‘Thoo’s got all t’measurements wrong!’ grunted the helper.
‘Turn it round sideways then,’ said Mortimer.
‘Thoo daft ha’porth, that’s neea good! Tonning it sidewards only makes it worse! Onnyroad, some of these spaces thoo’s made for t’glass is inside out! By, thoo’s made a right pig’s ear of this job, Mortimer!’
To cut a long story short, Mrs Micklethwaite hired another local carpenter to make and fit the new windows; she would pay him out of the fees to be paid by Mr Slater.
And so the job was done in time for Mr Slater’s return.
When Slater saw the handiwork, he was delighted.
‘You know,’ he said in the pub later, ‘it’s nice to see the work of a genuine craftsman. You don’t get such skills in Liverpool. So, I shall be asking Mr Micklethwaite to undertake more work for me.’
Everyone was so astonished that they said nothing. In fact, due to his mother’s influence, Mortimer did just that. Every-time he was asked to do a carpenter’s task, his mother commissioned a neighbouring craftsman, and so Mortimer became a middleman and, with his mother’s help, did manage to earn a meagre living. In the meantime, while his ‘workers’ performed their craft, Mortimer chopped up bits of wood for sale as firewood and kindling, sometimes inadvertently demolishing valuable antiques or pieces left by his father for incorporating in fine furniture.
He also spent a lot of time sweeping his shop floor, and so effective was he that his shop became known as the tidiest and cleanest in Yorkshire. One reason was that it was never used.
His enterprise as the village undertaker came to an abrupt end when a local man, Jonathan Holgate, became terminally ill. Mrs Micklethwaite prepared Mortimer for the task of building the coffin by explaining what would happen when Mr Holgate did eventually pass away, but the silly Mortimer upset the family by going to the house to measure Mr Holgate while he was still alive. Some said the shock killed Mr Holgate.
And then Mortimer’s own mother died. As a final act of love, Mortimer built her a coffin which would have accommodated a giant, but the vicar allowed the funeral to go ahead even if the resultant grave looked large enough to be a communal one. But Mortimer was proud of that job. Upon his mother’s death, however, the problem was — what would Mortimer do now that his mother had gone? She had done her best to sustain him by helping him with the business, but she had had limited success.
Acting alone, Mortimer was incapable of running the workshop, useless at performing the necessary craftsmanship and incompetent at organizing his business and personal life. Then an answer came, as if from heaven. The village needed a postman.
The postmistress, Dorothy Porteus, put a notice in her shop window to say that her husband, Lawrence, was retiring as the delivery postman and that a new one was required.
It was a part-time post because Crampton was a small village; the job demanded some four hours work each day except Sunday, and it was a permanent position. The small wage ruled out most family men and it would not be easy filling the position; then someone suggested Mortimer. He had the time, he needed the money, he never left the village and he knew everyone. It seemed an ideal answer. He went to see Mrs Porteus and she filled in his application form, knowing the right words to use. She said she’d have a word with the head postmaster in York and would recommend Mortimer for the job. She’d remain as postmistress to issue stamps, postal orders, pensions and so forth as she continued to run her general store and newsagency, and Mortimer would deliver the mail.
And so, with the minimum of fuss, Mortimer got the job.
There was only one real problem.
Mortimer could not read.
His mother and father must have known, but Mortimer had managed his own affairs without anyone realizing that particular deficiency. When Mrs Porteus had filled in his application form, Mortimer had signed it, something he had learned to do, and thus no one in the post office had discovered his secret. It was revealed on his first morning’s duty. The Ashfordly post-office van delivered a pile of letters and packets to Crampton village shop-cum-post office, as Mortimer arrived to begin the day’s delivery.
His first task was to sort the letters into some kind of logical sequence for his walk around the village, and that’s when Mrs Porteus realized what she’d done. But she did not want to appear a fool by admitting her error and so she told Mortimer where to deliver his first few letters, advising him to ask a householder if he reached a confusing stage.
For several blissful years, therefore, Crampton was served by a postman who could not read. Mrs Porteus would set him off with his first handful of letters, telling him which houses to visit, and then he would ask for advice at one of the houses for his next directions. The villagers soon realized the problem, but they decided never to reveal it — after all, they would look a bit silly if they told the world about Mortimer.
Through this mutual aid from the villagers, the post was always delivered; that incredibly efficient network of advisers kept Mortimer’s secret and it provided him with a welcome and necessary income and occupation.
I must admit that I knew nothing of this until I went into Crampton to deliver a summons. It had been sent to me from Manchester City Police with a request that I deliver it personally to a Mr Charles Finney who lived at Snowdrop Cottage in Crampton. It was for a careless driving charge in the Manchester area, but I did not know Finney, nor did I know where to find Snowdrop Cottage. Most of the houses did not have names or did not display their names, the logic being that the villagers all knew one another.
As I drove into Crampton that morning, who should I see but Mortimer in his postman’s uniform and carrying a big sack of letters. I halted my van and approached him with the address of the summons uppermost.
