteen as they were numbered, stamped with the name of the issuing office, ant also had to be signed, and signed for by the person to whom they were issued. The trick was to use the extra ones to obtain a meal on the day when you were at college, saving your own for use in your home town.

There were several places where these vouchers could be used in the city. One was a sort of canteen in the basement of the Head office, run by an old woman who was called 'Ma1 by all the messengers. The food wasn't all that good but it was filling. Another place was the civil service restaurant where if you were lucky you could get a meal. I say lucky because although we were Civil Servants at that time, the Inland Revenue and Ministry people who ran at didn't like interlopers and you could be turned away, especially those who wore uniform. A restaurant in one of the city stores would accept the vouchers in part payment for the standard meal which was about twenty-five percent above the face value of the voucher.

Going to this store provided some light relief in the form of a rather comical lift attendant who knowing that many of us worked for the GPO would greet us with "Here come God's poor orphans”. He was forever fooling around especially with the girls who unfortunately were laughing at him, rather than with him. His actions infuriated an older attendant who was presumably in charge of the lifts. On one occasion the comical one had started the lift off from the ground floor then spotted some young girl he probably fancied 5 rushing up. It was too late to stop but after reaching the first floorhe immediately returned to the ground floor to pick up this girl and several others who had arrived later. He started off again by-passing the first and second floors, arriving at the third floor where the restaurant was, to find his very irate senior waiting for him. This man had left the ground floor after we had, and had stopped at every floor. Luncheon vouchers spent and meal consumed we would return to the lift for a repeat performance of the character who would have been more at home in a circus.

Needless to say the luncheon vouchers had to be accounted for with the restaurant claiming cash while sending them to the city head Office, Our contribution was returned to our head office, where a clerk there had also to account for them. Now there is a type of person employed in government departments who has an officious mind far more officious than the mind which devised the officious rules upon which the department is run.

One man employed on clerical duties in the office, aptly named Wally, was that type of person. Re was the officious clerk mentioned earlier, and of course it was he who tumbled to the fact that the correct number of vouchers were not being returned for the days when we were at college. Although he was not of supervisory rank he nevertheless demanded an explanation. We told him that it was more convenient to take sandwiches. He didn't believe a word of it of course, but there was nothing that he could do about it.

He was also jealous of the fact that this perk had not been available when he had been employed in that capacity. We were later to discover that we should have been given a voucher for Saturday when our canteen was closed and could have arranged for a local cafe to accept them, but as he ran the canteen which was a club and not run by the department, he didn't want any of us deserting it, and he therefore suppressed the information. You would think from Wally's attitude that he owned the place. He was the type of man who had to defend the honour of the department come what may. There were times when I expected him to challenge someone to a duel at dawn; pistols at ten paces, or in his case custard pies. It wasn't as if he was an old fogey, but to the contrary
he was only in his mid- twenties. He was a typical snob, the last of a
generation of people who despised those of a lesser rank, He had been an SC & T even though they had once been of that rank. He complained
Vehemently when the cleaning staff obtained a large, well earned and long awaited increase in pay. Shortly after this time, deliberately goading him, I said something which almost caused him to burst a blood vessel.

This occurred one morning when he had just passed an elderly woman down on her knees cleaning the corridor with a hand mop. I suggested that he ought to order a squeeze mop on the end of a long handle, so that she would be able to stand up while she did her job. He went red with rage, which swiftly deepened to purple as I added that a motor driven cleaning machine would be even better. Having found out that he had no jurisdiction over us. I wasn't going to tug my forelock in his presence, Consequently a strong feeling of animosity quickly developed between us, and we regularly crossed swords. Over the years I have met some officious characters, but he is the most officious one that I have ever had the misfortune to meet. He was one of the few drawbacks to the job but was only encountered while we were in the office, and fortunately we were out on delivery most of the time.

The delivery area consisted of a large town with a couple of smaller ones tacked on. Two other medium sized towns each had their own smaller sorting office, and one youth was out stationed at each of these. The head office boasted a staff of twelve, and duties were arranged so that sufficient young postmen were on duty to cover an eleven hour period for six days a week. Sunday was covered on overtime on a rota basis, which everyone was keen to do at time and a half. We broke a rule then by using our 'civvy’ (personal) cycles as you were often able to finish work on a journey near your own home.

The head office area was split geographically into four. Each area being known as a Journey, and named after the area they roughly covered; Moorhead, Abbeyfield, Chadwood, and Hollington which was the largest. Very occasionally the larger journey if particularly busy was further split in order to avoid undue delay to the telegrams.

The boundary of each journey was approximately three miles from the centre of the town and as this was built on the side of hills, Wherever you went there was a lot of pedaling to be done either going out or on the return journey, and believe me those bikes were heavy and were not fitted with gears. Obviously it was preferable to do the hard pedaling on the outward journey while you were fresh, thus having the pleasure of being able to free-wheel back to the town centre.

Purely on the grounds of probability you would think that fifty percent of your working day would be spent in each half of the town, but this was not so. For some reason the part which received the most telegrams was the one where you had to do the heavy pedaling on the way back, which was Hollington. In any case it was the luck of the draw as each telegram bore the time of transmission from the originating office, thus dictating which batch would be the next to go out. Each messenger was also given a time at which he was due back which indicated who would go where. A tied time being decided on the toss of a coin. Only a priority telegram could change the order of events, and it often did.

One Telegram was dreaded. It came through every Thursday evening
just before seven o'clock, being addressed to a clerk of works, at a construction site for a new power station, on the very edge of the delivery area in Hollington. Despite the fact that no-one would be there it had to be delivered that night. It was also a money order, the wages of the construction workers, due to be paid the following day. It was sent priority because if it was not there first thing on the friday morning, the workers would have refused to start work. And these were non trade-unionist Being just over three miles away, we were allowed sixty-five minutes for the round trip, just enough time as we were off duty at eight. After that time it was considered night duty and due to our age, we were not allowed to do it.

These money orders started coming through in the late autumn, after the clocks had been put back from summertime, with the result that the road to the site was very dark as there were no street lights. The site lay about three-quarters of a mile off the main road, and lay behind the existing power station. Finding your way around the back of the existing building was a nightmare with only the feeble light from a wonky cycle lamp to go by. We had requested a postman's lamp in addition which could be clipped onto our belts, but this was refused.

The biggest problem was going between the excavations for the two future buildings where there was a drop of about fifty feet, the only light coming from a single ordinary naked house lamp halfway down the hole. It was then a case of finding the hut used as an office and pushing the envelope under the door. This was easier said than done, and in the dark several of us pushed it under the wrong door, resulting in a complaint which Wally took up with relish.

