Christmas Postie by Ronald Mackay
As a student at Aberdeen University in the early 1960s, I sought paying work during all vacations -- Christmas, Easter, and summer. Summer was easy. Construction sites in London demanded unskilled labourers and paid well. More difficult, however, was to find a job for the shorter Christmas and Easter breaks.
By keeping my ear to the ground, I learned that some Post Offices hired temporary workers to help with sorting and delivering Christmas mail. Because my sister and brother-in-law lived in London, that’s where I wanted to be. So, I wrote to the postmaster at the large Exhibition Road sorting office. He promised me work for 7 consecutive days over the period. My hours would be 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. but I should be prepared to work overtime on all 7 days. My sister lived in Ilford, so I’d have to find accommodation closer to the sorting office.
Alister Akers-Douglas, a friend studying cinematography in London, rented a room in a private house in Kensington. I wrote him asking his advice. Immediately, he responded:
“I’m spending Christmas and New Year at home in Gloucestershire. You’re welcome to use my room. It’s paid for. When you arrive, tell my landlady you’ll be using my room and ask for a house key. I’ve enclosed the key to my MG TD Roadster 5558 HR. Use it. It’s parked close by.”
My accommodation issue -- solved! A brisk walk and I’d be at the sorting office in 30 minutes. Unfortunately, given my hours and my need to save, I was unlikely to make the use of the MG.
It took me over 24 hours to hitch-hike the 600 miles from Aberdeen to London. In the early ‘60s there were no motorways. The A1 passed through the centres of towns and cities. But I was used to the trip and took it patiently. Once in London, I caught the Underground to Kensington. It was 8 p.m. – latish but not too late.
Confidently I rang the doorbell. On the second ring, a homely, grey-haired lady with a worried look, opened the door.
“Yes?”
“I’m Alister’s friend.” She stood in silence. “Alister Akers-Douglas. He rents a room from you.”
“Mr Akers-Douglas isn’t here.”
I know. He’s gone home to Gloucestershire till after New Year. He said I could use his room.”
She looked at me blankly. “He didn’t say anything to me.”
I drew his letter from my pocket. “Look!”
“He didn’t tell me!” She began to close the door without a glance at the letter.
“I’ve hitch-hiked from Aberdeen. Tomorrow, I must be at the Post Office in Exhibition Road.”
“You can’t use his room without his having asked me.” Firmly, she closed the door.
I stood in the darkness and took stock. I’m penniless. Within a few hours I’m due to present myself to the postmaster. First, I must sleep. Then I remembered! Alister’s MG. I have the key! If I can find it, I’ll sleep there! Tomorrow, I’ll find Alister’s phone number and ask him to resolve the matter with his landlady!
Dim streetlights showed an infinite row of cars closely parked down one side of the silent street. I made my inspection. No sign of an MG. A side street led off to the left. Not a soul. There it is! A tiny red roadster with a long bonnet, canvas roof and plastic windows. I opened the driver’s door and smelled rich leather. Room for me and my rucksack! Within minutes, despite the cold, I was asleep.
I’ve never needed an alarm clock. I tell myself when to waken up. It works every time. So, next morning at five to five, after a brisk 30-minute walk, I presented myself to the Post Master.
“You’re on time! Good start!” He led me into an enormous sorting hall subdivided into sections by long tables above which were hundreds of pigeon holes.
“Fred!” He stopped before a uniformed postie grabbing envelopes from the pile on the table and thrusting them rapidly into pigeon holes. “Your Christmas help. Seems keen. Work him hard.” With that, he walked away.
Fred was a short, smiling man in his 40s, trim in his navy uniform. “Fred!”
“Ronald.” We shook hands.
“A Jock?”
“Born and bred.”
“Too bad we can’t all be born Cockneys. But I won’t hold it against you. If you shape up, that is.” I squared my shoulders to show willingness. “Good memory, Jock?” I nodded. “‘Cos you gotta remember all the streets and gardens, mews and crescents, from here to here!” His hand drew a circle on a wall map that took in much of South Kensington and Earl’s Court.
Good, I thought, a map! I’d been a Boy Scout and was currently serving in the Territorial Army. Map-reading was second nature to me.
“See? Pigeon holes! Each labelled with streets on my walk. Sort the mail so you cover the walk in the shortest time and never have to retrace your steps.”
Makes sense, I thought. I’d delivered Sunday papers and knew the importance of precision.
