The Art School Dance (10 page)

‘
There
is one thing,’ the driver said, when he stopped the van to let me
off at the ‘finger-post’. ‘You stand a fair chance of some
Christmas tips around here. There’s money on this side of
town.’

*

It took me no
more than a day or two before I was into the routine of things. As
I’d been warned, there were mixed blessings about the route;
granted it could be a bit bleak in places, but on the whole there
was rather more walking than delivering, on sections of the route I
had to go a couple of hundred yards or more to get from one address
to the next, and this I quite liked; there was none of the monotony
there might have been working nearer my own home, where there would
be an incessant popping of letters into letter boxes, and it was
really quite like going out for an early morning stroll at times.
The walk was reasonably picturesque, too, when one considered that
Sleepers Hill was so close by; I could see the town, a few miles
down to the west, but looking eastwards was the start of the moors,
topped with winter frost, and then the Pennines beyond; the way was
nicely undulating, the view constantly changed, there were fields
and woods I had forgotten existed after so much time spent in
town.

The walk took
about two and a half hours, after which there was a forty minute
bus ride back to the sorting office; getting the same lift out to
the walk each morning saved me time, though, and I got back at a
decent hour, was able to get some lunch before going out again with
the afternoon delivery.

A couple of
nights I did some overtime, helping with the sorting, but on
Thursday night I knew there was going to be a bit of a party to
celebrate the end of term, so I made my excuses when asked if I
could do a couple of hours more and hurried on to the ‘Commercial’.
The art school crowd were in the usual room when I got there and
start singing ‘Wait a minute Mister Postman’ when I entered.

I laughed and
stuck up two fingers at the lot of them.

‘
So
how’s it going, postie?’ Chrissie asked.

‘
You
look shagged out,’ Gus observed, with a grin which was not totally
sympathetic.

‘
I’m
knackered,’ I admitted. ‘Still, there’s the money, I can look
forward to spending that.’

‘
You can
spend some now and get a round in.’

I bought
drinks for everyone, though there were some in the company who
looked as though they’d had enough; they had probably been drinking
right through from lunchtime, the lucky dogs, while I’d been
humping my sack all about the county.

When I told
Gus the district I was working he asked if I’ve met any of those
lonely housewives yet.

‘
Which
are those?’ I say.

‘
You
know, they’re bored and randy and they invite you into the house
for a bit on the side. There must be some in a place like that,
looking for company, male or female, it doesn’t matter which.
They’ve got no shops, no bingo, there’s bugger all for them to do
once the husband takes off for work.’

‘
Well,
it’s funny you should mention that,’ I said, and everyone fell
silent for a moment, expecting some salacious gossip.

‘
You’ve
come across them, have you?’ said Gus, leaning forward
eagerly.

‘
No. I
just thought it was funny you should mention it, that’s
all.’

There were
some groans, some laughs, Gus looked at me with disgust and
demanded another drink.

*

Inevitably we
all got drunk and the next day I had a hangover, not a pleasant
thing to suffer at six o’clock on a cold winter’s morning; the mail
bag seemed even heavier than usual, there were more small packets
than ever, the ride in the van shook my stomach about so much that
I was glad to get out in the cold again. I began to understand some
of the postman’s pet hates; the letter box that was too low down,
the one that sprang back so sharply it almost took the tips off
your fingers, the dogs that barked and snapped, the women who
complained about the slow service and the weather which proved to
be the greatest nuisance of all. By mid morning there was a fine
drizzle falling, the sort that seemed to make a person just as wet
as any downpour, and by lunchtime I was miserable, shivering over a
plate of pie and chips in the canteen and tempted not to go out
again, to feign sickness; I knew this wasn’t on, though, my
supervisor wouldn’t be happy letting me go off sick if I was only
working a week or two.

I was out
again before my clothes had really dried, feeling damp shivers run
through my body; my fingers became numb and my toes were like ice
as I trudged along. Many of the roads on my route had no tarmac,
there were rutted country lanes, gravel roads, cobbles everywhere
making my feet ache all the more and I was cursing like a collier
by the time I reached the end of the round. And still there was a
problem, one packet left in the bag; there had been no one in the
house when I first tried to deliver it and now I had to decide
whether to try one more time or take it back to the sorting office.
If I had an empty sack I could just drop it off and sneak away
before anyone asked me to do overtime; if I had to return the
packet this meant seeing the supervisor and running the risk of
being persuaded into a couple of hours more work. The way I felt,
the condition I was in, I was really in no mood for overtime, so I
decided in favour of giving it one more try; the address wouldn’t
take me too much out of my way.

The house was
a modern detached place with coach lamps to either side of the
door, and these were now lit, which they hadn’t been before, so I
assumed that there was someone home at last. I walked hopefully up
the drive and pressed the bell, heard the chimes echo indoors and
second later saw a brighter light shine through the frosted glass
panes of the door; a vague silhouette of a figure walking along the
hall.

‘
You?’ I
said, when the door opened.

‘
Hello,
Ginny,’ smiled Paula. ‘Enjoying your work?’

I looked at
the packet in my hand, to make sure I had the right address, then
read out the name and asked, ‘Is that you?’

‘
My
parents.’

‘
Ah,
then you’d better take it,’ I said, and handed the packet
over.

‘
Thanks,’ said Paula. ‘But you’re wringing wet and look
frozen. Do you want to come in for a minute and get warm, have a
cup of coffee? Is there time?’

‘
I’ve
finished now,’ I told her, showing her the empty bag. ‘And yes,
thanks, I think I could do with a hot drink and a little
warmth.’

‘
Haven’t
you got your route a little confused, though?’ she said over her
shoulder, as she led the way into the house. ‘How have you managed
to finish up here when we come halfway round your
route?’

