Episode 9 in the Danny and Jack series.
And Lo, the end of term approacheth and Danny lay wakeful long into the night, heavy with worry and foreboding. His sister had burdened him with some heavy stuff and he had also faileth to complete his end of term assignment, having spent most of the preceding weeks hanging out in Waterstones and W. H.Smiths, surreptitiously reading books he had no intent to buyeth, and which had nowteth to do with his course. That, and frequenting low taverns and strange basement places with his new mate Peter. And then, to make matters worse, a bloody great angel appeareth to the gob smacked youth, who was sore afraid.
"Be not afraid," intoned the vision, "be very, very afraid." And then it pronounceth: "Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat and you ain't got a penny to buy a present for Jack. Yea verrily," it added maliciously: "I'd think seriously about getting a job if I were you, cos you'll need to buy him a really good pressie to counteract his righteous wrath, when he finds out that you are going to be ejecteth from college cometh the New Year.
And so it came to pass that Danny did apply to the GPO for a seasonal job and was accepteth. Read on.
_f_u_c_k_ing wind..._f_u_c_k_ing rain... _f_u_c_k_ing... _f_u_c_k_ing..._f_u_c_k_ing HELL! I was in torment.
What was I doing here, trudging the streets at this God forsaken hour with a bag of bloody letters that weighed more than I did ? Hadn't these people heard of emails? Jack, for the second day running, had hounded me from my cosy bed at four thirty am, ignoring my anguished protests and reminding me that I had accepted this job and was therefore duty bound to see it through to the bitter end.
It was all that bloody angels fault. I couldn't help wondering whether I'd acted rashly on its advice. In retrospect, I suspected it was the figment of a guilty conscience and six pints of industrial strength cider. Well, whatever, it was the last time I listened to heavenly hosts. Next time I'd tell it to bugger off back to the realms of glory and leave me alone. I splashed tearfully through the puddle strewn streets, it had been pissing down for two days, hoping that at least today I could complete the round without the post office having to send out a search party for me.
My face burned as I recalled the previous days disaster. It being my first morning, I had been escorted around the route that I was to serve for the next fortnight. My mind occupied with thoughts of the warm bed I'd been forced to leave, and concerns about Ally, meant I only half concentrated on the twists and turns that would take me from one end of my round to the other. A mistake, as I don't have much of a sense of direction at the best of times.
The second delivery of the day was down to me alone. I ended up totally lost. The addresses on the pre-arranged bundles of letters, refused point blank to coincide with the street I was actually on at any given time. By four thirty in the afternoon, two hours after I was supposed to check in back at the sorting office, I was wandering hopelessly confused in the rain and darkness with half a bag of undelivered mail.
A woman berated me heavily for sticking some letters through her door which didn't belong to her. 'I've got enough ruddy bills of me own without you trying to fob other folks off on me,' she had raged, beating me severely about the head and shoulders with the offending articles.
I pointed out the number of her house and the street name. She pointed out the fact that this was Stanley Street and the address on the letters was Stanley Close. She marched off muttering something about semi literate schoolboys being set loose with the Royal mail. My humiliation was complete when the post office sent out a cadet to recover me.(come in number 46 your time is up) He couldn't contain his mirth at my predicament, though to be fair, he did help me deliver the rest of the letters. They nick named me Flash back at the sorting office after that.
I had arrived home wet, cold and totally knackered.
"Had a good day, dear boy?" Tristan was still inhabiting our house. He was back earlier than usual and, alas, as if that wasn't bad enough, he had Yorick in tow.
"You look a tad damp Daniel, is it raining perchance?" Sebastian obviously thought he was being a wag.
"Ha-de-frigging-ha!" I glared at the bloodless bugger, "haven't you got any cemeteries, or donkey sanctuaries to haunt, ghoul features?"
Showered, changed and feeling a bit better about life, I came downstairs to greet Jack when he arrived home. He wrapped his arms around me, "how did you get on sweetheart." He kissed the tip of my nose affectionately, then turned his attentions to my mouth. I adored the smell of him on an evening, faded aftershave and that _s_e_x_y, slightly musky, scent he gave off as his anti perspirant began to lose its potency.(look-we all have our little quirks)
"Ahem, excuse me Jack."
