Going Postal

today, too, ’cos it’s my day off on Thursday and I can catch up then, but you see by Thursday he’s behind by more’n a day’s work because they keeps on pushing , and he’s tired anyway, tired as a dog, so then he says to himself, got some leave coming up soon, but he gets his leave and by then—well, it all got very nasty toward the end. There was…unpleasantness. We’d gone too far, sir, that’s what it was, we’d tried too hard. Sometimes things smash so bad it’s better to leave it alone than try to pick up the pieces. I mean, where would you start?”
    “I think I get the picture,” said Moist. You’re lying, Mr. Groat. You’re lying by omission. You’re not telling me everything. And what you’re not telling me is very important, isn’t it? I’ve turned lying into an art, Mr. Groat, and you’re just a talented amateur .
    Groat’s face, unaware of the internal monologue, managed a smile.
    “But the trouble is—what’s your first name, Mr. Groat?” Moist asked.
    “Tolliver, sir.”
    “Nice name…the thing is , Tolliver, that the picture I see in your description is what I might refer to for the purposes of the analogy a cameo , whereas all this ”—Moist waved his hand to include the building and everything it contained—“is a full-sized triptych showing scenes from history, the creation of the world, and the disposition of the gods, with a matching chapel ceiling portraying the glorious firmament and a sketch of a lady with a weird smile thrown in for good measure! Tolliver, I think you are not being frank with me.”
    “Sorry about that, sir,” said Groat, eyeing him with a sort of nervous defiance.
    “I could have you sacked, you know,” said Moist, knowing that this was a stupid thing to say.
    “You could, sir, you could try doin’ that,” said Groat quietly and slowly. “But I’m all you got, apart from the lad. And you don’t know nuffin’ about the Post Office, sir. You don’t know nuffin’ about the Regulations, neither. I’m the only one that knows what needs doing around here. You wouldn’t last five minutes without me, sir. You wouldn’t even see that the inkwells get filled every day!”
    “Inkwells? Filling inkwells?” said Moist. “This is just an old building full of, of, of dead paper! We have no customers !”
    “Got to keep the inkwells filled, sir. Post Office Regulations,” said Groat in a steely voice. “Got to follow Regulations, sir.”
    “For what? It appears we don’t accept any mail or deliver any mail! We just sit here!”
    “No, sir, we don’t just sit here,” said Groat patiently. “We follow the Post Office Regulations. Fill the inkwells, polish the brass—”
    “You don’t sweep up the pigeon shit!”
    “Oddly enough, that’s not in the Regulations, sir,” said the old man. “Truth is, sir, no one wants us anymore. It’s all the clacks now, the damn clacks, clack, clack, clack. Everyone’s got a clacks tower now, sir. That’s the fashion. Fast as the speed of light, they say. Ha! It’s got no soul, sir, no heart. I hates ’em. But we’re ready, sir. If there was any mail, we’d deal with it, sir. We’d spring into action, sir, spring into action. But there ain’t.”
    “Of course there isn’t! It’s clearly sunk into this town long ago that you might as well throw your letters away as give them to the Post Office!”
    “No, sir, wrong again. They’re all kept, sir. That’s what we do, sir. We keep things as they are. We try not to disturb things, sir,” said Groat quietly. “We try not to disturb anything .”
    The way he said it made Moist hesitate.
    “What kind of anything?” he said.
    “Oh, nothing, sir. We just…go carefully.”
    Moist looked around the room. Did it appear smaller? Did the shadows deepen and lengthen? Was there a sudden cold sensation in the air?
    No, there wasn’t. But an opportunity had definitely been missed, Moist felt. The hairs on the back of his neck were rising. Moist had heard that this was because men had been made out of monkeys, and it meant that there was a tiger behind you.
    In fact Mr. Pump was behind him, just standing there, eyes burning more brightly than any tiger had ever managed. This was worse. Tigers couldn’t follow you across the sea, and they had to sleep.
    He gave up. Mr. Groat was in some strange, musty little world of his own.
    “Do you call this a life?” he said.
    For the first time in this conversation. Mr. Groat looked him squarely in