SANDERSVERSE PRODUCTIONS

PRESENTS

The Riddle of the Postie’s Trousers

Starring

SUSANNA REID

as Susanna Rogers

with

GNASHER as Gnasher

CAST

SUSANNA ROGERS……………………………………………SUSANNA REID

RACHEL RISLEY……………………………………………......RACHEL RILEY

MRS CRANKWORTHY……………………………………….JULIE WALTERS

SOREN BELL……………………………………………………….MATT SMITH

THE ED………………………………………………………….TIMOTHY SPALL

1

Susanna Rogers blinked furiously and wrinkled her nose. She read the e-mail

again. ‘Gordon Bennett!’ she expressed her irritation as the contents of the

electronic communication steadfastly refused to change. Now in her 44th

year, Susanna was one of those rare and blessed individuals who seemed to

get more attractive with age. She puffed out her pristine, blushing cheeks

and pushed her chestnut coloured front curls out of her eyes. Rachel Risley

smiled at her timidly, the junior assistant reporter careful not to provoke the

wroth of the experienced hack.

‘It’s a promising lead.’ She offered tentatively. Susanna stuck out her tongue

and made a noise that indicated what she thought of that opinion. ‘It’s slow

day fodder is what it is.’ Susanna sipped her coffee – lukewarm. She scooted

on her chair over to the nearby office plant and emptied the contents into the

pot. Rachel frowned uncertainly. ‘I think that plant’s a fake, Susanna.’

Susanna inspected the item in question. Rachel had the right of it, but she

wasn’t about to let on. ‘Ms. Rogers.’ Susanna was prickly about her place in

the pecking order. ‘Ms. Rogers. Sorry, Ms. Rogers. It is a fake though, isn’t

it?’ Susanna ignored her underling studiously, creasing her forehead in

annoyance as she read one more time.

Susanna sighed. ‘If he thinks this makes us even for that story I gave him

about the missing cat, he’s sadly mistaken. That turned out to be one hell of a

story.’

Susanna indicated the cutting on the wall next to Soren Bell’s desk. Rachel

remembered it well.

LOCAL MAN UNCOVERS MRS BROWN’S PUSSY – VILLAGERS REJOICE

That could have been my byline, Susanna mused with wistful regret. But

she’d given it to Soren. Why had she done that again? Oh yes, because she

was new here. And she wanted to get along with her colleagues. Well, job

done on that front, at least as far as Soren went. At 27, the Barkshire Evening

Enquirer’s Senior Reporter was a cub to her. How it was that she, the former

CBB newscaster, who’d reported from events of global significance from

around the world - who had done the red carpet stint and the bloomin’

Oscars, for crying out loud - had come to be accepting tomorrow’s chip

wrapper stuff from snot-nosed schoolboys she knew only too well. It had been

their fault. Those bloody idiot wardrobe assistants. Every time a little

shorter…well, eventually it had been too bloody short once too bloody often,

hadn’t it? The tabloids hadn’t left her alone for months it seemed, and then

one day…

Well, never mind that just now, Susanna thought. This was low level stuff, but

at least there was something to uncover, potentially. That was how it had

been when she’d started out; reporters were like bloodhounds - you followed

your nose and, more importantly, your instincts.

‘It’s not much, but it’s a promising lead.’ Susanna declared. Rachel smiled

with her teeth, but not her eyes.

‘Rachel, I want you to get down to that Post Office and speak to the manager.

‘Find out what you can about the sort of uniforms they’re getting supplied,

and from whom.’ ‘Yes Ms. Rogers.’ She slipped on her rain jacket and looked

out her car keys. It was a 20 minute drive to Painton across one track country

roads. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to get on the phone to Patrick Clifton.’ Susanna gave her colleague

a half a smile. Rachel wondered if that was condescension she saw, or simple

patrician indulgence. Whatever the case, Susanna dismissed her with a

casual wave, the receiver already tucked beneath her chin.

2

Rachel swallowed the last of her breakfast baguette and washed it away with

the beaker of tea she’d procured in the same baker’s shop. The Painton

Bakery Co. offered its customers ‘The Hottest Buns in the Village’, and

Rachel could almost see the nod and the wink and the elbow in the ribs that

was implied in the cheeky chalkboard message. She could just about hear the

throaty roar of a Sid James-esque laugh at the same time. ‘Village life…’

Rachel wore a rueful smirk as she shook her pretty blonde head just a little.

A bell rang as she pushed open the door of the Painton village Post Office.

Rachel’s nasal receptors immediately noted that papery, gummy, ‘je nais se

quoi’ smell that signalled ‘Post Office’ in her mind’s eye. The place was dark,

the only natural light coming in through the window now just behind her that

was half covered with notices and advertisements of varying kinds. There

were shelves stacked with pads of notepaper, envelopes of all shapes and

sizes and all the usual packaging paraphernalia.

A little woman with wiry grey hair and thick rimmed spectacles peered

inquiringly at the new arrival from behind the Perspex screen that shielded

the counter. ‘Oh, hello dear.’ The lady smiled. ‘And what can I do for you, my

love?’

Rachel returned her smile. ‘Good morning. I was hoping to get a word with

the manager, is he in?’

‘You’re speaking to him, dear. And he’s a she, if you don’t mind.’

Rachel felt her cheeks blush crimson as the manageress came out from

behind the counter, a door clicking shut behind her. ‘Oh, right, sorry.’ The

woman frowned. ‘Was there something you wanted, dear?’ Rachel was

becoming a little flustered.

‘To speak to the manager,’ she blurted.

‘We’ve already established that you’re speaking with her.’

Oh dear- this wasn’t going very well at all! Rachel had a first class degree in

Journalism from a University on the breezy south coast. She had been top in

all her classes, an excellent writer, she also had a great eye for what made a

good story and critical skills that had led one of her tutors (a tough, grizzled

old hack, for whom political correctness could go hang) to nickname her

‘Kronkheit Barbie.’ The one thing Rachel had lacked, however, was the knack

for how to winkle precious information out of an interested party.

That was a lesson, her tutors had all agreed, that could only be learned on the

job. Right now, Rachel’s attempts were floundering. She grabbed onto the

only rock she could spy in the ocean of despair. ‘Any comment on the

clothing budget?’ she grasped. The old lady pursed her lips. She was

nobody’s fool, and this suspicious character was about to get the bum’s rush.

‘You’re from the papers, are you?’

Rachel’s blush meant that she could not usefully deny it; the look on her face

was all the confirmation the manageress needed. She had a pushbroom in

her hand, and a menacing look in her eye. ‘I’ll show you how we deal with

nosy parkers here in Painton my dear…’

Rachel panicked, and ran for the exit, as she did so, a tray of drinks cans,

shrink wrapped in plastic, caused her to stumble and, eventually, fall onto all

fours. ‘Oh dear…’ Rachel sighed.