Sebastian interrupted what was turning into a very passionate snog.
"Daniel made a rather puzzling remark earlier. I wonder if you could clarify its meaning for me. If I didn't know Daniel better, I'd say he was trying to be rude, but I'm sure that's not the case..."
Jack substituted the warm pressure of his lips against my mouth, for the hot pressure of his hand against my backside. I'd get Skelator for that.
I heaved the bag higher on my shoulder, tried to ignore the icy trickle of water down my neck, and stoically carried on with delivering Christmas cards etc. One good thing, today couldn't possibly be any worse than yesterday.
Holy _s_h_i_t_!!
I stood rooted to the spot as a huge demonic creature launched itself out of the driving rain and pinned me to the fence of number seventy two Acacia Avenue. Rising up on its hind legs, it bayed into my terrified face, slavering venom and drool everywhere. I was in serious danger of losing control of my bowels when a woman's voice rose above the howl of the wind.
"Just stand perfectly still love, he won't hurt you."
I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. The dog, a Great Dane, was heavier than me by several tons and it had me just where it wanted me. It made strong thrusting motions against my thigh, and I realised that not only was it the size of a donkey, it was hung like one too, and it was determined to have its evil way with my left leg. What felt like a policeman's truncheon was rubbing frantically up and down my jeans. Any attempts to move on my part were met by bared fangs and menacing growls.
The woman tugged vainly at the rutting monsters collar. "Don't worry love," she puffed, "he wouldn't hurt a fly really, he's just a bit frisky at the moment."
A bit frisky! The back of my head beat a brisk tattoo against the fence as the hound shagged itself senseless against me. What the _f_u_c_k_ did she feed it on-Viagra? At last with a low grunt, it shot its load and dropped back on to all fours, even so it still stood virtually shoulder to shoulder with me. I was shaking like a leaf. The woman apologised profusely and offered to sponge my jeans. I declined, the rain would wash it off soon enough. I thrust her mail into her hands and beat a hasty retreat before the _s_e_x_ starved brute took a turn at my right leg.
Apart from an incident with an irate man, who held me personally responsible for the size of his gas bill, the rest of the morning passed uneventfully. I managed to find my way around with hardly any mistakes.
I was halfway through the second shift when it happened.
I had just pushed a handful of damp letters through the letter box of a harmless looking bungalow, when something charged down the garden path and attached itself to my person. I shook my leg frantically. Having my thigh shafted by a savage Great Dane was one thing. Hell, I'd been so terrified I'd have bonked its leg, if it had so requested.
However, having my ankle shagged by a Yorkshire sodding terrier was just not on. I tried to beat the hairy little bastard off with a bundle of letters, but it was crazed with lust for my lower right limb and refused to relinquish its hold. What was it about postal workers that sent canines into carnal frenzies? Eyes glazed, it humped and heaved, while I danced and hopped about the path like a hyperactive Morris dancer. Only, instead of bells, I had an overgrown, testosterone charged rat clamped to my talus. With a last supreme effort I violently shook out my leg. The mutt must have been sated and had loosed its grip, because suddenly it left my ankle. I stared in horror as it sailed through the air, a bizarre and hairy missile. There was a musical tinkling of glass as it crashed through the window of the bungalow.
For a moment I was paralysed with fear, staring aghast at the gaping hole in the window. Then I took to my heels and ran like the clappers, before witnesses appeared, and demanded to know why I had booted a small defenceless animal through the window of its own abode. I was trembling from head to foot, my mind's eye blighted with visions of an airborne dog, my auditory nerves tuned into the tinkling of broken glass. It was the stuff of nightmares, I'd have flashbacks for years to come.
