Members Stories

The Postie

I wonder if you would be interested in the life of a Postie 50 years ago – and only a part time one at that? It all came about when no one could be found to do lower Birkenhead. I must have been mad or very young but I volunteered. I was a very new resident of the suburb and knew nothing of the world below Highbury. I soon learned of all the back streets the hard way. First I had to help to sort the mail. There is truth in the saying “The mail must go through.” Through, I must say, rain, hail and slush. What would you do with a letter addressed to “Elsie and Frank, Balmain Road”? With a little bit of help from each other, someone came up with a surname. In those far off days people were addressed by Mr, Mrs, Miss and even Master. The above letter was of course delivered correctly. Many letters came with only Mum or Dad, Birkenhead on them, but the detectives – mainly the older ones – would scan the stamp and post mark and remember so and so’s son or daughter was on holiday – another happy mum. Very few letters found their way to the Dead Letter Office.

It was my job, of course, to show prospective posties the run. This was in the days before equal pay. One particular applicant turned up and off we went down Hinemoa Street and up the other side with me carrying the heavy bag! Arriving at Arawa Street he refused to go any further, so I went down and up the street while he sat on the brick fence at the top. He did not get the job. On one occasion – remembering that I did not know anyone – who married who or whose parents were which or what branch of the family, I managed to deliver the wrong letter to Palmerston Road. Waiting at the gate the next morning was one very irate lady waving the wretched thing in my face. How was I to know that she hadn’t spoken to her sister-in-law for 7 years. I certainly learned the hard way, though for years I thought of her as the Wrong Letter Lady.

We all carried a whistle which we blew. We wouldn’t dream of just popping in the letters or parcel without letting the recipients know. On thinking back, there must have been very few days I can’t remember ever being hassled. Oh well, so much for a postman’s life.

Years later I sat behind two ladies with the same name from Beach Haven, in the bus and heard them commenting on the stupid Postman who kept delivering their letters to the wrong address. All the bus could hear. I tapped one of them on the shoulder and told them they were talking about my husband and if they had the right house number and street on the envelope they would get delivered. All quiet in the bus until someone let out a loud laugh. Why do folk talk so loud in buses?

I haven’t been a Postie since and don’t wish to be, so have a cheery word to your Post girl or man. Don’t complain if you don’t get letters addressed to streets miles away. Remember the days of the personal touch are long past.

Kaye Bland 1993