WHACK!!

‘Oooooooooooooooh!!’

The woman’s pushbroom caught poor Rachel flush across her bottom

cheeks.

WHACK!

‘YIKES!’

And again.

WALLOP!

‘MERCY!’

Rachel struggled to her feet and protected her newly bruising rump with one

hand as the other pulled open the door.

‘AND STAY OUT!’ The deranged old codger screeched after her. Rachel

stood, disconsolate, on the pavement. Susanna had given her one job to do,

and she had failed miserably. She couldn’t face her senior colleague with

nothing to give her. A bright morning until then it suddenly began to pour with

rain, and Rachel was forced to shelter herself with her (sadly unwritten in)

notepad as she thought about making her way back to the car. Just then

though, something grabbed her attention and held it, the way new information

can do when you realise its potential significance. There was a sign in the

window of the Post Office. In amongst the ads for local businesses and

requests for help learning French sat one very significant advertisement,

bright pink and written in a most eye-catching font:

POSTMAN WANTED.

DIRECT ALL ENQUIRIES TO MRS CRANKWORTHY.

‘Who’s Mrs Crankworthy?’ Rachel wondered aloud, and then it hit her. ‘I just

met her, I think.’ She laughed. Then Rachel smiled, despite herself. ‘This

might do the trick…’ she grinned.

3

When Rachel returned, Susanna was still on the phone. ‘Really Mr Clifton?

You’ve nothing more to say on the matter?’ Rachel could not hear anything

but a raspy crackle of a voice on the other end. ‘I see, Mr Clifton. Yes, I

understand that your budgets are your own affair. But doesn’t the money

come from the public purse?’ Rachel strained her ears, hoping to hear the

reply. She thought she heard the words ‘privatisation’, ‘mooted’ and ‘clowns’

and then ‘for now’, ‘concede’, ‘point’ and finally ‘yes.’ Susanna nodded a

cursory acknowledgement to her colleague as she employed the speaker

function, allowing Rachel to hear more clearly what Clifton was saying. ‘So

don’t you think that the public deserve to know how the money is spent?’

Pat Clifton sounded tired. ‘You have got a point, but I can assure you that

nothing is untoward. That particular branch operates in circumstances that

are’, Clifton paused, choosing his words carefully. The sentence hung in the

air unfinished a moment or two more ‘…exceptional.’ he finally finished.

Susanna rolled her eyes. ‘Very well then, Mr Clifton. I shan’t take up any more

of your time. Thank you.’ ‘Goodbye.’ He sounded relieved. ‘Goodbye Mr

Clifton.’ Susanna placed down the receiver.

‘Well, something’s definitely untoward.’ Rachel looked surprised. ‘How do

you know that?’

‘Because he told me there was ‘nothing untoward.’ That’s what they say

when something’s untoward. Do you follow me?’

‘Just barely, Ms Rogers.’

Susanna kept her expression inscrutable.

‘What did your trip to Painton turn up?’

‘A couple of decent bruises, I’d expect.’ Rachel rubbed her bottom delicately.

Susanna looked confused, and a little irritated.

‘What did you find out?’

‘Only that the manageress doesn’t like people asking questions.’

Susanna heaved a weary sigh, disappointed in the talented but hapless young

woman she was starting to think of as her protégé. ‘How many times have I

told you? You don’t just charge in and start demanding answers! You’ve got

to go softly. Charm them.’

Rachel looked fretful. ‘How?’ she asked.

Susanna looked at the gifted junior reporter like she was the biggest idiot

she’d ever met. But she tried to give her some helpful advice all the same.

‘Well, she can’t have known who you were until you walked in there.’ Rachel

nodded. ‘So?’ she thought she saw, though.

‘So act like you’re a customer!’

Rachel tried for a smile. Susanna elaborated.

‘Pretend you’re interested in some junk they’ve got for sale, or some local

event that’s coming up. Build a rapport. Give them gifts.’

‘Gifts?’ Rachel was confused. ‘Isn’t that bribery?’

Susanna threw back her head as she laughed. ‘That’s journalism, dum-dum!

Not big gifts, just something little they’ll appreciate. Like coffee. Or donuts.

Hmm..I could really do with some coffee and donuts. Want to make the run?’

Rachel did not, but she could hardly say so. ‘Sure. One thing before I

forget…the old baggage is looking for a Postie.’ Susanna didn’t understand

for a moment, then she came to the same realisation Rachel had while out in

the rain, tending to her quickly swelling bottom.

‘An undercover investigation, you mean?’ Susanna could hardly keep the

Cheshire-cat grin from her face. ‘Perfect.’

4

‘Well, you certainly can’t do it.’ Susanna bit her lip. Rachel nodded weakly,

she was well aware that her earlier ham-fisted attempts to uncover the truth

of this story had precluded her from going undercover; her cover was already

blown.

‘I wonder if we could persuade Soren to take the part? He’d look good in

uniform…’ Rachel gave half a dreamy smile.

Susanna made a face like Rachel had just suggested she French kiss a skunk.

‘No way! I’m not handing that preening little tosspot another scoop.’

‘I thought you and Soren were friends?’ Rachel looked a little bewildered and

slightly hurt on her colleague’s behalf.

‘We are, sweetie. But he’s a rival too. That’s how we talk about our rivals. In

the Business.’ Susanna always spoke about the way things were done ‘In the

Business.’ Rachel liked that; it made her seem experienced and wise, and

that was of comfort to the inexperienced and oft-times naïve junior.

‘So if I can’t do it, and Soren can’t do it, that leaves…’

Rachel let the sentence hang there, unfinished. Susanna grinned, her head

nodding.

‘That’s right - me. In order to get to the bottom of things, I shall have to

become Postwoman Susanna.’

5

A phone call had been all it had taken. ‘Hello?’ Susanna put on her best

‘telephone voice’ for the purposes of this conversation – she needed the Post

Office to give her this job. ‘Hello, is that Mrs Crankworthy at Painton Village

Post Office?’

‘It is. With whom am I speaking?’

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Crankworthy. This is Susanna Hacker. I’ve heard from a

friend that you’re looking to appoint a new post-person.’ Mrs Crankworthy

paused. ‘As a matter of fact, my dear, we are. Our last postman resigned last

week and flew to South America.’ Susanna blinked – she couldn’t say she’d

been expecting that. ‘Oh my. Well, I’m sure you’ll find myself well qualified –

I’m currently employed as a parcel delivery driver for a busy nationwide firm.

Perhaps you’ve heard of DUPES?’ As she spelled out the acronym, Susanna

could hear Mrs Crankworthy frowning. ‘Yes dear. I know of them.’ Susanna

exhaled relievedly, but away from the receiver so that the old woman didn’t

catch on.

Susanna needed to move this along. ‘Shall I come and see you in person, Mrs

Crankworthy? I’m in the area, as it happens.’