I had no conscious memory of the journey home, only a sudden realisation that I was turning my key in the lock and stepping into the hall. I also realised that I still had most of my mail with me undelivered. I didn't care. Wild horses would not get me out there again. I tearfully made myself a triple strength coffee with six sugars and sat down. The thick brown liquid slopped over the rim of the mug as I tried to convey it to my mouth with shaking hands. I was a shambles, a total disaster as a postman. Worse, I was a dog killer! Even now the RSPCA would be hunting for the fiend who went round booting terriers through windows.
A tear rolled down my cheek, there was no way I was going back out there. I had gotten hopelessly lost, been harangued by members of the public, shagged by a Great Dane and rodgered by a Yorkshire Terrier which I had subsequently slaughtered. I couldn't take any more. I hid the letters under the bed and took the empty bag back to the sorting office. No one was any the wiser.
"Made it back I see?" Quipped Fred, my supervisor. I forced a smile at the smirking swine's jocular remarks and headed home.
I made the early evening news: 'Police hunt evil sicko who hurled pensioners pet through window!' My stomach plunged into my trainers. The pensioner turned out to be a wheelchair bound ex-postal worker, who had been at a day care centre when the attack happened.
I sat on the couch staring at the television screen in dismay as they showed the dog, sedated and heavily bandaged. The news reader cheerfully asked, "what kind of person does this to a harmless animal? Distraught, one legged pensioner, Bert Shackleton, 87, arrived home to find his little dog, Snooky, lying whimpering amidst the remains of his front room window. He's lucky to be alive, says vet of the traumatised terrier." There followed a short interview with the tearful octogenarian, where it was revealed that he had lost his left leg in the line of duty, after an amorous Alsatian had taken a shine to it. Apparently it hadn't soured Bert's fondness for the canine species.
"There, there," Jack wrapped loving arms around me as I burst into sobs. "Don't distress yourself darling, they'll find the callous brute that did this. I had no idea that you were so fond of dogs."
"It wasn't you, was it?" Tristan looked at me suspiciously, "isn't that road part of your postal route? And you do have a propensity to kick things around dear boy."
"DROP DEAD BONEHEAD!" I leapt up, fleeing the room, pounding upstairs and flinging myself on the bed. I refused dinner. Jack was concerned, putting my outburst down to tiredness. He made me have a hot bath and then get into bed. Then, sweet thing that he can be, he brought me up a large mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream and climbed in beside me. We watched television cuddled up together.
"You're very quiet Danny; everything alright?"
I nodded, trying desperately to blink away the image of a flying dog, which insisted on inserting itself into every scene on the TV programme I was watching. I stared spellbound as it sailed over the bar of The Rover's Return in Coronation Street, narrowly missing Jack Duckworth's pint of best bitter.
"Tristan was just teasing, he didn't mean to upset you."
"Yes he did," I dragged my eyes away from the screen, "he hates me."
"Don't be silly, of course he doesn't."
"Does too," I pouted, "when's he going home anyway? I can't take much more of him or the braying mantis."
"That's enough young man, you've used up your rudeness allowance with that name you called Tris earlier. He'll go home as soon as his place is ready and not before."
"Why can't he move in with Ske...Sebastian, I'm sure there must be more than enough room at Castle Grayskull?"
"Because, Daniel, their relationship isn't at that stage yet," Jack gave me a: this-is-your-final-warning, look.
"Sorry," I muttered insincerely. "Surely you don't like Sebastian, he's gross, he should be hanging on the back of a doctor's door."
Jack surveyed me sternly. "Whether I like him or not is immaterial, Tris obviously does, so he deserves our respect."
I kept quiet. Snuggling closer against Jack's side, I attempted to blot out the horrors of the day, taking comfort in his warm proximity. He combed long fingers through my hair and I relaxed slightly.
"You haven't been quite yourself since that evening out with Alison and those strange friends of hers."
"They're not strange, they're nice, I like them."
"Dennis is less than happy with her re-associating with them."
"I know-she said. She told him he didn't have to like it, they were her friends not his, so he could lump it. What she didn't say was why he's so against them. Do you know?" I had a rough idea, but I wanted confirmation. I glanced up at Jack.