We complained to our superior officers as vehemently as we could that it was dangerous to be on the site in the dark, but to no avail. After several weeks of this we decided to take the matter up with our union officials, and it was agreed with the postal inspector that two of them would go with one of us by official van the following week. They were horrified by what they saw, agreeing with us that it was too dangerous. Representation was therefore made to the head postmaster and also to the site agent, who pooh-poohed the suggestion of danger. Reluctantly he agreed that the money orders could be held over until the friday, providing they went out first thing. A few months later, on a dark night a workman from the power station fell down the excavations, and his body only found the following morning.

At the resulting inquest the coroner roundly condemned the company for the lack of safety preparations on the site. It has remained paramount in my mind that if it hadn't been for the action taken by the union, it could well have been one of our lads that fell into the hole.

Priority telegrams, for which the sender paid a higher fee, would often herald the most difficult part of telegraph delivery, when you have to take news of someone's death. I was really glad that world war two had ended before I started work, as then every other telegram was an official one stating that the recipient's husband or son had been killed in action. At this time the sight of the familiar red cycle and uniformed rider coming down the street would Strike terror into the heart of those who had relatives serving in the forces. This feeling of apprehension carried on after the war had ended, especially in working class districts, where bad news was the only news they expected to receive in this way, unless they had won the pools.

Not being privy to the contents of most telegrams, we were always told when one contained the message 'dead' or 'dying’. The instructions were that such telegrams must not be put through the letter box if no-one was at home. In those circumstances we had to enquire from neighbours as to their whereabouts. Many a person has collapsed after reading the message, which meant that the deliverer has had to render first aid and seek help from a neighbour before continuing with the journey.

Telegrams of condolence were also expected to be sent by people who
were not living close enough to pay a respectful visit to the bereaved such was the case when a local vicar, well known and respected nationally, died. After the announcement had been made, telegrams of condolence poured out of the teleprinter all day long.

About six - thirty that evening I was given a batch of envelopes which included one for this vicarage. This was shortly after starting
the Job and not having been there before, I asked one of my senior colleagues, which was the best way to get there. This of course was
his cue to have a bit of fun at my expense, and he warned me that the place was noted for being haunted, and that I should be very care full. Although I was young I was not that young and countered with a rude phrase which roughly translated meant, pull the other one.

It was a bleak autumn evening as I cycled off for my destination some three miles away in Chadwood, but beyond the edge of the town. The first couple of miles was easy for as well as being down hill, there was also the luxury of street lighting, even though only gas lamps. As I came to the unlit area I had to travel along a winding lane which passed the church where the incumbant had recently ceased to incurab, and following this the graveyard where he was about to be interred. The lane was flanked by tall gaunt trees through which the wind blew and dislodged the last of the leaves, and as I pedaled by the burial ground the few telephone wires which connected this outback to civilization moaned in the cold night air. I began to wonder if I had been a little too hasty to scoff at my colleagues warning.

The drive up to the vicarage was full of pot-holes and was even darker than the lane as the treetops bordering it had grown to meet one another. I thought it safer to dismount and push my cycle the rest of the way, and after about fifty yards the large stone building came into view. Not a single light was on either inside or outside of the house, nor was there a letter box, knocker, or bell on the front door. I would have to try the tradesman’s entrance, presumably around the back. Sure enough as I approached the rear door I could see the outline of a knocker from the dim light of my cycle lamp. Quickly stretching out my hand to announce my presence, I withdrew it even quicker as my fingers encountered something soft, cold, and clammy.

With my heart-rate rising I propped the cycle against the wall and removed the lamp to investigate more closely, only to find a piece of black cloth tied to the knocker. Waiting for a few moments and not getting an answer, I bent down to push the telegram under the door only to find that the door had disappeared. With heart-rate rising again I straightened up, while shining the lamp at the point where the door had been the last time I had seen it. Then the light of the lamp picked out a large white face, on top of which was a large bald pate. Apparently suspended in thin air. I was transfixed to the spot for several seconds, and then the spell was broken when a voice said "Yes" I then realized that the head was the property of a clergyman dressed in a long black cassock, who had silently opened the door. Thrusting the telegram into his hand I grabbed the bike, jumped on it and pedaled as hard as I could until I reached the safety of well lit and heavily populated roads.


Gordon Smith 1949-1977 account of life in the Post Office
chapter 2 follows

[Matt James]

Gordon Smith 1949-1977 account of life in the Post Office

Chapter 2


‘For Official Use Only'
The relationship between post office workers and the police is by and large a good one, after all ultimately they work for the same employer, the government. Several youths' who had previously been employed by the post office had joined the local force, and they went out of their way to assist us in carrying out our duties, especially in getting through heavy traffic. In any case every policeman knew that our work was urgent. There was always a constable on point duty at a busy main road junction in the town, which was located at the bottom of a hill. As we came down this hill, it was our practice to indicate as early as possible which way we wished to go, and invariably we would be given the right of way. This was a great help as the impetus gained from going downhill helped to carry
us up the other side. To have to ride up it from a standing start wasn't too difficult, but best avoided. It was a sad day, when the constable was replaced by traffic lights.

However there was a small percentage of the force who seemed to be unco-operative and who also had a need to demonstrate their authority it was said that they had been MP's in the army and were used to being obeyed without question. Of the ones who joined the local force in the thirteen years I was at that office, I seem to have met them all. The corner of the street by the Head Post Office was one of their points, partly because they had to protect the premises, and partly because they would be facing the side street where the Police Station was situated and could therefore easily see the comings and goings of their superiors.

Meeting our friends outside the Head Office was a tradition. This was so that anyone requiring companionship that might have finished duty early, or was on leave, could turn up about seven-thirty of an evening and expect to find someone else there. Even if an arrangement was made to meet someone that was usually where we met. Having agreed to meet a friend to go for a cycle ride one fine summer evening. I was sitting of the Gestapo riding around the town - well it did rain a lot much to the consternation of the recently arrived displaced persons from Central Europe.

One young immigrant had suffered particularly badly at the hands of the Nazis. Although he had survived several years in a concentration camp, he was a nervous wreck. The sight of our uniform, particularly the hat and delivery pouch, which to him resembled a gun holster, worried him. As I was about to enter the office after returning from a journey one Saturday afternoon, I was approached by an elder friend of this young man, in a bid to convince him that he had nothing to fear. Giving an explanation of my employment didn’t help much as he had no knowledge of English and the friend had to translate for him. The young man was still not assured, thinking that my job was to deliver notices of deportation or interment in prison camps.