‘Yes, I think that would be a good idea, Miss Hacker.’ Susanna pursed her lips

at the ‘Miss’ but decided to let it slide – she needed the inside track. ‘Very

good. See you in a little while then.’ Susanna put the phone down, and turned

to face Rachel. ‘Got it.’ She smiled contentedly.

6

The interview had been brief. Susanna had filled in the application form and

provided all the necessary documents. Mrs Crankworthy had not even asked

to see the faked up CV she had spent half the day preparing. The woman was

clearly keen to get started. ‘We’ll need to get in touch with your current

employer. Do you need to work a notice period?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Susanna smiled, trying not to let the nerves show on her

face. If the old woman cottoned on, all her efforts would be in vain.

Fortunately, she’d arranged a plan with Rachel in advance. She handed the

biddy a slip of paper with Rachel’s mobile number jotted down on it. ‘My Line

Manager,’ she explained. Mrs Crankworthy picked up the antiquated receiver

of the Post Office phone and dialled. It took Rachel a few rings to pick up, as

Susanna had instructed her.

‘Hellooooooooooo? Who is this I’m speaking with? I’m Lucinda Block,

Susanna Hacker’s boss!’

Susanna put her right hand to her temple when she heard the ridiculous voice

Rachel had chosen to give her fictitious employer. She sounded like Homer

Simpson when he pretended to be someone else.

Mrs Crankworthy didn’t seem perturbed. ‘Good Afternoon Mrs Block. This is

Esmerelda Crankworthy, from Painton Village Post Office. Your employee

Miss Hacker has applied for a job with us. I am satisfied that she’s the correct

candidate, but the job is an immediate start. Are you prepared to allow her to

proceed without working her notice period?’

‘Ah yes, a fine worker. I hiiiiiiiiiiiighly recommend her Mrs Madam.’

Susanna pressed her fingers harder against her temple. She was fighting the

oncoming headache her total prat of a protégé was giving her, as well as the

urge to laugh. Its not a reference she wants, dum-dum…

‘Thank you Miss Block. About the notice period?’

‘Notice Period? No Notice Period is Required. We have staff aplenty my good

woman. Good day!’

Susanna bit her hand to hide her laughter. Miss Block? Miss Blockhead would

be more like it.

The line went dead. Mrs Crankworthy smiled over to Susanna. ‘Well, Miss

Hacker. It appears you’ve got the job!’

7

Susanna’s first day was next day. She’d cleared it with the boss by explaining

that this could potentially be a national story. ‘And people will remember

which paper broke it!’ she winked at her editor coyly. The fat man in the belt

and braces simply nodded. ‘Very well, Rogers,’ he said. ‘But there bloody

well better be something for me to print. And soon.’ ‘I won’t let you down,

boss.’ And with that, Susanna had departed for home.

Next morning, and you could only just call it morning, Susanna’s alarm clock

leapt onto the bed, meowing softly and demanding to be fed. The bedside

clock showed 5, and Susanna yawned and stuck out her arms wearily. She’d

gotten a decent sleep, at least. Susanna went through her regular morning

preparations and was out the door just as the sun was beginning to ascend

slowly away to the East.

Driving off in her almost new Volkswagen Golf, Susanna just about took a

wrong turning. Then, she realised that she was headed right this morning, not

left – to Painton village, not the offices of the Barkshire Evening Enquirer.

‘Oops!’ Susanna chirped coquettishly. ‘Good thing I remembered – I don’t

want to make a fool of myself on my first day…’

Susanna parked the Golf and made her way to the door of the Post Office.

‘Hmm…she bit her lip, trying to remember which of the myriad keys Mrs

Crankworthy had given her opened the front door. Eventually, Susanna

puzzled it out, and she was inside. She had to lock up, that was what the old

woman had told her – the Post Office proper didn’t open til 7.

‘Good morning, dear.’ Mrs Crankworthy greeted her with a lupine smile.

‘You’ll find the ladies changing rooms down the stairs on the right.’ The

changing room? Aha! Now the investigation can begin.

The changing room was a broom cupboard with a mirror. Susanna undressed

smartly. She removed her chunky heeled boots, fashionable denim jeans and

stylish cashmere cardigan so that she stood dressed only in her red and

white spotted bra and pants. Susanna inspected the rack of garments to her

left for some that would suit her. She picked out a light blue blouse that she

judged would fit, and pulled on a smart navy jacket that looked OK but when

she put it on near enough enveloped her. She went down the line and picked

out a smaller one. Susanna picked out a pair of trousers at random and, to

her astonishment, found that they fitted her perfectly. She turned to look at

herself in the mirror, then turned again to see the part the trousers most

flattered. ‘And they don’t,’ she smiled to herself, ‘look half bad!’

Susanna took the opportunity to check her make up – some habits you picked

up in the world of Television died hard. She noticed an imperfection, took out

her accoutrements from her handbag and daubed a little more on to cover it.

Mrs Crankworthy appeared at the door. ‘Once you’ve finished prettifying

yourself, there’s some work to do.’ She scowled. ‘Hang up your clothes.’

Mrs Crankworthy showed Susanna where to collect her deliveries of a

morning. ‘There’s a big bag comes down to us from the Sorting Office every

night. It’s kept under lock and key, of course.’

Susanna took the bag. It was heavy. She started to wobble a little under the

weight.

‘What’s the matter? A big strong girl like you can’t carry a few little letters?’

Mrs Crankworthy chuckled.

‘I’ll manage.’ Susanna responded stubbornly. And she just about did, though

it was a struggle. Red faced, Susanna blew out as she parked the postbag

next to the boot of her Golf. Mrs Crankworthy appeared with a wicked leer.

‘Well done, Postie.’ She clicked her teeth. ‘Only you aren’t taking them in that

thing.’ She indicated the Golf.

Susanna puffed her cheeks in annoyance. ‘What? Am I to carry them all

around town with me?’

Mrs Crankworthy cuffed Susanna round her ear for her insolence. ‘Owww!’

Susanna was taken aback. ‘You can’t do that!’ she yelled, incredulous. ‘I’ve

got rights!’ ‘You’ve got the right,’ Mrs Crankworthy smiled, ‘to remain silent.’

STOMP.

“EEEEEEEEEK! MY TOES!’

Susanna hopped on one leg, cradling her right foot gingerly. ‘OK, OK,

where’s the blasted vehicle?’

‘I’ll just go fetch it.’

The vehicle, such as it was, was a rather old fashioned looking bicycle with a

very high saddle. Susanna couldn’t believe what she was being told. ‘What,

you don’t even have a post van?’ Mrs Crankworthy shook her head. ‘Village is

too small. Lots of winding little roads…needs to be a bike, my dear.’

Susanna inspected it. ‘This is madness! I’ve got my car…’ Mrs Crankworthy

shook her head. ‘Won’t get where you need to go dear, believe me. Bike’s the

only way. Good for the body too…you look like you could use a workout!’