"Yes."
"Tell me then."
"No, it's not my story to tell." Jack changed the subject. "Where did you all go on Friday evening-not back to that awful snake pit?"
Jack, bless him, was trying to sound casual. I knew he had been less than happy with me accepting the invitation to have a night out with Ally and her friends.
"I told you, we went to the Dog track, it was fun, I enjoyed it." And, I thought privately, at least none of the _d_a_m_n_ dogs there had tried to mate with me.
"You didn't seem too happy when you came in. In fact as I recall, you were distinctly snappy with me and downright obnoxious to Tristan."
"I did say sorry Jack." I shifted slightly away from him. Our pleasant cuddle was turning into something that felt suspiciously like an inquisition.
"Only after I'd spanked you," Jack reminded me, then got to the point. "Did Alison say what was eating her?"
I crossed everything crossable, bade my traitorous skin not to flush and blithely lied. "No."
"Daniel," he sounded severe, "if you do know something, tell Dennis. He's worried sick about her. She's not eating or sleeping and she rips his head off if he so much as glances at her. She accused him of having an affair with his secretary the other day."
I conceded the perverseness of this. Den's secretary was a formidable woman of sixty plus who made Vlad the Impaler appear mild mannered. "Al's not back on drugs, if that's what Den's worried about. Neither are the others."
"She told you?"
" No, I guessed. No one actually 'tells' me anything. You all treat me like a child."
Jack neither confirmed nor denied this accusation, saying instead. "Alison acts tough, but she isn't Danny. She's vulnerable, her perceptions of reality aren't always in line with everyone else's. She doesn't always make the right decisions; it's nearly killed her on a number of occasions, that's why she needs Dennis." He kissed my head lightly, "just like you need me." His next words sent a little chilly tremor down my spine. "I really do hope that you're not concealing anything important from Dennis, or from me, because he'll be cross and I'll be even crosser."
I tried not to gulp too audibly. "I'm not concealing anything," I said, rather haughtily, blocking out the problems with college, the fact that Ally had sworn me to secrecy regarding her worries, the injured dog, and the bundle of undelivered mail under the bed.
"I don't like it-I don't wanna go-leave me alone." I clung desperately to the headboard as Jack attempted to evict me from bed at half past four next morning. He ruthlessly uncurled my fingers and forcibly hauled me downstairs. "You accepted this job Daniel, and you WILL see it through. People are relying on you. If you don't turn up, you leave them short handed and that is simply not acceptable, especially at this time of year."
I hunched miserably over a bowl of steaming porridge as a mocking gale howled around the house, viciously hurling December sleet against the window panes.
"Eat up Danny. You need a hot breakfast inside you on a day like this."
"I hate bloody porridge-I hate it-I hate it-I hate it!" I walloped my spoon into the glutinous substance, pebble dashing the table top, and the cat who happened to be sitting on it, with thick globules of oatmeal. Mistoffelee's stalked off oozing indignation, and porridge, from every orifice.
After cleaning the table, I ate what remained of the porridge standing up. At least part of my anatomy would be warm as I set out that morning.
I couldn't do it. I was suffering from whatever the postal workers equivalent of shell shock was. I stood poised at the start of my round, bag on shoulder, with visions of Great Danes, letter wielding members of the public and flying terriers, regaling my visionary nerves. God knows what lay in wait for me out there today in those mean streets.
I headed home, thrust the mail under the bed and made myself a bacon sandwich and a mug of coffee. Easy peasy, no one would ever know. Putting my feet up on the coffee table, I picked up the remote and flicked the telly on. I had this job all sussed out.
"Hello chick-pea?"
Lily popped her head over the hedge as I set off to sign in for the second delivery. She invited me to join her for tea that afternoon, to celebrate her eighty first birthday.
"I've got the key to the grave," she warbled cheerily, "never too old to have a rave." Then she winked at me. "I've invited a few old codgers round, come and join us. We need something young and beautiful to oggle at. Cute as a pixie you are, my friend Ivy fancies you rotten. I've told her you're gay. I'm of a happy disposition meself, she said, daft old bat!"