I was asked to show him the contents of my delivery pouch, which I willingly did, but unfortunately it did not contain any telegrams. It did contain several blank telegram forms in case of a reply, and a couple of coloured cards, used to inform people that a telegram had been put in their letter box, should there be no-one in attendance. The young man was still not convinced, apparently because the forms bore an imprint of the Royal Crown, In a final bid to ease his friend's mind, the older man asked me to give him one each of the official forms I had, which he would then take to an independent person to be translated. I willingly obliged, then went into the office, feeling saddened by the situation. On reaching the delivery room, I related the story to the supervisor and those of the lads who were there. This conversation was overheard by Wally, who when I reached the point where I explained the giving of the forms, exclaimed "you had no right too, they are government property, for official use only."

The reshaping of caps must have been going on throughout the whole country, as a new design was soon introduced, which unbendable wire had firmly stitched in. A critic writing in The Post, the trade union newspaper, described the cap as resembling a Spanish Galleon in full full sail with all the port holes open. The peak was higher and wider than the one it was replacing, resembling billowing sails, and the port holes were four ventilation holes on each side. The hats were horrid even after the circular piece of wire had been completely removed. The peak was held up by a piece of thin metal, which after removal of the wire, had to take all the strain and it soon broke off. A good well used substitute was a flat lollipop stick.

We received a new uniform every year comprising; the peaked cap, Jacket, waistcoat, two pairs of trousers, and a pair of shoes. Later the union was to agree that the supply of shoes should cease, in consideration of an increase in pay of sixpence (2 1/2p) a week. Certainly the worst deal ever to be accepted. Wearing a new uniform seemed to stimulate recipients into giving more tips, which was an incentive for us to keep our uniform looking smart as long as possible.

The Jacket and trousers were made out of rough serge, and as the trousers were unlined it was most advisable to wear something underneath. Kevin Gifford otherwise known as Giff, didn't, at least for a while, until the friction of the saddle against the serge, against his flesh, produced a nasty boil on a part of his anatomy that he had long since ceased to let his mother see if it had been anywhere else he would have reported sick. In an attempt to protect this sensitive spot, he tried the usual remedy of a piece of lint secured by adhesive plaster, but not stuck to his skin for obvious reasons. Regrettably this was not secure for long and it came adrift at the most embarrassing moment. He was just setting off on a journey descending the office staircase, as a young and pretty telegraphist he particularly fancied was ascending them. As luck would have it, the plaster took this moment to come adrift, slip down his trouser leg, and land silently on the staircase, but at just her eye-level. With a laughing group of so called friends leaning over the banister and one calling out loudly that he had dropped something, he hurried past as fast as his ailment would allow him to do. The girl was dark and vivacious and a few years older than us, which must have made her, seem more attractive to the unfortunate youth. Whether she was aware of his problem or not we didn't know, but if she did she was kind hearted enough not to betray the fact by laughing.

There were about eight telegraphists, in the office, most of them young, and with young postmen in close proximity, it was inevitable that more than one romance would be sparked off. In the previous generation of staff, two families of postmen, telegraphists, and telephonists became so inter-married that it appeared as if they were putting in a takeover bid for the entire office. The father father-in-law, a supervisor became known as 'Pop’ to every member of the staff.

One young telegraphist was a budding actress, who appeared in several amateur dramatic productions while I was there, resigned a few years later to go into local rep. She has appeared in a television soap opera broadcast two evenings every week, for more than thirty years.
A woman leaving because her husband had gained promotion near the south coast, went to join him and search for permanent accommodation. Succeeding, they returned to arrange for their furniture to be moved only to find that someone had beaten them to it. The entire contents of their premises had been taken, and they were not insured. This happened with the neighbours watching, thinking that the owners had arranged it.
In addition to teleprinters the telegraphists had to operate a suite of telephone switchboards, as some telegrams were phoned in from sub-offices where they had been accepted, and also direct from public call boxes. This of course was before telephones were so widely installed and so easily obtained. It was also when a long distance call cost much more than a telegram. Having the switchboards came in very handy when an office sweepstake had been organized and the race was being broadcast, as one sub-office had a radio next to their telephone, and several people could listen in on the head-sets.

Not many people outside of the telephone service realise that it is possible to hook together a bank of switchboards so that every operator can listen in to the same call. This is strictly against the rules, but in one situation they were completely flouted. Every day a male and a female, separated by the high moors of the pennine chain, would take turns to call the other. This was done between the same two telephone boxes, and it soon became obvious that an elicit sexual relationship existed between them. Stimulated by the content of their conversation on a chance occasion, one telephonist hooked-in another, which over time resulted in a mass hook up of the half dozen or so switchboards at our exchange, and a similar number at the other. The operator at the end of the bank would ring the telegraph room, and by a further process of hooking up, another half dozen people could listen in. What those two lovers weren't going to do to each other the next time they met.

Anyone with any technical knowledge will know that it was impossible for such a large number of people to listen in at the same time, as all the power would have been drained from the circuit. But by occasionally
plugging into the system several people could listen in. With the introduction of subscriber trunk dialing few calls then through
the operator and a repeat of the above happening is unlikely to occur,
Telegrams were often telephoned in, sometimes for not so obvious reasons as we once found out. In spring the sap begins to rise, but with young men it is constantly rising, and the urge to do something about it, is never far from the mind, but at the time of which I write there wasn't much opportunity.

Barry while on a journey was invited into a house by a woman, who having just stepped out of a bath was only wearing a robe. The temptation was probably overwhelming, but as he was courting a pretty young telegraphist at the time, he declined the woman's invitation to stay, saying that he had to hurry back but that he finished early the following day. Suspicious because the telegram he had just delivered had originated locally, and because the house had a telephone installed, on his return to the office he asked his intended to check the origin of the telegram from the duplicate kept on file. It had as he suspected been telephoned in, with the telephone number being recorded. A check of the name and
address of the woman revealed that it had been sent from the same house.
Here was a very frustrated woman indeed. Revealing his discovery
to the supervisor, Mr Newman, they cooked up a plan of action for the following day, should the woman's ploy be repeated. Barry wasn't due for an early finish the following day, but a lad known as Nobby was. They decided that if possible he would be sent there, then wait and see how long the journey would take him.