‘Well I…’ Mrs Crankworthy had disappeared, leaving Susanna alone with her

bike and her bagful of post. Susanna made a disgruntled noise. ‘Oooooh that

bloody… I ought to…grrrrrrrrrrrr!!!’ Susanna composed herself and

inspected the bike more closely, narrowing her eyes as she peered intently.

The saddle was very high and a somewhat odd shape. Susanna went to sit on

it, and the experience was…unusual. Her feet could just about reach to turn

the pedals but it was a little tough on her bottom - the saddle appeared to be

designed for somebody with three quite small buttocks.

‘Gracious!’ blushed Susanna, someone who had only two buttocks, neither of

them especially small. She tried pedalling a few metres, and she made it

without further embarrassment to herself. She got down and worked out how

to lower the seat. ‘That’ll make things easier on my legs, though hardly on my

poor bottom!’ she mused.

‘Now then, how to manage the bag?’

Susanna had decided that slung across her shoulder was best. If she kept

herself in the saddle, it shouldn’t move about too much. Though that meant

keeping herself in the saddle, which was a prospect she didn’t relish.

‘Oh well,’ she said to herself, ‘it’s only for a couple of days. Til’ I find out

what’s up with this uniform malarkey…’

8

Susanna rode the bike to the far end of the village, which in truth was more

like a small town. Everyone still called it ‘Painton Village’, of course. Susanna

had inspected the contents of her bulging postbag and decided that she’d be

as well cycling all the way to the far end and working her way back across

town, to finish up back where she started. The bike was pretty nippy, once it

got going, and Susanna was making good time.

‘Hello there!’ a gentleman doffed his hat as she rode by. ‘Looks like we’ve a

new village postie.’ And a sight better looking than the last one! he thought.

Susanna tipped her cap and smiled politely. It was always nice to be nice.

Susanna pedalled away, and could feel the burn beginning in her legs. She

didn’t mind that because, despite Mrs Crankworthy’s unkind remarks, she

had always taken care to keep in shape. Susanna Rogers had run more than

one marathon in her time and she still had the vestiges of the figure to prove

it! More recently, spending a fair bit more time sat on her rump at a desk had

added some more meat to her bones, though in truth there was hardly a man

(or woman!) alive who could have said it hadn’t enhanced her overall

attractiveness. The former TV star was a beauty of the ‘ridiculously hot grown

woman next door’ variety.

Susanna’s sat nav (hastily removed from the Golf and implanted with gaffer

tape onto the handlebars of her bike – no one could not call Susanna a

resourceful sort!) informed her that she had reached her destination. With a

satisfied ‘here we go’, she dismounted and approached the front door of the

first house with letters in hand.

There wasn’t post for every house, of course. Susanna judged that probably 1

in 3 addresses was getting mail that day. She hadn’t thought of it before, but

she supposed it made sense – she didn’t get post every day herself.

It was approaching midday when Susanna came upon the place she would

grow to dread above all others. That house. HIS house…

9

Gnasher sensed the Postie even before he arrived. There was a rhythm to the

days here in this leafy green village that somehow let you know what was

about to happen just before it did. At least that was the way it seemed to

Gnasher; ‘instinct’ the humans called it.

Right now, Gnasher sensed that Postie would soon be here to encroach upon

his territory, the intrepid yet foolish carrier of letters and parcels, clad all in

blue with a smart red trim. Gnasher couldn’t see colours, of course, but he

had it on good authority that those were the colours of the many hundreds of

trouser seats in his collection. Gnasher looked toward the gate and saw that

he was right, as ever. A bicycle pulled up and the invader dismounted.

Gnasher dashed for the back door, which he knew was open as always this

time of year. He ran around the side of the house, careful to make as little

noise as possible, and wriggled through the hole in the fence, something he’d

kept secret for just this reason.

Then, he saw it. Postie was sashaying up the pathway in a fashion that a

creature with a larger vocabulary would have described as ‘voluptuous.’

Gnasher hardly noticed; his eyes were firmly on the two delicious looking

hams encased within the back part of Postie’s trousers. Biting that part

always seemed to send a strong message to the interloper, and he always left

soon after that. Growling, Gnasher sounded the attack!

10

Susanna pulled up her bike and dismounted. This was going surprisingly

smoothly, considering it was her first day. She looked at the address on the

letters – one that looked like an electric bill and another that resembled a

letter home from school – Susanna pitied the poor child whose parents were

about to get THAT piece of mail!

All of a sudden, Susanna heard a bark coming from behind her. She froze in

her tracks: what was it they said about dogs and Postmen?!? She turned to

look, her eyes wide in horror as a shaggy black thing with huge cavernous

jaws and row upon row of hard, tough looking white teeth approached from

behind! Susanna was about to shout a protest, but before she could, the

rascal was upon her:

GNASH!!

Susanna’s eyes opened wide as saucers. Her mouth crumpled as if she’d just

sucked on a particularly sour lemon; she held the pose for a moment, then a

yell exploded involuntarily from her lungs!

‘YEEEEEEEOWWWWWWWWWW!’ Susanna’s bum felt as if it had been caught in steel bear trap. At least, that’s

what she supposed; she had been fortunate enough in her life never to

actually get her bum caught in a steel bear trap. That is until now – or so it

felt.

‘GERROFF ME!!’ Susanna attempted to remove the offending item by brusquely shaking her

tail feather. It didn’t work.

‘I SAID…GERROFF ME!!!’ This time, Gnasher came flying loose. He decided to teach this unusually

wilful Postie a lesson!

GNASH!!!

‘OOOOOOOOH! MY BOTTOM!’ Susanna grimaced once more as she doubled her money. Her face suggested

that she was of a mind to continue fighting – however all Susanna’s

resistance had earned her was a second painful gnashing! She really wasn’t

sure how she was going to get out of this…

‘HELP, PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP!

THIS DOG IS BITING ME!’ Far from attracting sympathy, Susanna’s yells merely caught the attention of

some scruffy looking lads, of ages roughly 10 to 12. Instead of assistance,

they brought gales of laughter.

‘Hey look guys, Gnasher’s went and got himself a new chew toy!’

That brought more laughter from the attendant group. ‘She’s better looking

than the last one.’ One of the boys observed, loud enough for Susanna to

hear, ‘though no more intelligent by the looks of it.’

Gnasher was hanging on tight to the seat of Susanna’s trousers, meanwhile

the Postie herself was struggling closer to the boys gathered by the fence.

‘This isn’t funny!’ she declared even as she tottered forth gingerly, red faced

and feeling justly aggrieved.

‘I disagree.’ The foremost of the boys replied, a bright toothed grin

contrasting sharply with his untidy black hair and sullen countenance.

‘No. Funny is precisely what this is. You just don’t see the joke yet.’