How could I refuse a request like that? It would be churlish.
I turned up bearing gifts of Thornton's best chocolates and a huge bouquet of flowers.
"Oh Danny, they're gorgeous. You're such a sweetheart. You shouldn't have spent your money on an old wrinkly like me."
"You're worth it Lily." I grinned at her happily, then winced as my conscience poked me in the eye, metaphorically speaking. Actually, I'd done something rather naughty. I'd put them on my credit card, the one that Jack had expressly forbidden me to use, and had confiscated only a few weeks earlier, after making me return all the hi-fi equipment I had purchased with it. I had come across it while searc...tidying Jack's sock drawer. It wasn't that over drawn, not when you considered the size of the National Debt! Elbowing my conscience to one side, I followed Lily into the house.
She got me a drink, a triple vodka with fresh orange juice. A growing lad like you needs plenty of vitamin C, she said. Jack would have approved, I was sure of it. The party was soon in full swing.
"I had an affair with a woman once you know."
"LILY!" I was shocked.
"Eee lad, you're an innocent abroad. You young 'uns today, you think you invented it all." She patted my cheek fondly, "there was a war on you know, men were in short supply and I had needs. Sally her name was. She was a chicken strangler from Scunthorpe, worked in a slaughterhouse preparing poultry for export. Got posted up here with the women's land army. She had very sensitive fingers considering her line of work."
I blushed a fine shade of beetroot and Lily went off chuckling. I suspected her of pulling my leg, but you never could tell with her.
Like Lily, her friends were a lively lot. Before very much longer I had learned how to play poker, five card stud, could dance a Charleston and jitterbug with the best of them. I regretfully took my leave of them at half past seven, unable to take the pace. They kindly gave me a leg over the hedge, as I was too far gone to negotiate the journey down Lily's path and then back up mine.
Oh Lord! I felt my stomach rise, all that bloody orange juice must have upset it. I hung on to the banister, contemplating the stairs which had taken on the proportions of the North face of the Eiger, swaying horribly from side to side. I'd never make it up there on time, and Jack would be annoyed if I vomited all over the hall floor, he was fussy like that.
Zipping the bag closed, I mentally congratulated whoever had left such a handy receptacle lying around, and then myself on a job neatly done. Feeling a little better now the contents of my stomach were released, I made a brave attempt on the stairs, taking them on hands and knees and crawling across the landing.
"Where have you been and what are you doing?"
The shoes had Jack's voice. I stared at them in astonishment. "Lost a contact lens," I hazarded.
"You don't wear them Daniel." Frosty the snowman had nothing on Jack.
"Oh my God!" I let out a screech, rocking back on my heels, and dramatically clapping a hand to my left socket. "My eye has fallen out, Jack, my eye has fallen out!"
No reaction except for his right shoe tapping in a way I was all too familiar with.
"We're just being silly now aren't we young man?" I could tell by his tone that his arms would be folded. An unpropitious sign that; tapping foot in conjunction with folded arms. It usually meant a conflagration in the Netherlands, my nether lands that is.
I nodded sadly, then regretted it as the walls spun round.
"Answer the questions Daniel. Where have you been and why are you crawling about the floor?"
I threw myself on his mercy, embracing his right knee passionately and slurring, "s'not my Jault fack; s'Lily's."
"Do you seriously expect me to believe that a frail old lady is responsible for you being in this condition?" Jack kindly hauled me upright by the collar. "We'll discuss this, and the fact that you conveniently forgot to let me know where you were, in the bedroom. I've told you on more than one occasion about..."
Blood curdling screams from the hall downstairs afforded me a slight stay of execution, as Jack cast me aside and hastened in their direction.
Well, how was I to know it was Tristan's overnight bag and that he was going off to visit his mother? He shouldn't have left it lying about, and why couldn't he have put his mobile in his pocket instead of opening the bag to slip it in? He does things like that on purpose I'm sure.