The telegram came through as they had hoped and an unsuspecting Nobby set off with this and a few other telegrams, having been told that he
would have to return, but that it would probably be his last journey for the day. Meanwhile the co-conspirators waited eagerly for his return. But they hadn't bargained for a capricious mother nature deciding to join in the jest, and about ten minutes after Nobby had left, an unexpected thunderstorm broke. He returned about twenty minutes late, wet through as he hadn't taken his cape with him. He claimed that his lateness was due to his taking shelter in a shop doorway from the worst of the storm.
When pressed for details of what had transpired when he had reached the house, he said that as he was drenched from the rain, the woman had invited him in to dry off. She had been dressed only in a bathrobe saying that she had just stepped out of a bath. She was in fact continuing to dry herself with a towel underneath her discretely opened robe. He realised that he was onto a good thing, especially/as she invited him up to the bathroom to dry off properly. He was just about to take advantage of the situation, when two tiny children ran out of a back room shouting "Mummy, Mummy." This unexpected turn of events put a damper on his ardour that no thunderstorm could ever have done. Deciding that the situation was too risky, Nobby beat a hasty retreat. They didn't believe him of course, and neither did any of the others as the story was related several times over.

A couple of years after starting work for the post office King George the Sixth died. We were all told to wear black ties, purchased at our own expense. On the day of the funeral the events were extensively covered by both television and radio. A period of two minutes silence was to be observed nationally at three o'clock to coincide with the start of the funeral service. As we were Grown Employees, we were .Instructed that regardless of where we were or what we were doing at his time, we were to stop and stand reverently for the required period, It was a case of woe betide anyone whom it was reported had not done so. The harbinger of these glad tidings was that purveyor of Officialdom, Wally.

I set off sometime around two-thirty on a journey for Holllngton with his words ringing in my ears, and a concern of knowing when it would be three o'clock. As it turned out there was no need for alarm is a hooter of a nearby factory blew to tell the employees to down tools. I dutifully pulled over to the kerb of an avenue on a housing estate, dismounted, and adopted a reverant pose as required. Not more than a minute had elapsed before the solemnity of the moment was shattered by the sound of a horse pulling an iron-Wheeled cart along the roadway, driven by a shabbily dressed totter. I managed to control in impulse to laugh, and as the hooter sounded again to signal the end of the vigil, 1fe mounted the cycle thankful that I would not be reported for failing to do my duty.

The next day Bob Jackson and myself were the only messengers In the delivery room, arguing about which one of us should go out with an easy Abbeyfield journey or the dreaded Hollington, when a red-faced Wally burst into the room. He pompously announced that a letter had been received from someone reporting me for loitering by the side of the road at three o'clock the previous afternoon. The red face wasn't the product of embarrassment, but of anger. In his eagerness to get someone skinned for a misdemeanor, he had completely forgotten that it was he who had passed on the instruction of our official obligation with great delight I reminded him of the situation. He went out again, still with a red face, but this time it was due to embarrasraent.

As the door closed behind our officious friend, Bob and Mr Newman burst out laughing at the improbability of, or perhaps the predictability of the situation. There are times when you just cannot win. Bob echoed my own feelings. If I hadn't stopped as instructed, I would surely have been reported by someone for not doing so. Dying his eyes, the supervisor demanded to know who was going where, and feeling as angry as I have ever done in my life, I said "Give me Hollington, let me get out of this bloody place." Anyone volunteering for that journey was considered to be out of their mind, I was.

That incident highlights a problem that arises out of working for the post office, those people who consider government employees are always skiving. Having worked for other organisations I can honestly say that the vast majority of post office workers pull their weight and do their duty with the minimum of supervision. In fact many will go out of their way to help others, even though it isn't strictly their duty; that is until they learn better.

Returning from a journey as the office workers of the town were finishing for the day, and bringing mail to be posted before continuing home, I was just passing the front of the head office where a large posting box was built into the wall, when I was asked by someone in a car if I would post a bundle of letters for them. As this was no hardship I obliged only to find that the driver of another car had witnessed my good deed for the day. With a toot on the horn and a none too polite "Here you are," he pushed a large bundle of envelopes towards me. Reasoning that I could hardly do it for one and not the other, I took them from him then after pushing them into the box, I hurried into the office before I was caught by someone else.

Two days later a telephone call was received by the clerical staff asking "Where was your boy last night " Someone was trying to coerce the department into providing this facility every evening. Having insisted that this was not standard practice, and that whoever had done this, had done so unofficially. The clerk accepting the call,

sought out the young postman who had caused the department and himself so much embarrassment. I was informed quite clearly*that I hadn't better do it again. So if any of you have ever asked a postman to put letters into a postbox for you, and been told that we are only allowed to handle mail after it has been posted, you know the reason why.
Sometimes complaints were justified when we knowingly broke the rules, which on one occasion came about due to 'sloping1 or doubling up. Delivering telegrams could be a lonely business as you travelled along with only your thoughts to keep you, so whenever an opportunity arose for two of you to slope off together, we took it.

These opportunities were rare and could only arise when two small journeys for adjoining areas were sent out at the same time. To be able to return back on schedule we had to pedal hard, in effect racing each other, but it was worth it for the company. It was often possible to take a short cut along footpaths going across rough ground or along cart tracks. Sloping with another lad one afternoon having delivered my telegrams in Hollington, we took such a short cut to deliver his in Chadwood. This route led past an isolated row of houses known as Lark Fold, then across a field to a main road where the bicycles had to be lifted over a fence. The residents of Lark Fold were the most odd I have ever encountered. Being isolated they had become very insular several families where inter-married, and they resented strangers.

As we passed by the houses the children stopped playing to stare at us, and a group of women shouted "What do you want ? Go away." Happy to oblige we didn't stop, we hadn't time anyway.

Returning to the office, we found that one of the women had telephoned complaining that two of us had passed through their territory. We were in trouble as there was no reason why two of us should have been together at that spot, or either of us on our own. Some while later I had cause to go that way again, but this time officially. As I passed by the houses I was met with the same hostility, and sure enough when I returned to the office, I found that someone had telephoned to complain that I had invaded their sacred patch of land. There is an old Lancashire saying 'There is nowt as queer as folk.

Short cuts are very useful but they can also present problems other than that just mentioned. One footpath between two country lanes crossed several fields, separated by dry stone walls which are prevalent in the Pennines. Narrow gaps were left for the pedestrian to pass from one field to the next, but which were too narrow to take the handlebars of a bike. Using this short cut could take as long as going by road after you had humped your heavy bike over the stiles, but this way you avoided riding up a hill. In an adjoining town, a rough track ran down one side of a valley and up the other side after going through the stream which formed the town boundary. A little footbridge wide enough for just one person to negotiate, was built across it resting on columns of bricks, just a few feet above the water. Sunday afternoons in summer would see a queue of people on each side of the footbridge waiting to go across, as this was a favourite walk when the weather was nice. when the weather was bad and the stream in heavy flood, you couldn't get across the bridge at all.

