Inheritance

Chapter One. The Christmas Mail

Chapter One 

The Christmas Mail 

The morning mail train rumbled over the viaduct spanning the turgid seawater, its progress apparently unimpeded by the aching cold that made the metal structure shriek. It was on time, due to arrive at 4.20a.m. Bags, heavy even for the festive season, lay neatly sorted and stacked on the mail van floor. The platforms of Ulverston station, the next stop, were deserted, the postmen nowhere to be seen.  

One, John, a student hired for the Christmas rush, lay abed, comatose, a consequence of the heavy drinking, that had followed a humiliating encounter with his girlfriend, Tanya.  

The other, Ike, a middle aged regular, was racing through deserted country lanes pushing an unmistakeable little red G.P.O. van to its limit. 

"These damned students," he mused. "They can't be trusted. When will John learn that you can't party until two in the morning and expect to meet the morning mail? I'll bet that no good girl friend of his kept him up all night again."  

After two minutes of heavy pounding on the glass-panelled front door, someone switched on the hall light. It had to be John, as his father worked nights. The door swung open. John emerged, unwashed, unshaven and from the smell of him still probably intoxicated. Ike looked at his watch. The train was due in twelve minutes. No time to sober him up. 

Ike remained silent during the hectic drive through the hoar-frosted countryside. Never in his eleven years with the postal service had he missed the morning mail, and who would be blamed? Not the bleary eyed, beer- breathing incompetent slouched in the front seat next to him. No, he would have to carry the can. 

"I'll get you for this," he mumbled under his breath. The veiled threat fell on unheeding ears. John had returned to his slumbers. 

Ike's worries proved groundless. As the van screeched to a halt before the ornate wrought iron gates of the Victorian station, the train was still lumbering up the steady incline of the approach. Ike pushed John out of the van, and the two of them hurriedly manoeuvred a cart into its customary position next to the newsstand. The iron monster ground to a halt, doors opened as if by magic, and bag after bag cascaded out on to the platform. 

"God, Ike, there's a ton." 

"Oh this isn't too bad for Christmas Eve.," replied Ike. "You should have seen the bloody load last year. You're so damned lucky only having to worry about that dinky rural route of yours. I don't think you could manage a town delivery like mine, especially in your present drunken stupor." 

"Lay off it, Ike! " 

"Stop your spluttering. Let's get this lot loaded, and down to the office. Everybody likes to be on the road early today." 

Even though they worked at their best pace, they were still loading the van when the old town clock clanked five. They were far later than normal, a guarantee of a torrent of abuse from their co-workers when they arrived at the post office. 

**** 

John had worked on the Christmas mail before, helping in the sorting room, and making routine deliveries to businesses in town. His supervisor, so impressed with John's efforts the previous year, had now given him a rural route. John was elated, as there were very few deliveries to make, the work was in the fresh air of the surrounding fells, and the farmers were known for their hospitality, especially at Christmas time. The fact that it was a fifteen-mile route passing through some of the hilliest terrain in the district, and had to be covered by bicycle did not deter John. He was seventeen, tall, lean and extremely fit.  

After returning to the central post office, John rushed to his bench and started sorting the mail. Privately he gloated at the size of his pile relative to the mountain in front of Ike's pigeonholes. Where was Ike? Normally he would be at his station, adjacent to John, humiliating him with sorting skills mastered over a decade on the same route. Suddenly he appeared at the entrance to the parcel room. 

"John, over here! You have a special delivery parcel for Newlands Garage."  

"This is unusual," thought John. "I never make deliveries to the garage. No one lives there." 

"Well don't just stand there gawking. Come over here and git it." 

It was no ordinary parcel, but a two foot cube that was almost impossible to lift without threat of a hernia. John realized it was going to cause major problems on the bike. 

"Boy, I hope I don't get many more parcels this morning, Ike, or I'm really going to be in trouble." 

"Not to worry. I've checked the parcel post already, and there's no more for you."  

"That's a relief." 

Conversation was sparse as they returned to their posts and strove for the earlier finish, the rustle and snap of the sorting only broken by the occasional question or comment from John, and Ike's responding grunts. 

"Ike, have you ever seen anything like this?" 

"Like what?" 

"This." 

John had withdrawn from his few remaining letters a small envelope distinguished by its black edging. He showed it to Ike. Ike's jaw dropped. 

"Bloody Hell, I haven't seen one of those in a long time." 

"What is it?" 

"They're letters sent out usually by lawyers to notify a family of a death. We used to get a lot of them in the old days. Who's it for?" 

"Mrs Atkinson at Topping Rays Farm. There's no indication of it being sent by a law firm." 

"Is it a local letter?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Does it have a local postmark?" 

"It's hard to tell. The mark's smudged. You can't make out the date, and all you can read is ton at the end." 

"That's no bloody help. There are hundreds of 'tons' around here; Dalton, Newton, Egton. Such a shame that it had to arrive today of all days." 

"Do I really have to deliver it?" 

"Of course you do. This is the last delivery for three days. The old timers used to say it was bad luck not to deliver them too. But don't worry about it. It's maybe only some distant relative that's kicked the bucket." 

Reassured by Ike's nonchalance, John completed his sorting. He then loaded the mail in to the large iron pannier attached to the front handlebars of the bike, and set off into the frigid morning. It was still dark as he cycled through the cobbled streets of the old town. Haloes clung to the hissing gaslights and a freezing fog covered the roads. Not a soul was stirring as he started the ascent into the countryside.