Jack was miffed. He refused to accept that it was anything other than sheer naughtiness on my part. He said being sick in anybody's luggage was totally unacceptable, and getting drunk was becoming a habit with me, and it had better stop. He forbade me to so much as sniff alcohol until further notice. If I couldn't handle it responsibly, I had no business drinking it. And he waited until I was fully sober before spanking me; how mean is that?
It was the night before the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. No, but a bloody cat was. I, for whom wakefulness had become a way of life, heard Misty prowling around the bedroom. I stiffened as rustlings and rummaging came from beneath the bed, followed by a scuffing, dragging sound which sent ice droplets of sweat trickling down my back. _s_h_i_t_! I was going to introduce a certain feline to a Great Dane I knew if he woke Jack with his nocturnal nosiness. I peeped over the edge of the bed, the _d_a_m_n_ moggy was dragging a bundle of letters across the floor. Rising quietly, I retrieved the bundle and threw the indignant cat onto the landing; closing the door on him.
The bedside lamp suddenly snapped on. I whipped the bundle behind my back with my left hand and clamped my right to my chest to try and stop my heart from tearing its way out. "Jesus Jack!"
"As far as I'm aware, I haven't yet been elevated to such divine heights," said Jack dryly, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. "What are you doing prowling around at this hour? More to the point, what are you trying to conceal behind your back?"
"Nothing Jack."
"Show me."
"Don't want to."
"I'm going to count to three."
_f_u_c_k_ity, _f_u_c_k_ing, tinsel and glitter encrusted _f_u_c_k_! Adrian Mole had better luck than me. I silently held the bundle out. Jack blinked slightly, but his colour remained good.
"Is that it, just the one bundle of undelivered Royal mail?"
I didn't care for the emphasis he put on Royal. Like Anne Boleyn when introduced to Jane Seymour, I suspected that my life was about to take a _s_h_i_t_ty turn.
There was a hopeful light in his eyes. I hated myself for quenching it as I slowly shook my head from side to side and pointed towards the bed.
"Daniel!" Jack stared at me aghast. In fact I've never seen a man so utterly ghasted. I was taken aback by the sheer level of his aghastness as he hauled out small parcels and bundle after bundle of mail. My stomach began to churn and bottom lip tremble in the face of it. Deep down I knew I had plumbed the very depths of aghastness. (move over Clive James your crown is mine)
Jack was not only aghast, he was cross. I could tell by the way he seized each of my wrists in turn, smacking the backs of my hands hard, before turning me round, lowering my shorts, and doing the same to my bottom.
"Get back into that bed young man," he squeezed the words out from between clenched teeth. "I'm really angry with you..."
The smart mouthed, death wish part of me wanted to say, "stuff me Jack, I'd never have guessed!" Snivelling slightly, I wisely bit my tongue and hastened to obey, my Brownie points were seriously in arrears as it was.
He continued, "...too angry to deal with you properly now. Besides, you need all the sleep you can get, because believe me my lad, you are going to deliver every last item of that post."
He gathered the parcels and letters together, piling them into several large plastic bin liners and removing them downstairs.
I snuggled beneath the duvet and, despite my stinging extremities, throbbing rump, and abject terror about what Jack had in store for me, I slept better than I had for weeks. On a subconscious level I was relieved that this particular crime had been discovered. I knew that Jack would help make everything alright, even if a certain part of me had a price to pay for it.
Jack had placed two kitchen chairs facing each other in the middle of the floor. After rousing me from bed at the usual unearthly hour, he led me downstairs by the hand. Seating me on one of the chairs and himself on the other, he gazed at me in solemn silence for what seemed like a decade. I half expected him to plonk a square of black cloth on his head and pass the death sentence. At last he spoke. "Daniel, have you the tiniest inkling of the seriousness of this situation," he elegantly swept out his hand to indicate the piles of mail, that now lay in neat stacks on the work tops in the kitchen.
I rightly interpreted the question as rhetorical and waited for him to continue.