The long arm of coincidence came into play one summer Sunday afternoon, some ten years after I had commenced working for the post office, as my parents went for a walk down this lane. Approaching the stream, they waited as another couple came across the footbridge towards them. On first seeing the man on the other side of the bridge, my father seemed to recognise him and in the short space of time that it took for him to cross, both their brains had been working overtime searching through the years of memory. They both remembered who the other was and under what circumstances they had met. There followed the usual reminiscing that takes place when two people haven’t met for forty years. They had been in the same regiment during the first world war. After introducing each other to their respective spouses, they enquired what they had been doing with themselves sinde demobilisation. The other man revealed himself to be a postman with whom I had been working for several years.

We often used this lane when on delivery and negotiating the stream with a bicycle was hazardous. Riding through at speed caused a fountain of water to be thrown up which soaked your feet and trousers. If you vent slow you risked losing impetus and stopped in midstream, getting your feet wet as you pushed your way out. I found that the safest way to cross was to dismount and walk across the bridge while pushing your bicycle through the water. One lad rode through at the correct speed but hit a pot-hole in the middle, buckled the front wheel and fell off into the water. Another tried to ride across the footbridge only to catch a pedal on a support for the handrail and became separated from the bike, which crashed into the stream, while he grasped the handrail to save himself. Yet another lad, in a hurry to get back for his lunch, went through the water so fast that not only did he give himself a soaking, but also splashed a man and a woman who were crossing the footbridge at the time. They wrote in to complain, the lad claimed that his brakes had failed which may have been true. The supervisor of course had to issue him with the form P18B.

Normal supervision of Junior Postmen was undertaken by Postmen Higher Grade (PhG's). One man in particular, Mr Newman, did this as a full time duty, except of course on his day off and when on holiday. Over the years we had a succession of different men as substitute. One of these was not very well liked by anyone, and was referred to as Paddy. He was a big-head, a creep, and destined to drink himself into an early grave. He had managed to worm his way into a local small business family, by marrying the daughter who it was reputed had previously given birth to a child fathered by an American soldier, who had made a strategic withdrawal to parts unknown. During one of Paddy's stints as our supervisor, he had just made himself a brew of tea in a pint pot, considered by many to be the only way to make it, when he was called away to a telephone in another room. In order that no-one would have a drink of his tea he spat in it, whereupon when he was at a safe distance, Bob Jackson also spat in it. Then upon his return we calmly, and with great delight The regular man. Mr Newman, was very fair in his supervision and was an easy going chap, but lie was sot one who could be put on. If anyone were to claim that they didn’t Know where a particular place was, he would always reply " Now is your opportunity to learn." He looked after us quite well, and on one occasion went out of his way, getting himself into deep trouble on our account. This was during one winter which was particularly bad, with a heavier than usual fall of snow.
It was late one afternoon when most of it came down, and we found travelling extremely difficult as we slid about all over the road in the slush, while trying to maintain control of our bicycles. This placed him in an awkward position, as he was concerned for, and was responsible for our safety. Yet he was duty bound to ensure that the telegrams were delivered. No matter how bad the weather became we had to carry on. Long after the buses had stopped running, we would still be trudging through the snow, and the local bus crews could, cope under most soft snow conditions.

Mr Newman decided that we would walk with the nearer telegrams, which would probably be quicker as we wouldn't have a bike to encumber as. The farthest points would be travelled on a bus as long as they were running. We did this for almost two hours until it stopped snowing and the slash froze over. We were then able to cycle again, just as the buses stopped, Under those conditions I found it better to drop the saddle to the cross-bar, then travel down hill sliding both feet on the road to maintain balance, Coming back up hills meant pushing in any ease so nothing was lost.

Mr Newman’s decision was well received by all of us. There was however the problem of where the money would come from to pay for the fares, as there was no known rule or precedent for such action. There was an official sum allocated for bus fares so that express parcels, too bulky to carry on bicycles with safety, could be delivered. Re decided to use this, cooking the books on the official forms. We survived the rest of that day due to his foresight, booking off duty with the greatest of relief.


The following day, in order to recover the cash he had spent, he had to take the forms to the accounts branch where they went through a chain of command and eventually, were scrutinised by the assistant head postmaster. A few days later, concerned about the apparent huge increase in the volume of express parcels, he began to ask questions of our supervisor. Mr Newman had no option but to explain what he had done and why he had done it.

" This is tantamount to embezzlement Mr Nevman” stated the AHP. “If you had asked for money for that purpose, you would have been given it”. Now that we didn't believe, in any case he hadn’t been there to be asked, having gone home early as soon as he saw the heavy snow falling.
The supervisor was given the form P18b, to furnish his explanation as to why, then waited to hear his fate. Under the circumstances he was let off lightly, with just a memo being added to his personal file that stated he had made improper use of official funds.

He went out of his way on many other occasions, especially after management had moved into the building and were forever snooping about. Should one of them report that one of “his boys” had done something or other, he would automatically issue a P18b, but after completion he would file it away in his desk drawer for safe keeping. If after a few days nothing else had been hoard about it, it would be re-filed down the toilet. Sometimes the person raising the matter would return and ask what steps had been taken, he would murmer " Oh yes ", then rummage in his drawer and produce the document, thus proving that he had done his duty as required.

As well as being responsible for the delivery of telegrams and our safety in bad weather, the supervisors were responsible for the repair of the bicycles, other than punctures which was oar task. When not on the road the bikes were stored in the basement, which also contained the repair section, kept locked to safeguard the spare parts This repair room had a tight blast-proof door as it had previously been used as an air-raid shelter. On first entering the room it was necessary to disperse the accumulated foulness by drawing filtered air through a hand cranked intake fan.

The basement also housed the central heating furnace, and it wasn't unusual to find your bike hanging from the pipes that came out of the boiler room. It would have been put there with ease by two people, but getting it down on your own was most difficult. Around the Inside of the basement walls were hung baskets of water, vhich had to be kept topped up due to loss by evaporation. Funnily enough, one bucket never seemed to need topping up. Due, it was later discovered, to Bob Jackson keeping it topped up from an unofficial water supply.

In addition to the water buckets were a couple of fire extinguishers, which were also thought to contain water Not so, as Bob found out to his cost. As he was trying to frighten another lad with it, it accidentally went off, The foam went everywhere and took a lot of cleaning up. In addition the perpetrator of this dastardly crime was awarded four hours unpaid extra duty by the AHP, after being reported by the relief supervisor. His claim that it was an accident was not believed.