‘
I
called before but there was no one in,’ I explained.

‘
So you
came back? That’s very conscientious of you, Ginny. I must tell my
father.’

Paula took me
through to the kitchen, where I supposed such tradesmen as myself
must belong. Those other parts of the house I managed to see on the
way were fully carpeted, there wasn’t a trace of linoleum anywhere,
not even in the kitchen which was tiled and scattered with rush
matting; it was a sign of opulence, I believed, that there was no
lino and the carpets stretched from wall to wall. In the kitchen I
noticed that everything was electric, the cupboards were fitted to
the wall rather than standing free, and the sink had a double
draining board; further clues to a comfortable home and a
prosperous life.

‘
I
didn’t realise you lived out here,’ I said, as Paula filled the
kettle and spooned coffee into two mugs. ‘I was under the
impression you lived in town.’

‘
I do, I
have a flat there, but this is Christmas and my parents always like
me to spend some time at home with them. It’s the one concession I
make in return for having a place of my own.’

We sat on
stools at the narrow breakfast bar while the kettle came to the
boil. Paula was wearing jeans and a sweater, most unsecretary-like,
almost bohemian; she had her heels hooked over a rung of the stool,
bending her knees and stretching the denim nicely over her thighs,
emphasising just how shapely her legs were.

‘
Why
would you want to live away from a place like this?’ I asked,
looking around the kitchen and imagining what the other unseen
parts of the house must be like, fires in every room, gas or
electric most probably so that there would be no cold winter
mornings spent in front of a grate, shivering to strike a match to
crumpled newspaper. ‘This is a fantastic place,’ I said. ‘Your
father must be on quite some wage at the Post Office.’

‘
No, not
really.’

‘
More
than I’m getting.’

‘
Probably,’ she laughed. ‘My mother works as well, though.
She brings in even more than he does. She’s an
accountant.’

I looked
around again, like a peasant in awe of my surroundings. ‘Still,
there’s no way I’d leave a place like this,’ I said.

‘
Yes
there is. You’d leave if you were in my position. You’ll be leaving
your own home soon.’

‘
But my
home’s nothing like this.’

‘
That’s
beside the point, it would make no difference if it was. I left
home because I wanted some freedom. Isn’t that one of the reasons
you’ll leave?’ My silence told her that she was right and she
smiled as she made the coffee, said, ‘Right then, take off your
coat, and your shoes and socks.’

‘
Why?’ I
wanted to know.

‘
Because
they’re soaking. I’ll set them on the radiator to dry. You can take
that towel from the back of the door and dry your feet.’

‘
They
might be filthy,’ I warned her. ‘In fact they probably are, after
the day I’ve had.’

‘
That
doesn’t matter, I won’t be offended by the sight of them. You could
have a bath if you liked, if you have the time.’

‘
No,
that’s alright,’ I said, and started to take off my shoes and
socks, embarrassed by the smell and hoping that Paula didn’t
notice. I don’t think she did; she picked up the mugs of coffee and
told me to follow her through to the sitting room when I was
ready.

My feet really
did stink, so before I towelled them dry I washed them with some
detergent I found by the sink, then went bare-footed through to the
sitting room.

That afternoon
provided me with my definition of comfort, even though the nature
of it was rather opposed to the romantic ideals I had as an artist.
I sat in an armchair while Paula sat on a vast settee, her bare
feet curled beneath her, and there was no need for either of us to
inch closer to the fire for the whole house was so warm. The
upholstery was soft, the room was comfortably furnished, and though
it really wasn’t the sort of place where an artist should be able
to flourish I found myself making it a goal, an ambition, a home
which would be better than the one I was born into. We talked about
what it was like to work on the post –‘bloody awful in weather like
this’- and where I would go after my foundation course –‘away,
anywhere’- and as the warmth crept slowly through my limbs the
perfume of Paula subtly permeated the air; her voice took on a
fragrance, too, and washed over me, I was half inclined to close my
eyes and curl up in that chair, as if the conversation was a
bedtime story lulling me to sleep. I promised myself that I would
spend some distant future days in just this way, in warmth and
comfort.

*

It was getting
close to six o’clock when I remembered that I had to get back to
the sorting office and drop off my mail bag. I told Paula that I
had to leave.

‘
No rest
for the working woman,’ Paula smiled, as I went back to the kitchen
to put on my socks and shoes; I picked up my coat and returned to
the hall to see that Paula, too, had her coat on. ‘It’s starting to
pour,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a lift into town.’

‘
There’s
really no need to,’ I told her.

‘
But
you’ve only just got dry,’ she argued. ‘Come on, it’ll be quicker
than going by bus.’

We went around
to the side of the house, to where Paula’s Mini was parked, and
shivered even as we sat inside it. Paula switched on the heater
full blast, revved the engine like mad and we belted out of the
drive and along the lane. She said this was the best way to get the
car warm, excusing her driving, and I had to admit that I was
already beginning to sweat by the time we reached the main road, as
much from her exuberant driving as from the effect of the heater.
Fortunately the rush hour traffic slowed us down and we travelled a
little more safely into town, took all the short cuts Paula knew to
bring us to the sorting office in a fraction of the time it would
normally have taken.

‘
That’s
marvellous,’ I said, grateful for the ride. ‘I could do with a lift
like this every day.’

‘
Is that
a definite booking then, love?’ Paula asked, turning slightly in
her seat, speaking as she thought a cabbie might.

‘
Pardon?’

‘
Would
you like to book the car for the same time tomorrow?’

‘
I only
wish it was possible,’ I laughed, never imagining that the offer
might have been serious.

‘
Go and
take your bag inside,’ Paula told me, with a sudden impatience
which I failed to understand. ‘I’ll wait here for you.’