By Martin Pearson

I think that I have previously mentioned in these tales the existence of the Hopeless, Maine, Museum. It is a small and unimposing building, housing a selection of artefacts which have invariably proved to be of only slight interest to most of its infrequent visitors. The earliest exhibits, comprising of bits of charred bone and a small, badly dented, cauldron, date from the period when a flotilla of awe-inspiring dragon ships arrived, noisily disgorging several bands of fierce Viking warriors and their extended families. With characteristic Nordic efficiency, the invading Danes took little time in establishing a thriving settlement upon the island. This, of course, happened in the time before the all-pervading fog and feeling of gloom and despondency completely enveloped Hopeless’ rocky shores.

Most other items in the museum are representative of the early days of the current population, when the founding families brought their own culture to what was, by then, a less than hospitable environment. Pride of place goes to the original lidded-bucket, used by Killigrew O’Stoat, the very first Night-Soil Man. A family bible bearing the name of Gruffyd Davies comes a close second in popularity, but this is because both the O’Stoat and Davies clans are still very much a presence on the island. Strangely, the most colourful and interesting exhibit lies in a wooden chest, stowed away for no other reason than to keep it safe from the attentions of clothes-moths, thieves and, with outrageous optimism, sunlight. So, you may ask, what can this fragile and valuable wonder be?

Quite simply, it is a cherry-red uniform frock coat, resplendent with gold double buttons and a black collar and cuffs. Sitting on top of it is an imposing black top-hat.

“What sort of soldier, do you reckon wore this?” Seth Washwell asked Reggie Upton.

Seth had been the key-holder and custodian of the museum for years. He was delighted that, after more than a decade of indifference, someone at last wanted to see the various specimens on display.

Reggie peered at the long red jacket that Seth held aloft, then at the top-hat, which he had placed reverently on a chair.

“None that I can name,” replied Reggie, scratching his head, “and I can’t think of any regiment unlucky enough to have to wear toppers. It reminds me, however, of the get-up of a chap whom I once knew, a fellow who rejoiced in the name of James Moses Nobbs. He was quite old when we met, and had been a Royal Mail Coach Guard. I seem to recall that he wore a uniform jacket very much like the one that you’re holding up.”

“Darn, you got it in one,” growled Seth. “I guess you might be interested in reading this.”

Seth took a leather-bound notebook from the depths of the chest and handed it to Reggie. Inscribed on the inside page were the words ‘This journal is the property of Tom Long, Postman.’

“This is fascinating stuff,” said Reggie, brandishing the journal at Philomena Bucket, later that evening. “This chap Long came over to Hopeless years ago, with the first wave of O’Stoats, Davieses, Chevins et cetera, et cetera. Apparently he set up a service called Tom Long’s Post. It seems that he had been a Mail Coach Guard back in Blighty, and dashed well kept the uniform.”

“Blighty?” frowned Philomena.

“It’s how the Indians – Bengalis and suchlike –  used to refer to England. The actual word they used was Vilayati, I believe, but something was lost in translation along the way. Strangely, it soon caught on with the army, and England has been Blighty ever since.”

“What a fund of information Reggie is,” Philomena reflected to herself. “And what a pity that most of it is totally useless.”

“Anyway, according to his journal, Tom Long set up a postal service on the island, and would dress up in his uniform and transport letters and parcels hither and thither.”

“How did he manage that?” asked Philomena. “I can’t imagine that it was any safer travelling around then than it is now. And wearing that red jacket would have been as good as saying ‘come and get it’ and waving a menu.”

“Ah, but he was crafty,” said Reggie, “and delivered his letters at night, using Killigrew, the Night-Soil Man, as protection… and before you ask, he got away with it because Tom Long was just like me, and had no sense of smell whatsoever.”

A familiar glint suddenly sparkled in Reggie’s eyes.

“By Jove, that gives me an idea,” he said, twirling his moustache.

“I know exactly what you’re going to say, and for a man of your years I don’t think it would be wise,” said Philomena, sternly, adding, “besides, I would not have thought that there was much need for a postal service on the island these days.”

“Nonsense,” said Reggie, “I am sure that if I asked around someone would want a delivery made, now and then. And it would make me feel that I was contributing something to the community.”

“Not to mention having the chance of getting back into a uniform again,” muttered Philomena, cynically.

“The thought had never entered my head,” protested Reggie, secretly crossing his fingers behind his back.

“Well, I must admit, you do look dashing,” said Philomena, the following afternoon, as Reggie pirouetted around the room in the postman’s livery.

“How did you manage to persuade Seth to lend you the uniform?”

“He was happy for me to wear it, providing I don’t get it covered in blood.” he replied. “And he’s asked me to take a package over to ‘The Crow’.”

“Just you be careful going there,” warned Philomena. “There are some strange folk who get in ‘The Crow’.”

“Unlike the strange folk who get in ‘The Squid’,” thought Reggie, but wisely said nothing.

“… So you see, because of their red jackets, postmen were given the nickname ‘Robins’, and that’s why you find robins on Christmas cards; they represent the postman who delivers it,” said Reggie.

“I’ve never received a Christmas card,” said Rhys Cranham.

There was a sadness in the Night-Soil Man’s voice which Reggie immediately detected.

“Then I shall rectify that as soon as December comes around,” he promised.

The two were preparing to leave the House at Poo Corner and start the Night-Soil Man’s round, which tonight would include visiting ‘The Crow’.  Rhys had his bucket strapped firmly to his back, and Reggie carried the small package that Seth had entrusted to him.

They had only walked a few hundred yards when Drury came rattling out of the bushes, making an angry beeline for Reggie. Some primeval instinct, common to virtually every dog who has ever lived, had stirred within him, when sensing the presence of a postman.

“Steady on old chap,” cried Reggie, “don’t you recognise me?”

But it was too late. There was an ominous ripping sound as the osseous hound’s powerful jaws made contact with the frock-coat.

“That’s torn it!” said Reggie.

“It certainly has,” agreed Rhys. “How are you going to explain that away to Seth?”

“Maybe Philomena can tidy it up with a bit of needlework. It’s a tad deceitful, I know, but hopefully I can put it quietly back into the chest, say nothing, and hope that no one wants to look at it for another ten years, or so.”

“And what about the postman’s job?”

Reggie looked down at the shamefaced Drury.

“Can I trust you not to attack me again if I promise to wear civvies next time?” he asked.

Drury wagged a bony tail, happy that he had been forgiven.

Reggie smiled weakly at the old dog.

“But it won’t be the same without the uniform,” he sighed.

Author’s note: The picture at the head of this page is a watercolour, painted in 1890 by H.E. Brown (no relation).

The subject of the painting is none other than the aforementioned James Moses Nobbs, who served in the Royal Mail from 1836 -1891.