‘Where’s this house, Mortimer?’ I showed him the address. ‘There’s no street name given.’
He peered at the typewritten address and shook his head. ‘No idea, Mr Rhea. Sorry.’
‘But you do know the man, surely?’
‘What man, Mr Rhea?’
‘This man, the man named here. Mr Finney.’
‘Oh, that man! Yes, he lives in Moor Street, third house along. Used to be called Jasmine Cottage till the jasmine died … now it’s Snowdrop Cottage because the garden’s full of snowdrops in February …’
I looked at him.
‘You can’t read!’ I realized. ‘You’ve no idea what it says here, have you?’
He blushed and hung his head; he’d been brought up never to lie to a policeman and I could see he was acutely embarrassed.
‘Does the post office know?’ I put to him.
He shook his head.
‘And so, for the last few years you’ve been delivering the mail without being able to read the addresses?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘They help me if I’m stuck. I know a lot now, by the shape and colour of the envelopes … regular stuff, you know.’
‘Well, if you’ve managed all this time without the post office knowing, I’m not going to tell them, Mortimer.’
‘Thanks, Mr Rhea. It’s a good job for me, is this one.’
I smiled and nodded. ‘The best,’ I said, going into Moor Street to deliver my summons.
8. Currents of Domestic Joy
‘Withindoors house — the shocks!’
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-89)
‘The decorators are coming in a couple of weeks, Rhea,’ Sergeant Blaketon rang at half past eight one morning to inform me. ‘I’ll send you the official notification — it’s internal, all rooms upstairs and down, and the office. You’ll be given some wallpaper sample books to make a selection from, within the official price range that is. The decorator will see you about your choice of paper and paint, but don’t go mad, we don’t want the police house looking like a sleazy night club, do we? But the office will be in the official colour, cream walls and woodwork. We want none of your psychedelic pinks in there.’
At this news, my heart sank. Several times
during my service, Mary and I had suffered the intrusions of the official decorators, both internally and externally. They came as an army, van loads of white-overalled men who plonked huge smelly cans of paint all over the place, followed by rolls of wallpaper and paste buckets, and who ignored the domestic routine which had to continue midst the mayhem. They came at eight in the morning and covered everything with protective sheets, then left at 4.30 in the afternoon after consuming gallons of coffee or tea. This invasion lasted for about ten days, i.e. two whole weeks discounting weekends.
The internal decoration of our police houses was scheduled once in every seven years, with the external woodwork being repainted every four years. The outside work was never a real problem unless the days were very cold — the painters seemed able to work only when all doors and windows were standing open. It was the internal decorating which was more disruptive; it was worse than moving house. Some officers managed to avoid internals — by being transferred around the county and exchanging police houses on a regular, short-term basis, some had never experienced the trauma of being internally decorated. At times I wondered if they engineered their transfers simply to avoid the decorators.
But others, like me, seemed to arrive at a house weeks before the decorators were due; even though we seldom occupied our police houses for more than three years, we always contrived to be resident when they were due to be decorated internally. Once I had to tolerate the wallpaper choice of the previous tenant because he suddenly moved out after making his selection and had gone to pastures new before the decorators came to honour his and his wife’s wishes. Fortunately, their choice was tolerable. Conversely, we had one of our houses decorated shortly before we moved out: our bedrooms were done in nursery rhymes and fairy-story pictures, not very welcoming for the teenage lads who followed us.
On this occasion at Aidensfield, however, things were likely to be more difficult than usual.
One problem was that we had four tiny children, and the second was that I was working shifts, including nights, which meant on occasions I’d be trying to sleep during the daytime while the painters were working. The logistics of getting the painting done in tandem with our frantic domestic routine promised more than a few headaches. I could anticipate finger-marked doors, upturned paintpots and lost tempers from all parties. Much of the aggravation would fall on poor Mary for, unless I was on nights, I would be out of the house on duty, and thus out of the way, for some eight hours of most painting days.
For me, it was a strange experience having decorators to do the work, for I’d always been brought up to do my own painting and decorating, household maintenance, repairs of domestic machinery, fitting of tap washers, installation of wall lights and so forth. For me as a child, DIY was not a new fad — it had always been my father’s mode of living and so it was with me. It was odd, therefore, watching others do what I would have normally done myself, but, in an official house, one had to abide by the rules. Even if a tap wanted something as basic as a new washer, the job had to be done by a professional engaged by the county council. What I could have done for the cost of the washer would cost the ratepayers a large amount. Nonetheless, we were allowed to decorate our own interiors within that seven years, and indeed I did so when convenient. In spite of that, seven-year internals had to be done on schedule.
The constabulary sought tenders from private contractors for this work and, because it was linked so closely to the county council, the police were compelled to accept the lowest offer. Thus quality did not enter into the bargain — the job was done on the cheap. Cheap paint, cheap paper and cheap labour was employed. When a contractor was awarded the work, it meant he usually had many other police houses to decorate as part of his contract. As a consequence, he would rush around them all to strip off the old wallpaper and check the old paintwork, then he’d tear about with undercoats, followed by gloss paint, probably decorating five or six houses at the same time.