Feeling niggled by all this Bob poured the contents of the bucket he had kept topped up from his private source, under the tiny gap of, the repair room door, which he knew sooner or later the relief supervisor would have to enter. Sure enough a few days later he did and as the door was opened, a strange overpowering aroma met him full in the face, The young postman with him being privy to the facts, exclaimed, " Phew! there is a funny smell in here Mr Stanton, "

"Yes there is, and I know what it is. its pies, that's what it is, the dirty bastards”

Stanton was a grumpy old devil not over keen to do favours, but on one occasion he managed to arrange for us to attend a regional post office youth function in the neighbouring city. As our duties were being covered by van drivers, and we could all attend, we decided to make a night of it, having dinner at a city restaurant, which he had arranged a couple of weeks earlier. I cannot remember what the function was for or where it was held, but I can clearly remember returning in the late evening through the streets of the city centre towards the bus terminus. As we strolled along in a couple of casual groups, a woman emerged out of the darkness of a shop doorway as Stanton approached, asking if he would like to partake of a little of her time. With his usual growl he declined her kind offer and walked by, whereupon one of the lads called out "Go on Mr Stanton, we will have a whip round for you." His predictable comment was that he would rather take matters into his own hands.

The telegraph delivery office was part of a larger room separated by a tatty partition, the other part contained the under copies of delivered telegrams and the originals of those which had been sent from the head office counter. It was also the wireless licences section housing the under copies of all the licences issued, which were kept bound together in hardback covers. There were therefore a lot of vital records in that room and as the position was only comprised of compressed cardboard, there was a ban on smoking in the whole area. Consequently those young postmen who partook of the habit did their smoking in the male convenience. By that time we had been raised in status from males to men, and a new metal plate had been affixed to the door.

The convenience was a large one, and had there been a book of records in those days we would probably have qualified for inclusion as most of us were able to squeeze our way into the largest cubicle. As many as ten have been known to be in at the same time. This was achieved by two sitting on the window sill after the window had been opened one standing on the seat while leaning on the window sill, and the others stood around in rather cramped positions. If we heard the outer door open we would remain quiet in case it was one of the clerks or managers, the presence of colleagues being announced by a special knock. even those who didn't smoke would go in there for a chat, and because it was out of the wait
The wiser of the clerks knew that the mass occupation of what was normally a singly occupied room was taking place and why.

But one not so astute clerk thought that something disgusting was taking place as three of us emerged from the little room one day, just as he was entering through the outer door. In reply to his outraged accusation, I just blew Wally a kiss. Over a couple of years Wally was to make such a fuss over what he thought was happening that I began to suspect that his reason for doing so was Freudian. That he was trying to cover up latent feelings for what he suspected us of doing.

Out of public view the decor of the head office left much to be desired. It had not seen a lick of paint since before the second
world war. The cream had turned yellow, and the green was badly scratched with initials of several intakes of messengers.
After advertising the tender, a redecoration programmer was put into operation, with ladders, pots of paint, and protective sheets littering the corridors. The cream and green was replaced with cream and maroon, not an exciting change but a definate improvement. When it came to the turn of the staircase, a network of ladders, tressels, and planks were erected and the protective sheets draped down the steps.

This was the only staircase, and although the indoor staff were asked to curtail their use of it as much as possible, twelve young postmen were constantly coming and going. even if all the equipment had been in perfect order, an accident would have been a possibility, but everything was not in order. A plank was too short for the job. It rested on the steps of two ladders by only half an inch at each end, and as one of the ladders was eased back to allow someone through it slipped off the ladder and hurtled down the stairwell. Hitting the newel-post at the bottom edge on, it split the solid piece of mahogany right down its entire length.

In typical stable door fashion, management then decided to organise things as they should have done in the first place. We were accommodated downstairs, with the telegrams being brought from the instrument room in batches. The firm of decorators had to have the post replaced at their own expense, with the department hierarchy insisting that it be made of the same wood and not a softwood substitute. Perhaps the most cryptic comment came from the union secretary who pointedly asked what if the plank had hit someone. The next time the office was decorated, the staircase was done during the night after all the staff had gone home.

Before the redecoration took place we were in the habit of sliding down the banisters, not by swinging a leg over and going down on the seat of the pants, but by balancing on the midriff. As we wore belts with brass buckles, the banister rail inevitably became badly scratched. After the rail had been varnished, large metal studs that had been ordered by Wally, were screwed into it. He was right of course, but at the time we considered him to be a spoilsport.

One 'sport' kept us highly amused over a considerable length of time. This was a youth outstationed at one of the satellite offices situated in a neighbouring town that had great difficulty in reporting for duty at nine in the morning. As he was the one and only telegram deliverer, his absence could have had serious consequences, especially if an extremely urgent telegram was waiting for delivery. His excuses showed him to be a master of ingenuity and drove the postmaster, a miserable, curt, formidable specimen of homo-sapiens, to despair. From the usual, 'I overslept- missed the bus- the clock was slow- I had a puncture'. Reason, he progressed to one which I have yet to learn bettered.

As he finally rolled up for work with the irate postmaster standing on the doorstep waiting to hear the latest excuse, he blamed it on the ‘Knocker-up’. For those of you living south of the border, this was a breed of men known only in the north, but long since disappeared, who earned a living by going round the neighbourhood, waking people when it was time for them to get up and go out to work.

They carried a long pole on which was bound several pieces of springy wire about one foot in length, which were tapped against the bedroom window, until an acknowledgement was received from the occupant. Only the heaviest of sleepers would need to be 'knocked1, for invariably these men wore iron-shod clogs, and could be heard streets away as they clomped across the cobbled roadways.

