“The postmistress had a quick eye for letters, knew handwriting at a glance... her head a kindly computer of the district lifestyle.”
The closing of small post offices is something that might be an economic necessity but it means the loss of one more meeting place, one more personal contact in an increasingly impersonal society.
The little country post offices I’ve known were our windows in a then not-so-electronic world, the information collection point nestling as they sometimes did in the verandah of a private house or a little wired-in enclosure in a general store among the bright hanging kettles, the packets of semolina and oatmeal, often with the switchboard lurking in the back of the shop, a board with headpieces and a black trumpet-like mouthpiece, cords and brassy plugs, flashing lights and garrulous subscribers.
In the winter the mail contractor’s Dodge puddled through the roads in chocolate coloured spray, or in summer through bronzed dust, the mailman in his dustcoat like some rural Hermes bringing messages from the urban gods.
The postmistress had a quick eye for letters, knew handwriting at a glance, enquired briskly about families, exchanged birthday, wedding and weather information, her head a kindly computer of the district lifestyle.
You knew when the mail was expected. A small colony of country cars—old Ford buckboards. Durantes, Rugbys, Chevs and others nestled gritty radiators full of suicidal insects against the bushy hedge.
Horses in spring drays and traps and sulkies snickered at each through velvet lips or trimmed the postmistress’s geraniums.
Waiting for the mail was like waiting for Godot.
People were expecting cream cheques or land taxes. Sometimes the mall contractor brought separator parts or cultivator shares.
He also brought his views on crops, the economy and almost anything in the wide world.
As he strode down the path with his mailbag he was followed by a respectful procession. People rose from the old converted car seat under the postmistress’s verandah.
Some even removed their hats at the sight of His Majesty’s Mailman.
Letters were an event. Had Emily had her baby? The postmistress would know. Had the young couple (you know, he went to the city and took up with a nice girl there) well, had they become engaged? The postmistress would know People shared good news with her and bad news, too.
She sorted the mail as she sorted life, into the pigeonholes her husband, a neat, practical man, had skilfully carpentered for her.
The parcels were placed in a disciplined line. Parcels were intriguing, particularly if you were young. A parcel could contain the riches of Araby or at least dark cake for a birthday or the advance Christmas presents from interstate aunts who always posted early—usually in January for the following December.
Then came the mall call. People didn’t usually drive off. They sat around reading, leaning against the post office verandah or sitting in the windy exposure of the spring of dray or beneath the fraying fabric hood of the Rugby.
There were some agonising mails. Then was the once-a-year packet containing the marks for the dreaded Qualifying Certificate (the letters QC rank in my mind with the CIA and the NKVD).
This document was opened by the school teacher in the small peppertree-shrouded school and the hush that precedes great and even terrible events.
And there were love letters and country girls wandering off pale and wan among the geraniums.
I still like the smaller, friendlier post offices. We have one. Not that there’s much time to chat because this is in a growing housing area. But it feels friendly. The people are nice.
Mind you, I don’t get. love letters these days except when she’s away seeing the grandchildren and still writes to me in her vivid way with that firm flowing hand.
I do get a lot of gaudy letters from people wanting me to win a Mercedes or retire to a villa on the Gold Coast or ever saturate myself with leaning from a new book offer.
But I still get excited about square parcels near my birthday. Parcels this have a hint of mystery and just the faintest whiff of dark cake.
Max Fatchen