"Do you realise that you've been committing a criminal offence, one for which you could be charged and imprisoned?"
I paled at this, it hadn't occurred to me for a second that I was doing anything illegal. I opened my mouth, then hastily shut it again as Jack raised his right hand to indicate that speech was neither required, nor welcome from me, at this juncture.
"Daniel, perhaps I'm being incredibly dim here, but humour me anyway. Can you explain exactly what you intended to do with all those letters? Were you just going to leave them under the bed? Were you expecting them to," he shrugged eloquently, "simply dematerialise?" A sarcastic edge crept into his voice, "or perhaps you were hoping that a convoy of owls, from the Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry, would turn up and deliver them for you..."
"Flock!"
"I beg your pardon?" Jack frowned at this untimely interjection on my part.
"Owls, Jack, I don't think they come in convoys...I think they come in flocks...it's lorries...sorry," I whispered, averting my eyes from his withering look.
He leaned over. Tilting my chin up with his right hand, he calmly asked, "why?"
I stared at him silently for a few moments, wondering what tack to take. His look of infinite patience began to falter and I immediately opted for incoherent hysteria, bursting into tears and babbling about rampant Yorkshire Danes and rutting Great terriers. "It was an a...a...accident," I hiccupped through my tears. "I...I just wanted it off my foot."
His face paled as the full implications of my ramblings became clear.
"My God Danny," he stood up, looking considerably shaken. Running despairing hands through his thick, dark hair, he paced the kitchen floor. "Dennis said you'd put years on me, he wasn't joking." He suddenly grasped me by the shoulders, giving me a little shake, "why didn't you tell me?"
"I was scaaared!"
"Is there anything else you'd like to confess while we're on, murder, mayhem, grand theft, that sort of thing?"
My conscience whispered a long list in my ear. I told it to shove off and mind its own business, knowing from hard experience that while confession was good for the soul, it played bloody havoc with the backside.
Jack straightened up. Putting his hands on his hips he surveyed me grimly. "Apart from the criminal aspects of the situation, and the fact that you've failed to honour a commitment. Did it not occur to you how many people could be hurt by your actions?"
Nope, not at all. I stared at him blankly, waiting, like a hopeful philosopher on New Years Eve 1699, for the dawn of Enlightenment. It came.
He raised his eyes heavenward, then with a long suffering sigh, hunkered down in front of me, grasping both my hands in his. "Danny, at this time of year in particular, people will be waiting to get cards and letters from friends and relatives. There are letters amongst that lot from America and Australia. Parents will be waiting to hear from children and grandchildren, maybe this is the only time in the year that the effort is made to share news and send photographs. Do you realise how much hurt and confusion could arise from you not doing the job you were employed to do?"
I hadn't thought of it like that at all. I was deeply ashamed, tears began to flow afresh as Jack rammed the message home.
"A large proportion of that mail belongs to the poor soul whose dog you injured, it's probably from well wishers. Think how important such letters could be to a lonely old man. Someone could be waiting for a special message; only they never get the letter, because Daniel has decided he can't be bothered to deliver the mail..."
At this point emotive violin music began to float through my head, a tragic scenario unfolding before my mind's eye:
"Daphne!" The greying wizened old man speeds across a crowded supermarket, "is it really you?"
Greying, wizened old lady gives start of surprise. "Rodger, after all these years..."
"...I thought you didn't want me any more Daphne, you didn't even send me a Christmas card, let alone reply to the letter I enclosed with mine."
"But Rodger, I did, I swear, it had robins on and I said yes. When you didn't get in touch again..."
"...Oh Daphers!"
Music rises to crescendo, Celia Johnston and Trevor Howard, Brief Encounter, type looks are exchanged.
"Oh Rodge, it's all too late, if only that temporary postman had done his job..." two sets of eyes, misty with cataracts, turn accusingly towards me.
"Owwwwch!" The music stopped abruptly. Daphers and Rodge crumbled before my eyes and I rubbed frantically at the red handprint adorning my upper left thigh.