The excuse to end all excuses was that on the previous evening, some young boys had been playing football in the street and had broken his bedroom window. As it could not be replaced at the time he had effected a temporary repair by tacking a. piece of hessian across the frame. Consequently he had been unable to hear the knocker-up as the wires hadn’t made any noise. He got away with it once more, but realising that his days were surely numbered he resigned and found other employment.
Being outstationed at a Salaried Sub-office as never much fun, mainly due to the fact that you were on your own, and in such places the postmaster is god and will not let you forget it. Fortunately we at the head office only had to go out to these offices to cover for leave and sick absence. As George, the regular messenger at Crowshaw, went to college the same day as myself I got out of that eroneous task quite a lot, which was one reason why I chose the same day as he did* There wasn't a teleprinter in these small offices, the messages were received from the head office via an old daffodil type telephone. As you are also located in a small township there isn't a great deal of work to do and boredom soon sets in,

Late afternoon could be a welcome change when a couple of postmen came back on duty to make collections from posting boxes, then sort the mail ready for dispatch to the parent sorting office. Unofficially I would go off and do the more distant collections by cycle while one or other of the postmen stayed behind to get on with the sorting, thus lightening the load. As a gesture of thanks I would be given home made cakes or apple pie, which would nicely round off a meal from the 'chippy', occasionally life could however be quite hectic, as at the crowshaw office where the delivery area included a remote hamlet about two miles out of the township,and predictably this lay at the top of a big hill. Not just any old hill, but the highest one for miles, part of a range of hills which marked the boundary to the next county, hovering over a string of remote valleys noted for their sparse population and enthusiasm for brass bands. Even now there are six amateur yet championship class bands among those villages. If you were unfortunate enough to have a telegram for this hamlet, named after the turnpike which had stood at this point some hundred years before, the journey would take at least an hour to complete and you could bet that while you had been away a flood of other telegrams would have come through from the head office, for the opposite parts of the town, and quite often you would find yourself on your way back to the hamlet again, perhaps even to the same cottage you had just returned from.

One Christmas as George was off sick with a bad cold, the rest of us covered his duty shared between us on a day to day basis. The choice of days was determined by a draw, and as luck would have it my turn came on Christmas Eve. AS we were having a Christmas dinner in the canteen that day and not wishing to miss it, I arranged to take my forty
minutes following a journey which took me close to the boundary
between the two towns, thus giving myself extra time. After having the
usual meal for this festive occasion soundly rounded off by a generous helping of black sticky pudding, and brandy sauce without the brandy, I called into the head office teleprinter room as previously arranged to check if any telegrams had been received for addresses I would have to pass on my way back. There not being any I set off with just sufficient time left to get there if I moved fast. I had barely reached the town boundary, when with a loud hissing noise, the front tyre went flat. There was no option but to push it the remaining couple of miles, phoning in to let the postmaster know of my predicament.

The first phone box was in use with a woman chattering away twenty to the dozen, and as in those days there was no time limit on a local call, I pushed on to save time. The next box was out of order, and after that I was so close to the office, it wasn’t worth bothering about it I arrived at the office yard gates to find god pacing up and down in high dudgeon, demanding to know where the hell I had been, and why hadn't I phoned in. There was of course a pile of telegrams waiting for delivery, and predictably one for an address I had just walked past. Fortunately I had my own cycle there so that I was able to catch up on the backlog, despite the fact that it was against the rules to use personal cycles for official business. I find it remarkable how the rules can be waived when it is to the benefit of the department. Then it was a case of getting down to repairing the puncture while there was still daylight remaining, and as I levered off the tyre, I discovered that the inner tube was covered in patches. The tight old bugger of a postmaster hadn't got a spare. Trying to save the post office money, he had already cost it far more than the price of an inner tube in lost time.

While I had been involved in this necessary task more telegrams had come through, mainly greetings ones from people who had forgotten to send Christmas cards, and inevitably there was a greetings telegram for the hamlet on the hill. In case more should arrive for this locality it was prudently decided to leave this one as long as possible, concentrating on the nearer ones and having an early tea.

After a few sandwiches and a pint of tea, I set off up the long dark, unlit, tortuous road, pushing the official cycle towards the isolated hamlet. I wasn't pleased but thinking that it might have been worse for it could have been raining or even snowing, though the latter would have been more comfortable, '"when the snow came, this hamlet was one of the first to be cut off, with drifts up to seven foot a common sight. The residents would have to come and go through the bedroom windows. It was in fact quite mild for the time of the year.

About half way up the road I paused for a rest and to regain my breath. Looking back the way I had just come I could see a few faint pinpricks of light in the valley. Sodium lights were a thing of the future. Crowshaw, as most small towns, was lit by gas lamps, where a man still travelled through the streets carrying a long pole on the end of which was a carbide light. Inevitable he would be followed by a trail of small boys fascinated by the ritual. An old tank engine pulling three coaches chuffed along the bottom of the valley towards the town railway station, the level crossing gates closing with a clatter that I could hear clearly in the still night air.

After passing several isolated farms and cottages, I arrived at the top of the hill some three-quarters of an hour later, and was therefore able to ride for the last hundred yards. Passing the old stone built coaching inn, where already some of the revellers were getting warmed up with gusto, I found the house I was looking for, handed over the telegram, receiving a shilling tip for my trouble, then set off back content that I would have a long fast ride downhill, where I could freewheel.

I had just reached the top of the steep hill, when for the second
time that day, a loud hissing noise came from the front tyre. Several hefty kicks at the old red iron didn't do it a lot of good, but it relieved my temper a little. There wasn't much point in phoning the main sorting office for help, even if I could have found a cottage with a telephone, as the drivers would all have wanted to finish early, and any still on duty would have been too busy to have been spared. It was a case of plodding on, and after another half hours foot slogging I arrived at the office completely knackered and not in too good a mood nor full of festive spirit. I hadn't even had a glass of anything remotely festive the whole day.

Neither was the female counter clerk very happy, who was waiting to lock up the office and get home to her own festivities. I set off for home on my 'civvy1 cycle with yet another telegram to deliver, chalking up an hour and a half in overtime on the strength of a worn-out inner tube. The puncture had to be left, and for the rest of our tour of duty at that office, we went on our own official cycles, leaving George to sort his own bike out when he returned. Happily the postmaster saw the light and bought a new inner tube for him.

George was an easy going lad, but there were times when he had his moments, like the following spring bank holiday when I was fortunately
listed for a day off, and as the weather promised to remain warm and dry, I had it in mind to go camping for the weekend. The only problem was that I had no wish to go alone, but as everone else had either made alternative arrangements, or were scheduled form duty, it looked as if I would have to forget it. George however agreed to come with me despite the fact that he was permanently outstationed, and therefore scheduled for duty. I realised that he was up to something but no matter how hard I pressed him for an explanation, he only said that "I would find out soon enough."

We set off on the Sunday morning with tent and sleeping bags strapped to the back of our cycles, heading for a rural spot approximately fifty miles away. Arriving about midday, we found a friendly farmer who allowed us to stop in his field, and then spent a pleasant relaxed day with nothing better to do than chase rabbits. After a night on the hard ground, wee rose early and made breakfast of sorts. Then George's master plan came into operation. My guess had been that he had arranged for a relative to phone in to say that he was sick, but his plan was more subtle than that. About half an hour before he was due on duty he sent a priority service telegram from the telephone box in the nearby village, stating that due to mechanical failure of his bicycle the previous evening, he was unable to report for duty. As the previous day been Sunday there would have been no shops open to have a repair done, and being bank holiday then, it would have been some time before could be found to help.