It did take about ten days to complete one house, but those ten days were not always consecutive, sometimes being spread over a month or more. This also meant that if he said he’d come to our house on Monday, it might be Friday by the time he arrived owing to some unexpected delay, but we had, in the meantime, cleared the rooms in readiness. The disruption could be considerable and there is little wonder we never looked forward to our nice new decor.
But that was the system and we had to abide by it. Some of us grumbled; some of us said if the authorities gave us the money it cost to complete that seven-year internal, we could do the work ourselves. This was looked upon with some scepticism for one senior officer asked, ‘But if we give you the money, what guarantee have we that you’ll do the job?’
Such was the trust among one’s fellow officers. Another suggestion was that we did the work and obtained receipts for the expenditure on materials, with inspection of our handiwork being welcomed. This was also frowned upon, one excuse being that some officers might not be very capable DIY decorators. So none of our suggestions was considered. The system would not be altered — the houses would be decorated internally every seven years by the contractor who submitted the lowest tender, and that was that.
Within a couple of days of Sergeant Blaketon’s call, therefore, we received large books of sample wallpapers with a note that we had to return them the same day because they had to be circulated among several of my colleagues. We had to make a note of the reference numbers for each room and the decorator would call shortly; we had to give him those numbers and inform him for which room each paper was intended. He would inspect the rooms to determine the precise number of rolls required. The kitchen would not be wallpapered — its walls would be glossed and so would those of the bathroom/toilet upstairs and the downstairs toilet. We could wallpaper each of the three bedrooms, the lounge, the dining room and the entrance hall/staircase/landing. The cost must not exceed the stated total amount, but if we had cheap paper upstairs we could have more expensive designs in the reception rooms downstairs.
And so we laboured over those books, having to rush our selection from the somewhat limited range, but Mary and I did find some papers which met our joint approval. And there were papers for the children’s bedrooms which they helped to select — nursery rhyme scenes, Disney characters and so forth. Now we awaited the visit of the decorator who had won the contract and we knew what to expect — he would try to persuade us to accept different, cheaper papers. He would highlight those of similar colour and design, and if we succumbed to his charms, he would make more profit … We’d experienced this technique many times before and so we knew the tricks of their trade.
Shortly afterwards, I received a telephone call from a Mr Rodney Osbourne of Osbourne’s Decorators, saying he’d like to call and discuss our requirements. We arranged a time when I’d be at home and, on the day in question, Mary had the kettle boiling and some home-made buns ready. We would show Mr Osbourne some hospitality at this early stage. We reckoned that would shorten pressurized discussions with him — if we were nice to him, he would respond with efficient service.
At the appointed time of eleven o’clock, a scruffy white van arrived in our drive from which a short, round man emerged. Thin strands of dark hair formed a bizarre network on his balding head; he wore rounded spectacles with heavy rims and a brown dustcoat with pens in the breast pocket. He had a clip-board in one hand and a book of wallpaper samples in the other.
I opened the front door and invited him to enter. He shook my hand and said, ‘Osbourne.’
‘PC Rhea,’ I introduced myself. ‘Nick. And this is Mary, my wife, and the children …’
All four emerged from the lounge where they were playing and stood staring at him. He patted them on their heads and said, ‘They’ll be going to stay with their granny, are they? When my fellers come?’
‘No,’I said. ‘They’ll be here.’
‘I don’t do this for a profit, you know,’ he began. ‘There’s no profit in doing police houses. I just take the job on
to keep my men in work and you know, when times are slack. Kids can cause delays, get in the way, you know, and I don’t want delays, I can’t afford delays, not on a cut-price job like this …’
‘Their grandparents are all at work,’ I said. ‘We can’t expect them to take time off to look after our kids. Besides, they’re well behaved …’
‘They all say that. I could tell you some tales about policemen’s kids.’
‘Cup of coffee, Mr Osbourne?’ asked Mary quietly.
‘Wouldn’t say no,’ he said, following her into the kitchen as I shooed the children back into the lounge. I told them to stay there until we had finished talking to the gentleman and asked Elizabeth to keep an eye on the others. Even at her tender age, she could control her brother and sisters. But their excitement was too great — they had all been told about their new bedrooms, about the new paint and wallpaper, and were anxious to see the miracle-worker who would achieve all this. Four tiny heads appeared around the kitchen door, but they remained quiet, watching him as a cat might watch a playing mouse. Mary’s coffee and buns achieved their intended purpose and he said he’d tolerate the bairns if they were kept in one room while his men operated … The more controlled the children were, the sooner his men would finish.
Then followed the anticipated ‘advice’ about our selection of wallpapers.
‘Now for that back bedroom you’ll need seven rolls of that one you’ve picked.’ He scribbled on his pad. ‘But in this book here, there’s one the same colour as yours, but the pattern’s smaller, which means we can use less rolls, you know, one less mebbe on a room that size … that’s a saving, you know … it all adds up and we don’t make a profit on these jobs …’
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 14