‘Well, that much is correct!’ Susanna turned and the boys roared with

laughter at the sight of a grinning Gnasher’s teeth dug resolutely into the

poor Postwoman’s afflicted backside.

‘Think you can get him off me?’ Susanna tried not to sound too pathetic,

though the pain in her bottom was killing her.

The leader was thoughtful. ‘I suppose we could…’

Susanna sighed. They had her, figuratively, over a barrel. ‘What do you

want?’

‘Got any sweets, missus?’

Susanna hadn’t, but she did have a pound coin, she remembered. It was an

effort to dislodge it from her pocket with a hungry dog adjoining her rear end.

‘Here, buy some.’

The boy cast a critical eye over the coin. Susanna tried not to look too

desperate.

‘Hmmm…’ the brat was taking his sweet time, she thought. He bit the coin

which, despite having the colour of gold, was not made of gold, a fact which

would render such a test pointless. Nevertheless, the boy was satisfied.

‘Seems genuine.’ He smiled. ‘Alright. Gnasher. Heel boy, heel.’

Gnasher did as he was told, and let go of Susanna’s butt.

‘He’s your dog???’ Susanna goggled at the kid.

‘Yup. Good old faithful Gnasher. He’s not so bad.’

‘Not so bad?!?’ Susanna could scarcely believe what she was hearing. ‘He

just about ripped my trousers off!!!’

‘Oh yes. Thanks for reminding me.’

‘Gnasher…’

Gnasher wagged his tail and looked expectantly to his master.

‘Trophy, Gnasher! Get trophy!’

‘AWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’

Susanna howled in surprise as Gnasher’s teeth bit into the seat of her

trousers, nipping her slightly but principally attacking the outer piece of

fabric that covered her ample cheeks.

RRRRRRRRRRRIPPP!!! The boys all laughed again. Poor Susanna’s rear end felt a mite draughty, and

her face flushed crimson.

‘Look boys!’ a round-headed lad in green shouted. ‘Red with white polka

dots…CLASSIC!’

11

It was 3pm by the time Susanna entered the offices of the Barkshire Evening

Enquirer. Soren Bell, the Senior Reporter was on the phone. Soren waved a

short greeting and continued his conversation. Susanna had donned a pair of

dark glasses and an outer jacket, sufficiently altering her appearance from

when she’d left the house that morning – she wanted as little risk of her cover

being broken as possible. She was walking differently, Rachel thought. Like

John Wayne…

Rachel found that puzzling, but shrugged it off. ‘Boss wants to see you Ms.

Rogers.’ Susanna frowned a little, puzzled.

‘He wants to know how it went.’

Susanna tried not to let her annoyance show. ‘It’s been one day!’ she

complained. ‘What does he expect me to have found out?’

Rachel shrugged, trying to make it seem good natured. ‘Just said he wants a

daily progress report, that’s all.’ Susanna accepted that. ‘OK, OK, I’ll go see

him now.’ Rachel smiled. ‘How did it go?’

‘Later.’ Susanna said tartly, and left them, mosying on out.

Soren had finished his phone call. ‘Is it just me,’ he began, ‘or is Susanna

walking a bit funny?’

Rachel nodded her agreement. ‘I think,’ she mused, ‘that’s just how post-

people walk. We shouldn’t bother her about it, she’s got to stay in character.’

Soren was bemused. He couldn’t help but grin and shake his head, but he

said nothing, and continued typing up the story he was working on.

12

Next day and a rather sore Susanna was making her way into ‘work’ for

another day. She had been wary at first of parking herself in the driver’s seat

of her Golf, for reasons that scarcely require explanation. She’d found,

however, that the pain of Gnasher’s bite had largely dissipated overnight, and

she was able to sit relatively normally. Susanna had had a go at darning the

seat of her uniform trousers back into existence the night before, but the

missing piece had simply been too large. In the end she’d given up and had

spent a good bit of the evening on Twitter, using her phone, of course - sitting

at a computer had been off the agenda yesterday- browsing to see what her

pals were up to. Susanna had noticed that Rachel was on Twitter too, and

enjoyed reading her various ingenious formulations. She had an opinion on

everything from Syria to syrup, and it was usually on the money as far as

Susanna could tell. That girl really was sharp, when she was on form. It made

Susanna wonder how she could be such a complete and utter imbecile at

other times. She put it down to youth and inexperience, mostly.

Susanna’s mobile bleeped to let her know she’d received a new text

message. Once she’d parked the car outside the Post Office, she pulled it out

of her handbag and read what it said:

You never told me how it wnt! Rach x

Susanna rolled her eyes. There was no way she was telling the others a dog

had bitten her bum on her first day, she’d never live that down.

Was fine. Job’s a piece of cake. Need to wait and see re: uniforms. S

Susanna put her phone away and went inside to fetch the mail. It was early,

and dawn was just beginning to break as she went inside. Susanna was

dressed in a white blouse with blue blazer and her smart hat with Royal Mail

insignia. On her lower half, however, she was wearing a pair of denim jeans –

she was a little worried about what Mrs. Crankworthy might say.

Mrs Crankworthy, however, had not yet arrived. Susanna smiled the sly smile

of the rule breaker savouring a minor triumph. ‘Excellent, I can nip down and

grab a replacement pair…she’ll never know!’

Susanna did just that, and turned to admire herself in the mirror once again.

‘Perfect fit!’ Just like before. Susanna thought back, trying to remember if

she had told Mrs Crankworthy her measurements at any point. She couldn’t

remember that she had…

Susanna gulped a little when she saw that she had post for Gnasher’s

address again today. No matter, she thought, I am smarter than any daft kid

and his ugly dog!

‘Forewarned is forearmed!’ she said aloud, and sat down a little too hard on

the bicycle seat.

‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! GOODNESS ME!’

Susanna gasped. That had stung.

13

Susanna saved the problem house until last. None of her other customers had

let their dog bite her on the behind, so she felt these ones could hardly

complain if the post came a little later. Susanna could see the boy seated by

the bay window, motionless, apparently not in school. He was, nevertheless,

engrossed in whatever lay on the desk before him. Susanna was untroubled.

She went to her postbag, and pulled out the two letters she hadn’t been able

to deliver yesterday (she felt she could hardly be blamed) plus the one for

today. This one looked like an invitation of some kind. Susanna hardly cared;

all she had to do was deliver it.

Taking the letters in one hand, Susanna again reached into her postbag, and

brought out the raw, red, juicy steak she had procured from the village

butcher when she’d dropped off the parcel he’d been expecting. The butcher

was feeling generous, and had given the lovely Post-lady a sizeable discount.

‘Never hurts to be friends with the village Postie!’ he’d winked. Susanna

smiled and accepted the favour. Though she’d wondered what the big, beefy,

moustachioed man might possibly want in return.