"Why are you gazing into space with that gormless expression on your face?" Jack's voice was sharp, his eyes glittered dangerously, "I hope you were listening to me."
"I was Jack, honestly and I'm sorry. I just didn't think."
"You never do Danny, you never do," Jack gave a heartfelt sigh. "I realise that you didn't intend to hurt the dog, and I know how much it upset you, but this," he indicated the mail. "This is beyond the pale, you used the dog incident to justify your laziness and wilful dereliction of duty."
He made it sound as if I had deserted from the army and was about to be shot at dawn. He held out his hand and I nervously took it, allowing him to draw me to my feet. My stomach began to experience unpleasant sensations and my legs felt distinctly unsteady. Being shot at dawn suddenly seemed attractive, at least I'd get a blindfold and a last request.
"I don't have to go into the office today," Jack sat back down on his chair. "You and I are going to put this right," he pulled me gently across his lap, "even if it takes all day," he arranged me to his satisfaction. "Every last letter and parcel is going to be delivered to its rightful owner." He lowered my boxer shorts and began to rub a warm hand over my buttocks, which began to panic and send messages to my brain screaming, stall him, stall him you fool!
"But Jack, it's Christmas eve," I wailed, "you can't spank me on Christmas eve, it's just not festive or jolly, and I'm truly sorry! I'll never do anything like this again, I promise." His left arm tightened around my waist and his hand left my bottom, but only for a moment. It soon returned and brought its friends, searing and agony, back with it.
Sleigh bells may well have been ringing elsewhere in the land, but the only sounds reverberating around our house were of explosive spanks on bare buttocks and the cries of one very sorry boy. By the time he was finished, I don't think there was a single centimetre of skin on my bottom that wasn't hot and sore.
When it was over, I stood between his knees, unwilling to risk sitting on his lap, with my arms wrapped tight about his neck while he rubbed my back and made soothing noises. When I'd calmed down, he quietly told me to get dressed as we had a busy day ahead of us.
"That's you done then lad." Fred the supervisor took my official GPO arm band and bag, handed over my wage packet and bade me a Happy Christmas and farewell. I bade him likewise and miserably returned to the car where Jack was waiting. He took my wage packet, murmuring something about anonymous donations to Bert Shackleton and dog. Handing me a bag full of mail, he bade me get on with the job I should have been getting on with for the past fortnight.
With Jack's unstinting help the backlog of mail was cleared by six o clock. We returned home. I stepped gratefully under a hot shower and wondered if I could ever redeem myself in Jack's eyes. He hadn't spoken much during the day, and I knew he was very disappointed with my actions.
After my shower I dressed and crept back downstairs. Jack was sitting on his favourite chair by the fire, the lights were low and he was listening to Eva Cassidy. I didn't hold it against him, his musical tastes were part of who he was. I gingerly sat down on the couch giving him a tentative smile. He held out his left hand.
I sat astride his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck and rubbed my cheek against his, revelling in its familiar roughness. "Sorry," I whispered.
His hand came up to caress the back of my head, "what am I going to do with you Danny?"
"I know I'm a pest. I don't know why you put up with me."
"I love you," he said simply, clasping his hands behind my back and pulling me into a close embrace.
There was a satisfyingly long silence as we explored each others mouths.
"Why Jack," I broke the kiss to draw breath and fluttered my eyelashes at him. "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"
He grinned and ran his hands up the side of my thighs, "if it is, it's touching barrels with the one in yours."
"Shall we continue this interesting debate upstairs?"
"Why expend valuable energy climbing the stairs," Jack delicately kissed my neck. "We have soft lights, nauseatingly romantic music and a perfectly good hearth rug. And, if you look in the fridge, you'll find a nicely chilled bottle of champagne to celebrate our first Christmas together."
"What about..."
He put a finger to my lips. "Tristan has gone to the theatre with Ske...Sebastian, he won't be back until much later."
Christmas Eve may well have started way down in the bleak mid-winter, but it ended on a note the Herald Angels would have been proud of. Way up there in the Realms of Glory...oh yeah!