I had already worked out who was listed as reserve and therefore who would have to go out to cover for him, concluding that George was getting his own back for something that had previously been done on him. Sure enough one of the first telegrams out of the printer was the one with the sad news. The expected person reluctantly and angrily went to the neighbouring town, even though it was only for the morning and that he would later receive a full days leave in lieu for his trouble. with a contented smile on his face, George spent the rest of the beautiful morning chasing rabbits, before we packed up our camping equipment and set off to cycle back home, with George laughing every mile or so at his, for him, very practical' joke.

A couple of years later I was to play a rather impractical joke on him. Like myself George had also been with the post office from school, being a year younger than me. We therefore knew a lot of people in other sections of the office, and could get things done that a new entrant couldn't. He had been courting his young lady for over a year and they decided to get married. He had only a few more months of his national service to do in the RAF when they tied the knot, George having a few weeks special leave for the occasion. On the Saturday morning of the big day, I had just returned from my letter delivery when I was asked by an inspector if I would do a couple of hours overtime on telegraph delivery to cover the lunch breaks as it had been a particularly busy day.

Arriving at the delivery room, I found that several of the greetings telegrams were for George and his bride. It didn't take many moments for an idea to form in my mind, and with the help of a telegraphist, to fake a telegram perporting to have been sent by the KAF authorities. As we had corresponded, I knew his service number and camp address, it was an easy matter to produce one from the teleprinter. Expecting to meet him before he set off to the church, it would allow me time to put the record straight before the joke went too far.

I arrived at the house to find his brother who was the best man, the only one there and on the point of leaving. Handing over the genuine telegrams, I then told him of the other and what it contained. With an evil grin on his face as big as my own, he agreed to go along with the idea. He would read it out at the reception after all the others, while promising to make sure that George was later told, but not too much later, that it was in fact a fake.

After the ceremony had taken place and the guests had enjoyed a tasty meal and also the wine. When the toasts had been made, the moment arrived and to horrified cries, the groom was advised that his commanding officer required him to return to camp immediately. Needless to say when I met him after the honeymoon, I received a volume of abuse that would have done credit to a sergeant-major in the infantry, let alone a corporal in what was supposed to be a more demure service. It turned out that he wasn't all that keen on jokes being played on himself.

Practical jokes are an everyday occurance in some workshops. The young, new worker particularly is most vulnerable on these occasions. Sent to the stores for sky- hooks, glass hammers, and buckets of steam,
or have his private parts annointed with paint, grease, or worse. The civil service was a little more subtle .that and a couple or so weeks
after starting, the new boy would be asked if he had yet signed a verbal agreement form. On saying "No", he would be sent to the personnel office to make sure this ommision was rectified at once. Regret ably they would have run out of these forms, so the poor lad would be told to go to the "Income Tax Office, to borrow one, then to the National Insurance, the County Court, and any more government departments that could be thought of before either people tired of it all, or the lad finally caught on.

A one off practical joke backfired due to a habit of the one set to be
on the receiving end. Throughout their lives people tend to develop habits which are difficult to break and almost become rituals, like throwing salt over their shoulder when spilt, or touching wood, all to ward off bad luck. Barry had developed a ritual when setting out on delivery. He would push his bicycle out of the basement storage area into the passage at the rear of the building, pause and open his pouch to check that he had not forgotten his telegrams. In my view that was the wrong moment to have such a check. It should have been done just as you are leaving the delivery room otherwise there would be two flights of stairs to climb back up if you had forgotten them

One day he was dramatically cured of his habit. On seeing him
going down the stairs, I decided to play a trick, and went into the male convenience, which was situated directly above the point at which he would pass, Carefully adjusting the level of water in the cistern so that it was just lapping the overflow pipe, I looked out of the window, and forced down the ballcock as he was only a few feet from the spot, then smartly retreated. The intention had obviously been to soak him, which wouldn't have been so bad as it was a fine summer day. Until then I hadn't been aware of the habit to pause and check the pouch, and the stream of water not only soaked him but also the telegrams, which mostly had to be re-typed before they could be delivered.

The last couple of months of ay time on telegraph delivery was spent out stationed. This was following the resignation of the lad who couldn't get up in the morning. The funny thing was that he signed on in the RAF for three years, how he ever went on I never discovered, as I never saw him again. It was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement until the position was filled permanently, but it didn't work out like that.

Being on your own and the volume of traffic was erratic, you were either sat in the office on a nice day with nothing to do, or you were rushing around the town like the proverbial blue-tailed fly. ln addition, as I was then old enough to be called upon to take out a letter delivery, this was frequently the case. As it was early summer the regular postman were starting their holiday periods, and I was instructed to report to the office at seven o'clock.

Living three miles away, I didn't much relish having to get up by six-thirty to get there. I would of course be paid overtime, but at my rate of pay it wasn't worth it, Normally a substitute would have been sent from the main sorting office, who would have been able to claim fares, travelling time, and a subsistance allowance. As the postmaster considered me to be on the staff of that office, I could not claim say of it. After a month had passed, and there wasn't any sign of anyone being taken on permanently, I enquired of the postmaster what the position was, to Be told that no-one had responded to the advert.

Asking where it had been advertised, he gestured to the window at the front of the office, where a framed piece of glass containing a piece of paper was hanging. On the paper was typed the iaformation that a youth was required. This was a common enough post office practice but not many people bothered to read each notices, and only those passing by on foot would b« able to do.
Asking if the vacancy had been notified to the Juvenile Employment Bureau, to be currently informed that it hadn’t, By that time I was more than suspicious that an ulterior motive lay behind this lack of drive to get the position filled, so I pressed for a reason way it had not been. The postmaster told me that he didn’t want a younger person doing
the job as he wouldn’t be able to use him to do the letter delivery.

“ Why can't you get a man from the main office?” I asked.
“ Because it will cost the department for his travelling and subsistence " he replied another Wally

Having no intention of being used as a source of cheap labour, I rode into the main town during my luneh break to relate the story to the union secretary, who then complained to management that serious difficulties were being experienced by the delivery staff at the head office, because one of the most experienced lads had to be outstationed. This of coarse was true.

A few weeks later the position was filled, but by that time I had moved on For the couple of weeks that I was to remain there a substitute postman came from the main office while I stayed in bed until eight.

Gordon Smith 1949-1977 account of life in the Post Office