Susanna took the steak, and looked around for Gnasher. Sure enough, he

was there, emerging from the bushes to the left with what appeared to be a

great big mischievous grin on his surprisingly anthropomorphic face. When

he saw Postie, his register became a threatening growl.

‘Gnasher!’ Susanna’s voice was light and sweet. ‘Here Gnasher! I’ve got

something for you!’

The hound’s face changed first to a look of confusion, then eagerness. He

bounded over, his tail wagging. He lolled his tongue a little, and began

nibbling eagerly at the choice cut. ‘There we are now!’ Susanna sounded

pleased with herself. ‘Who’s a good boy?’ She threw the steak to the far end

of the front garden, just to the right of the gate. Gnasher went for it happily,

and Susanna was left free to drop the letters through the letter box.

The boy had certainly caught sight of her by now, and he wore a

disappointed, almost crestfallen look upon his face. Susanna gave him her

sweetest smile, as if to say ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m smarter than you thought!’

Her decoy plan had worked, and she was loving every second of this.

Susanna turned back around, and her jaw almost dropped.

‘Wh..wh..what???’ she stuttered incoherently.

Gnasher was before her, teeth bared, growling, the steak was evidently no

more.

‘B…but…I…the steak!!!’ She had brought it to serve as a decoy, and it had -

for no more than a few brief moments. Susanna weighed her options: direct

flight seemed risky - suicidal to her bum, risky - but there was a drainpipe she

thought she could probably shin up. That would be disastrous if it went

wrong, however, and Susanna had never been the strongest climber.

What do I do???

Thinking fast, Susanna ripped out the copy of the Barkshire Evening Enquirer

she’d bought at the newsagent while getting the steak, and rolled it up

quickly. As Gnasher advanced. She swatted him sharply on the nose.

‘NO!’ Susanna yelled. ‘Bad Gnasher! Bad!’

Gnasher yelped. Startled, he stood aside. Seeing her chance, Susanna

dashed back toward the gate, pulling on it fervently. It wouldn’t budge.

Panicking, Susanna tried again, harder this time. Still it would not give.

Susanna chanced a glance over her shoulder, and what she saw was bad

news; Gnasher had shaken off his earlier setback, and was flush behind her,

teeth bared!

‘Oh crumbs…’

GNNN-ASHHH! Susanna howled like a chimp as Gnasher sank his unfeasibly strong jaws into

her hapless, waggling bum.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAIEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEE!!!’ Susanna once again felt a pain in her posterior that burned more or less like

she’d parked her bottom on a thorn bush. Gnasher’s teeth pierced the fabric

of her brand new trousers, and Susanna thought that she was about to faint

from the indignity, or else burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. In the

end, she did neither as Gnasher relieved the trousers of their seat with a

satisfying rip.

‘Oooh my! How rude!’

Susanna blushed as today’s undies were exposed to the air. She turned and

saw the boy laughing and pointing, stood at the window, the mirth in his soul

evident for all to see. Gnasher was happily chewing on his trophy, so Susanna

chanced a glance over the side of the fence. An open pot of glue lay on the

pavement next to the gate.

‘The sly little…but how did he?’ She looked back up again, the confusion plain

in her eyes. Then she understood. The kid was waving a shop dummy,

dressed to look like himself.

‘A bloody decoy!’ Susanna could have throttled the little twerp.

14

Two days later, and it was a Sunday. Susanna breathed a sigh of relief as she

awoke. ‘No post on Sundays,’ she said aloud, as if to re-assure herself. She

got up and made herself a lovely fresh ground coffee and decided she would

treat herself to a bacon sandwich. Susanna’s usual breakfast consisted of

fruit or muesli, or sometimes fruit and muesli; but she felt that at the end of a

gruelling and at times decidedly trying week she had earned her enjoyably

unhealthy start to the day. ‘Delicious!’ she said to herself. Susanna sat with

the morning paper, poring over the latest reports from far flung places and

opinions of ‘distinguished’ columnists on various matters of import. Then her

phone rang.

‘Hello?’

‘Rogers.’ It was the Editor. ‘Where in the name of Ed Balls are you? I’ve been

waiting 20 minutes already.’

Susanna blinked, stunned. Then she remembered: I’m a reporter. ‘Just on my

way,’ she lied fluently as she pulled her summery jacket over her delightfully

tight and short cut patterned dress. She put on her high heeled shoes, red to

compliment nicely the white and black of her ensemble.

‘Where should I meet you?’ Susanna kept the question as vague as possible,

attempting to maintain the pretence that all was well and that she’d simply

been delayed a little. She hoped that the Ed would cough up enough clues to

allow her to find him without the man catching on.

‘Get me over by the toffee apple stand.’ He barked. ‘And be quick about it. I

don’t have all bloody evening.’

The toffee apple stand. He must be at the Village Fete – Susanna remembered

seeing a flyer…she had one stuck to the fridge. She went back and grabbed

it, ascertained the location, then made straight for her car. Susanna took her

dark glasses out and put them on. She needed to make sure that Susanna

Rogers, journalist, and Susanna Hacker, postwoman, were not identified as

one and the same person. If the wrong person made that connection, then the

operation was a bust.

She motored her way along the roads and parked the car in the public car

park next to the village green where the festivities were in full swing. A game

of splat the rat was doing good business, while stands where people young

and old were invited to guess the weight of the cake or the number of

sweeties in the jar were seemingly popular, too. Susanna approached a stall

and bent down to appraise a jar packed full of sherbet lemons. The

stallholder smiled benignly. ‘Oh hello there, Postie!’ the bearded man

grinned. ‘How fares Her Majesty’s intrepid letter-carrier?’ Susanna looked up

and smiled – the dark glasses had seemingly availed her nothing in terms of

remaining inconspicuous. She took them off and smiled sweetly as she

remained bent down, trying to work out a rough estimate. ‘Well, thank you.’

‘What do you think…hard to tell isn’t it?’ ‘Hmm..’ Susanna mused. ‘Judging by

the number on the top layer, and the height of the jar…’

She shrugged. ‘No idea.’

‘Now there’s a sight for sore eyes…’ Mrs Crankworthy had apparated behind

Susanna, and gave her employee’s proferred bottom a hearty open palmed

slap.

‘Oooooooh!’ Susanna gasped and stood bolt upright, her eyes wide. ‘Mrs

Crankworthy…’ she stumbled, ‘didn’t think I’d see you here…’

Shit. Shit. Shit. What’s the old bat doing here?

‘Well of course I’m here!’ she exclaimed. ‘You didn’t think I’d miss your race,

did you?’ She leaned in and tweaked Susanna’s nose, harder than Susanna

would have cared for her to.

‘Ah!’ she gave a little gasp. Susanna wanted to call her boss on the

inappropriate touching, but she’d been knocked too far off balance with this

new information. ‘Race?’ she spluttered, ‘What race?’

