Newspaper Delivery Girl

I’m used to seeing newspaper boys pounding the streets in the early hours. Heading to the railway station at some ungodly hour on a surprisingly-cold morning yesterday, I saw my first ever newspaper girl.

Oh, how cute. How adorably cute. Wrapped in a big, colourful woolly jumper. Trudging along, straining to drag a trolley of heavy papers. Looking cold. Downright miserable.

My mind wandered, as it is wont to do. Mr. Hawkes at number 43, telephoning to complain of yet another delivery of The Guardian rather than The Telegraph: Julie (for that was the name I imagined), trembling hands outstretched, taking her whacks with the strap that Mr. Borthwick the newsagent kept for the purposes in the back room of his shop.

Mr. Finch, her father’s friend, in the big house next to the park. Four papers as usual, tearing as she pushed them through his letterbox. The door opening, and the gentleman appearing, fierce, formidable. A time being agreed for her to return after school to be punished, lest he tell her employer (“again”) or her father. Her nervous day at school. The grand drawing room in the fading early-evening light. The switches, freshly cut from his garden.

Rushing through the streets, cursing her heavy load, glances at her watch confirming her worst fears. Dashing into the classroom, just as her teacher closed the register. The master re-opening it, picking his pen back up, inscribing: “That will class as ‘late’ again, young lady.” A plaintive “Please, sir…” Please, sir: that’s my fourth ‘late’ of the term; that’s an automatic caning…. The classroom door swinging open during the second lesson of the morning; the Headmaster’s secretary escorting her to meet her fate. Three strokes – “because you’re one of our best girls, but the rules are plan for all to see, and I can’t make exceptions now, can I?”

Her father. Seated at the dining room table, as she cleared the dishes after dinner. Mumbling her story, hoping he might not mind: “I’ve finished at the newsagents.” His lecture, instructions that she had to go back. Her terrified explanation – that she couldn’t, that Mr. Borthwick didn’t want her back. That he’d had one complaint too many. That she’d been fired. The long, lonely, familiar walk upstairs. The wait in her bedroom – always a wait. Father unbuckling his thick belt as he entered. Face nestling in her soft duvet, as she took the thrashing. Tears afterwards. Hugs.

Poor girl. I hope she wasn’t actually as miserable as she looked in the early hours of yesterday.

One thought on “Newspaper Delivery Girl

  • 21 May, 2006 at 10:05 pm
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    Oh, that’s gorgeous. I love that! Poor girl :-)

    Reply

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