I’ve worked for the Royal Mail for just over five years.
Six days a week, I set the alarm for four a.m., and I drive to the delivery office in good time for the start of my shift at five.
My first job is always to organise the mail into postcodes according to the addresses on my round. Then I bag it up and deliver it to the residents of the Clifton housing estate, a sprawling mass of 1950s grey concrete on the outskirts of Nottingham that once had the dubious privilege of being the largest housing estate in Europe.
It sounds simple, but delivering mail correctly and in a timely manner is far from easy, and it isn’t a menial task either. Most people place great value on their mail service.
For some of the other postal workers it’s just a job but my view is that it doesn’t take that much to make a real difference to people’s lives.
Mrs Gray on Beck Crescent has ulcerated legs, so I always put her bin out first thing on a Friday morning. This summer, I cut Mr Bagley’s lawn on my day off when his arthritis was playing up.
Now, when he catches me at the door he talks non-stop about his only son, who lives in Australia. I often feel like saying: ‘And where’s your precious son when the grass needs cutting and you need your prescription fetching?’
But, of course, I never do.
My colleagues at the delivery office are a good bunch really; they seem to know just to leave me alone and let me get on with my job.
People stopped trying to draw me in to their non-stop conversations about reality TV and Coronation Street a long time ago; although, I admit, by some kind of weird osmosis, I’d probably be able to tell you what’s happening in each and every one of those programmes they discuss.
Everything had been going perfectly well at work and then, out of the blue last week, the situation changed. The management team decided we were to have a reevaluation of the delivery rounds.
When it was my turn, Jim Crowe walked over to my counter.
‘You’re not getting finished until way past three, Anna,’ he said, consulting his clipboard. ‘We think that’s because the round might be too big for you.’
It was Jim who interviewed me after I’d applied for the position five years ago. I got myself so het up beforehand I caught the wrong bus and was a few minutes late arriving.
I remember how Jim repeated one or two of the questions when I got confused and told me to take my time when I forgot what it was I wanted to say.
He took a chance on me back then; he gave me a job. I suppose he’s always sort of looked out for me a bit ever since. It’s as if, on some level, he’s always understood that I sometimes find things difficult.
He didn’t know anything about what had happened to me before though; none of them did.
‘I get the round all done, don’t I?’ I replied.
‘With an hour or more overtime you do. But we can’t keep paying it, Anna. Overtime’s expensive, and I’ve got my orders to cut the rota.’
I watched as beads of sweat settled in the bald patches where Jim’s hair was beginning to recede. I kept quiet and waited for him to meet my eyes but he just kept flicking through the papers on his clipboard.
In the end, Jim agreed I could keep my round for the time being, providing I didn’t put in any overtime claims. Very gracious.
‘We’ll see how it goes,’ he said. ‘If you’re struggling to get finished then we might have to put you on another round, possibly the Huntsmoor. I’m sorry, Anna, it’s beyond my control this time.’
I shrugged my shoulders and sauntered off but, underneath, a blistering heat seethed deep into my bones. Nobody wanted the Huntsmoor round, which was precisely the reason they always covered it with agency staff.
The dreaded Huntsmoor; a sea of dirty concrete and boarded-up windows.
It was a miracle if postal workers could get past the banned-breed dogs straining at their leashes and the heckling, hooded youths who gathered outside the multi-occupancy council houses from dawn until dusk, whatever the weather.
It made my scalp crawl to think I could end up doing the Huntsmoor round if the management made big changes.
My job kept me on track, kept the days ticking on. It helped me escape the dark days, and I didn’t want to go back there.
I made my mind up there and then that I would hang on to my delivery round at any cost.
As it turns out, I needn’t have worried.
As of today, I have completed my round within my allocated time for exactly seven days and without the need to put in any overtime.
Now the management team have no excuse but to back off and leave me alone. They can go pick on someone else because I have found a way to manage.
Manage for now, anyway.
This morning, I finished bang on time and took the empty mailbag back to the office, making sure Jim saw me hang it up.
My customers depend on me and they don’t like change. They wouldn’t appreciate a new delivery person.
For starters, how would someone new guess that the Benson family of Buxton Crescent have all their internet shopping parcels delivered to number 86 across the road?
Who would tell the new delivery person that the immaculate Mr Staniforth, who commutes to Canary Wharf and is out of the house fourteen hours a day, likes his mail packaged together with a rubber band so it doesn’t fly all over the hallway?
It’s those kinds of details that count with people.
When I finished my shift this morning, I locked my bike up in the outdoor rack and set off back home in the car. I still wore my fluorescent jacket, and as it was still fairly mild for October I couldn’t help sweating quite a bit.
I remember feeling eager to get back home, where I could throw on my comfies and chill out with my cat, Albert, a hot chocolate and a recorded episode of Homes Under the Hammer.
That’s when I opened the car window a touch and turned the corner into Green Road.
It’s only now, looking back, I realise that every single minute of the last thirteen years has been perfectly aligned to that very moment – to bring her back to me.
Despite the fact I lost hope a long time ago that she would one day be made to pay for what she did, the truth was now crystal clear.
I was always meant to find her again.