‘What race?’ Mrs Crankworthy spoke as if she were being addressed by an

imbecile. ‘What race, she says!!’ Mrs Crankworthy looked to the stallholder

for support, but he only smiled passively, clearly wanting to stay out of it.

‘Every year, its tradition for the postman and the milkman to race each other

across the assault course.’

‘The WHAT???’ Susanna was flabbergasted. She looked with horror at where

Mrs Crankworthy was jabbing a bony finger in the direction of. There was a

part of the green set aside with cargo net and high wall, it was the muddiest

part of the field by far, Susanna observed, and some of those obstacles

looked pretty challenging. She thought of her high heels and patterned dress

and gulped. She hoped to high heaven that the woman was pulling her leg;

she had a horrible feeling, however, that she was not. Mrs Crankworthy

departed with a wicked leer. Susanna was left to ponder the implications of

what she had just learned.

Then, a familiarly gruff voice caught her attention. ‘There you are, Rogers.

Not like you to keep me waiting…’

‘No, boss. Sorry boss. I was just…’ Just what? Susanna blinked, unsure what

to say. An awkward silence hung in the air. The Ed finally filled it. ‘Well, never

bloody mind that now, anyway. I’ve got a job for you, Rogers.’

15

The job the Ed had for Susanna was simple, on the face of it. The provost of

the town was in attendance, and a glamourous lady reporter was required to

interview and get a couple of snaps with the grandee. The Ed didn’t want to

take the chance on Rachel, (whom he always called ‘Risley’ of course) whom

he regarded as too inexperienced for such an important assignment.

Susanna was confident she could deal with the demands of such a high

pressure job, in normal circumstances. These were not normal

circumstances though. She was staring down the barrel of a major

embarrassment, and quite possibly the blowing of her cover.

‘But boss,’ she tried to convince the Ed to let her off with it, ‘they’re expecting

me to participate in the race, Mrs Crankworthy…’

‘Ah,’ the boss replied, tapping his nose. Yes, I understand your dilemma,

Rogers. Fortunately, I’ve got that covered.’ He walked away with not another

word. Susanna was left to wonder what on earth he was going on about.

‘Stupid bloody man…’ she swore under her breath. Then, the fete announcer

hollered loudly through a Megaphone:

‘WILL POSTWOMAN SUSANNA HACKER PLEASE MAKE HER WAY TO THE

START OF THE ASSAULT COURSE FOR THE ANNUAL POSTIE VERSUS

MILKMAN RACE!!’

Susanna started, and just about slipped and fell on her bottom. ‘WHOOOPS!!’

She exclaimed as she slid in her heels in the wet turf.

‘Goodness, that won’t do at all…’ Susanna removed her shoes. She’d have to

run in her stocking soles. ‘Bother,’ she tutted as the ground squelched a little

beneath her. The organiser, a big, beefy, cheerful man with a moustache,

clapped Susanna warmly on the back as she arrived at the start line.

‘Well now,’ he beamed, ‘there you are. For a minute, we were worried you

weren’t going to make it, Postie! Tell the boys and girls and mums and dads,

are you feeling confident?’ Susanna managed a polite smile. ‘Oh yes, I’ve

been training all week.’ The lie sounded convincing, the man nodded. ‘And

how do you intend to go about getting the better of our Andrew?’

Susanna appraised her opposition for the first time. He was a tall bloke,

young and gangly, bespectacled and awkward looking. Susanna couldn’t

believe her luck, she doubted this geek would get up and over the first

obstacle! Susanna realised that she had to remain pleasant and professional.

‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll find a way!’ she grinned. ‘I hope you do,’ the big man

chuckled, ‘because I’m sure you’ll want to avoid the forfeit that comes with

placing second of two!!’ The whole crowd laughed at that.

Forfeit? Susanna’s inner monologue shrieked, she continued to smile but her

eyes began to glaze as she wondered in horror, What Forfeit?!?

‘Competitors, on your marks!’ The organiser smiled. ‘Get set.’ ‘GO!!’

And they were off! Susanna used her natural athleticism to steal into an early

lead. The milkman loped on at a steady pace. Susanna came to the first

obstacle and gamely grabbed onto the rope, hoisting herself up and onto the

wall and over despite the lack of grip in the absence of her shoes.

Susanna gasped in horror as the muddy chasm beneath her shot up as she

hurtled toward it. SPLAT!

The areas behind the obstacles had either been made intentionally muddy,

else had been churned up that way by overuse. ‘EUGGGH!!’ Susanna

groaned. ‘I’m covered!!’ She was, too, all the way up her legs with a

smattering on her chest and face. Oh well, no time to worry about that now,

I’ve a race to win.

Susanna picked herself up and charged on to the next obstacle, a cargo net.

She dipped to her knees deftly and got herself scrambling along the floor,

which mud was happily dry. ‘Keep your bottom down,’ Susanna advised

herself as she moved along smartly, not the easiest advice to follow when you

packed the back that Susanna did!

Susanna emerged from the cargo net and chanced a glance backward.

Andrew the milkman was halfway along the cargo net and making a bit of a

hash of it. Susanna smiled to herself. ‘Enjoy the forfeit, buster…’

*

Dennis looked round to see where Gnasher was. ‘Hmm…funny, he was with

us a minute ago.’ Pie Face creased his forehead in concentration ‘Perhaps

he’s gone to snaffle some sausages?’ he suggested. ‘Nah,’ Dennis replied,

‘he had some before we came out.’ Far off, Dennis could hear the cheering of

a crowd, evidently spectating on some sort of sporting contest from the

undulating cheers and occasional hollers of encouragement.

‘I wonder what’s going on over there?’ Pie Face offered. ‘Me too.’ Dennis

said. ‘Let’s go and see, shall we?’

*

Susanna had this one in the bag. The milkman was lagging at least two

obstacles behind her. Susanna confidently strode across the balance beam,

managing not to fall into the mud traps either side. She gamely took on the

monkey bars and emerged on the other side, mud-spattered, breathing hard,

sweat beginning to tickle her brow but still resplendent in her black and white

clinging dress and her make up relatively unblemished. She could see the

finish line. It was at the bottom of the hill. Two wheeled toboggans sat side by

side, their purpose clear enough. Susanna sat in hers, but just couldn’t get

going; the weight distribution was all wrong.

Susanna was stumped, but a helpful voice from the crowd yelled out to her.

‘Lie on your front!’ Susanna did so. She was more crouched in truth, her

hands grasping the sides of her toboggan, her knees tucked in and her

behind prominent, pressing firmly on the fabric of her underpants and dress.

Gnasher ran from the crowd. He’d recognise a Postie’s bottom anywhere! He

leapt heroically through the air just as Susanna was pushing off toward

victory…

GNASH!!! The infeasibly strong teeth of the redoubtable canine held Susanna’s derriere

in their vice like grip, ripping delicate fabric as they did so. Gasps of horror

were soon replaced by laughter as the indomitable lady careening down the

slope with Gnasher attached to her curvy backside was an undeniably

amusing sight!