Another postal employee dumped several hundred envelopes onto the table below our pigeon holes. “See those?” said Fred. “That’s the first sort by postal code. SW7. Read the street address of each then put them in the corresponding pigeon hole. Get a single one wrong? You gotta double back. Waste time! You don’t wanna do that. Right the first time’s the best way!”
I nodded. “Find a postal code other than SW7? Pop it in there.” He pointed to a hole marked “Re-sort” All right?
“All right” I’d begun to feel like a nodding dummy. “Let’s go!”
He shoved half the pile of envelopes towards me and before I had time to blink, he was expertly thrusting letters from his pile into their appropriate boxes. I was slower, but as the first hour passed, and more and more letters were dumped on our table, I began to master names and locations. The work was fast and seemed never ending.
“Right, Jock! It’s seven. Time for our first delivery. Four a day at Christmas. In your postbag with these,” he gestured to the full pigeon holes. “Pack them in the order of the walk. First time, we’ll do it together. But once only, so pay attention. Later, we’ll split the walk. But you gotta know both parts.”
I was glad I’d slept well in Alister’s MG. However, I was anxious about two things. Will my rucksack on the passenger seat be OK? And the equally serious matter What about tonight?
It was exhilarating to walk into the elegance of Exhibition Road. London is the most exciting and most beautiful city in the world! How lucky I am to be able always to find good jobs here.
Fred was a good instructor. Like the Cockneys I’d worked with on building sites, he was a natural comedian and adept at rhyming slang. Fortunately, I could understand or guess the meaning. “See these? All single-family dog and bones. last century,” he pointed to a terrace of elegant three storied houses. “Now? All split into flats. Keep the street number but add a letter. See? Go tits? They’ll rort! And keep a weather! There’s always a cellar! Pain in the bottle! Ye gotta open a gate, run down the pears and up the apples.”
The buildings on Fred’s walk stood in elegant, curved, white terraces. Their unselfconscious dignity inspired pride. Though brought up in a Scottish village, I felt that London had offered itself to me as part of my own cultural heritage.
Back at the sorting office, our worktable was again heaped with envelopes. “See, Jock?” Fred raised his hands. “Is why we do four deliveries at Christmas. Why we hire casuals like you.”
The day progressed. By early afternoon we’d completed two more walks. Alone, I’d done each of the two halves. The distances weren’t great but there were hundreds of households, many gates to open, umpteen stairs to descend and climb.
“Grab a Rosie Lee in the canteen, Jock. I’ll do the last sort. Back here in fifteen. You’ll do the whole walk yourself.”
Well after 7 o’clock, I arrived back at Alister’s MG. I turned the corner. A figure was trying the door handle on the driver’s side. Just in time! I ran.
“Hola, Ronald!” The figure greeted me in Spanish.
“Jorge!” I’d met Alister’s friend the previous year in Madrid.
“I’m in London to learn English.” Jorge told me. “Occasionally, Alister and I meet up. He offered me his car over Christmas. I refused because I planned to go home to Madrid. That fell through. If his offer still stands, I could take the MG and see a bit of England.”
A spark glowed in my mind. “Alister’s gone home.”
Jorge looked downcast. “I’ll have to stay here alone. My flatmates have all left.”
“I have the keys for the MG.”
Jorge’s eyes brightened then faded. “He lent it to you?”
“I’m working 12 hours a day. I can’t use it. But I need a place to sleep.”
His eyes brightened. “I get the MG. You get my room in Queensgate. Barely heated. Untidy…”
I cut him off. “Queensgate?”
“Big old house. Divided up into flats. Up two flights…”
Again, I cut him off. “Queensgate’s close to my sorting office!”
Grinning, we shook hands. Done deal!
For the next ten days Fred and I got on like a house on fire. I arrived before five, ready to go. I learned his entire walk; the A’s, the Bs, and the C’s of subdivided terraced houses. I learned to sort rapidly then pack the mailbag so all could be delivered in sequence. No doubling back!
“Want me to put in a word for you with the postmaster?” On my last day, Fred looked at me expectantly. “Steady job, postie. Strong union. Early pension.” Only instead of pension he said, Stand to attention!
I thanked Fred warmly but shook my head. Now I’ve saved enough to cover my expenses until the Easter vacation comes along and my search for temporary work begins again!
Postal Office in Exhibition Road 1960s
A distinctive Georgian terrace with corner newsagents shop 1960s
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An elegant crescent on Ronald's postal round (taken decades earlier than the 60's
Houses like this one were split up into small bedsitting rooms, each with its postal address
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