‘YEEEEEOWW!!’ Susanna’s face crumpled into a comical grimace. Her eyes bulged in alarm.

She knew instantly the identity of her assailant.

‘Ooooh GNASHER, YOU MEAN DOG!! COULDN’T MY POOR BOTTOM HAVE

ONE DAY OFF?!? ‘

Gnasher evidently didn’t think so. He clung on with just as much grim

determination as Susanna was needed to remain aboard.

But there was another problem! Gnasher’s bite had come at precisely the

wrong time, unfortunately for poor Susanna: it had affected her course and

now she was careening out of bounds!

‘YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEAGGGH!!’

She screamed.

‘Watch out! All of you,

watch out! Out of

control Postie, coming

through!!!’

CRASH!!! Susanna (plus Gnasher!) and her toboggan sheared a path clean through the

crowd, giving at least one spectator a nasty bruise on their shin.

‘Oh no…’

Susanna’s toboggan became matchwood as it collided with a great oak. The

woman herself shot way into the air, catching on to a low hanging branch and

trying to kick Gnasher off her. Gnasher himself had remained in place by

hanging onto the half torn seat of Susanna’s dress, then dragged himself up

to take a more firm hold once again on her suffering cheeks!

CHOMP!

‘OWWWWWWWWWWW!!!’ Susanna’s complaint was more of a whine this

time. She had gotten over the initial shock and mundanity might be setting in.

‘YOU BAD DOG!!’ She scolded Gnasher. ‘Couldn’t you have at least waited til’

I had won?!?’ At that moment, a great big cheer from the direction of the

finish line told poor Susanna that her efforts had been in vain.

‘Oooohhh!!’ she complained, sulkily.

Gnasher simply laughed a staccato, wheezing laugh. He evidently did not let

his robbing Susanna of victory trouble him; getting his teeth into a nice plump

Postie’s bottom was far more important!

The race organiser had finally succeeded in getting Susanna down from the

tree. ‘Well, Miss Hacker,’ he grinned. ‘I’m afraid there’s the small matter of

your forfeit!’

‘FORFEIT?!?’ Susanna could not believe they were still going to make her do

it. ‘A bloomin’ dog came running onto the course and bit me on the backside!!

You don’t think that’s embarrassing enough???’

They did not. Susanna had lost the race, and rules were rules. She was glad it

was only custard pies they threw at her in the stocks, and not rotten

tomatoes.

SPLAT!

‘OY!’

SPLAT!

‘WHY, YOU…’

People were queuing up now to pie the poor, unfortunate but oh so fragrant

and glamorous Postie.

WALLOP!

Et tu, Rachel? Susanna thought sadly as her grinning protégé joined in the

fun. She’d forgive her. After all, tradition was tradition, and in the village,

tradition was sacred.

Susanna’s eyes opened wide in horror as Mrs Crankworthy ignored the line

behind which piers were supposed to stand, approching with a gooey dessert

in either hand. ‘Commiserations, dear…’

One pie caught poor Susanna either side of the head. Mrs Crankworthy

winked at her. ‘I think you’d better get out soon. You don’t want to keep the

provost waiting.’

‘The provost?’ Oh shit, the provost!

Susanna hesitated a second, then added up the sums in her head. ‘Wait a

minute…you know about the interview with the provost?’

Mrs Crankworthy assisted Susanna by unlocking then lifting the bar beam of

the pillory. She noted with amusement that Susanna’s underpants were still

showing through the seat.

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Then you know I’m really a journalist?’

‘Yes, dear. Of course.’

‘Since when?’

‘First time I clapped eyes on you. Recognised you from the tellybox.’

Susanna let out an exasperated sigh, and gave the most over dramatic eye-

roll you ever imagined. ‘And yet you let me carry on making a complete and

utter fool of myself regardless? Can I ask why?’

‘A sense of humour, you could say. And we really do need a post-person in

the village, miss. And I knew I could rely on you. You are a professional after

all.’

‘A professional twit!’ Susanna interjected, kicking herself for her foolishness.

‘Oh, and of course, I didn’t see any harm – at least not to me – in letting you

satisfy your curiosity.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘About the uniforms, dear. You have worked it out, haven’t you?’

Susanna’s expression was blank. Old Mrs Crankworthy was smarter than any

of them, she realised.

‘Not yet. I haven’t had the time. Need to speak to more people. Build up a

picture…’

‘A picture?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I think I can fill in the missing pieces now for you, dear, if you like. How

long have you been Postwoman?’

‘Three days.’

‘And how many pairs of trousers are you onto now?’

Mrs Crankworthy grinned, letting the realisation set in of its own accord.

Susanna’s mouth tightened. ‘Three.’ Was that all there was to it? ‘Dog

damaged trousers! So THAT’S it?!?’

‘Not just dog damaged dear – Gnasher damaged. There isn’t the fabric been

made that mutt can’t get his teeth through!’

‘So no great conspiracy? No cover up?’

‘Well, I daresay you ought to cover up, dear. Your rear end must be rather

chilly.’

Susanna snorted a laugh. ‘Chilly is the least of its worries right now.’

Suddenly, Susanna was alarmed. ‘What are you doing with that hose, Mrs

Crankworthy?’

‘Getting you ready for your big interview, of course!’

The hose was turned on. Susanna squawked. Then was clean. Her face was a

picture of dripping wet consternation. She spluttered, forming words then

letting the exclamation drop as no appropriate expression could be found.

‘You’re welcome.’ Mrs Crankworthy smiled.

****

HARD WORKING POSTIES GET A BUM DEAL FROM DOG OWNERS

‘Safety at work?’ Rachel read the headline of Susanna’s article from over her

shoulder. It was accompanied by a photograph some helpful soul had

provided of Susanna as Postwoman getting chomped by Gnasher.

‘Not the sort of angle the Ed was hoping for.’

‘No you’re right,’ Susanna mused. ‘Important nonetheless.’

‘So, Postie,’ It was Soren. ‘are you absolutely sure about this quitting

malarkey? Wouldn’t you rather keep all your…parts safe?’

Susanna thought of her bum, currently comfortable as it was.

‘Well, they do need someone to do it. And at least I am forewarned. And as I

always say…’

‘Forewarned is forearmed.’ Rachel finished her sentence for her. ‘We know.’

‘At least take this as a leaving present.’ Rachel handed her a wrapped parcel.

‘Oh, thanks!’ Susanna smiled at them and carefully undid the paper. She

pulled out a garment clearly designed for the lower half. She read the label:

‘Padded Impact Shorts.’ She said aloud. ‘For the inexperienced skier and

snowboarder.’

‘We thought you might find another use for them,’ Rachel grinned.

THE END.