The Letterbox

‘It’s too early!’ I mumbled from underneath my pillow.

‘Too early?’ I could hear Dad pulling open my curtains. ‘Well, the birds are chirping and that’s good enough for me!’

But I couldn’t hear any birds. All I could hear was Mum’s wind chimes smashing against each other. Which meant one thing: the winter winds had kicked in. It was going to be freezing outside.

Dad pulled the pillow away from my head. ‘C’mon, get up.’

‘Argh!’ I pulled myself out of bed and squinted at my watch: 5.11 a.m. The floorboards felt like ice under my toes.

I looked enviously at Troy, who continued to sleep with his pinky finger jammed into his nostril.

Dad gave me one of his signature nudges as I rubbed my arms to warm them up.

‘The papers don’t deliver themselves. Go on.’

I struggled to pedal and brake down Hellman’s Hill, the steepest hill in Top Hill. My face and fingers were numb as the gale-force winds pounded them. My nose rhythmically sniffled in time with the squeeze of the brakes. I had to work hard to keep my balance and not go over the handlebars as the back wheel struggled to stick to the steep slope.

It’s not unusual for Top Hill to be windy. It’s what you get when you live on one of the tallest hills in Australia. But cold weather is not something we’re used to. And when you combine the two, it’s what our local weather reporter calls an ‘unpredictable weather event’.

I’d call it an ‘unfair weather event’. As in, it was unfair that in my first few weeks as a paperboy I was forced to be out in it at five o’clock in the morning. Do people even read newspapers anymore?

Every time I started to gain momentum on the bike, I had to force myself to a stop and slip another newspaper into a letterbox. The next letterbox was one of the worst. It has a star-shaped tube that is designed to fit a newspaper for an ant. I have yet to squeeze a newspaper in there successfully without tearing the first few pages.

Most houses on my paper run look the same. Same red brick.

Same concrete driveway. Same red bottlebrush tree in the small front yard. The only thing that changes from house to house is the letterbox. And there are many types of letterboxes out there. I already have a name for them all.

The Basic Box is a small box on a thin pole. The more advanced model has the newspaper tube on the side. Nothing fancy, hence the name.

Then you have the Goliath Box. Either cement or brick, it stands almost a metre high with a neat built-in box and tube. These are my favourite as the tube is usually big enough to fit two papers. Sometimes I’m able to slip the paper into the tube without stopping. Speedy service.

Then you have the Artsy Fartsy Boxes. These are usually homemade. Some are models of the actual house. Or magical frozen chains holding an odd-shaped box. Or a mess of scrap metal formed in the shape of an animal. Most of these look terrible. And they rarely have a tube installed.

I have a choice of either attempting to squeeze the thick Saturday paper into the thin mail slot or chucking it on the ground. The ground wins, hands down.

I shouldn’t really complain. We don’t even have a letterbox. Dad just stapled the number of our house to the tree out the front and drew an arrow with black marker to the fork of the lowest branch. But now that the tree has grown, no one can reach the lowest branch. So Dad put out an old broken crate beside it.

Different shapes, colours, sizes. Some numbered. Some unnumbered. Some numbers upside down. Every letterbox gives a little insight into its owners.

Pedal, pedal, brake. I continued to stop and start down the hill. My face was completely numb. My fingers were burning. I was almost at the bottom of the hill.

The best part about this paper route was the fact that all the houses are on one side of the road. The opposite side of the road is bushland. It makes it easier to walk my bike back up to the top of Hellman’s Hill. But Dad reckons it won’t be long until it all becomes new houses.

For now, I enjoyed being able to quickly make my way back to the top. But it didn’t come quick enough after having to deliver the last paper to number 71.

Everyone feared number 71. Rumour had it that the last two paper deliverers quit the route because of number 71. Number 71 was at the very bottom of the hill, tucked away in the bushland on the other side of the road.

The house was small, with cracked fibro walls. Remnants of ancient grey paint flaked off the exterior. Instead of blinds, the windows were roughly painted black, with scratch marks revealing a dim orange glow pulsing inside. But it wasn’t the house that made my spine tingle. It was the letterbox.

The letterbox was once solid timber. That was about a hundred years ago. With the wood rotten and eaten away by various critters, it had been patched up with pieces of scrap metal. These too had been eaten away over time by rust, leaving jagged tooth-like pieces shaped in an angry snarl, warning anyone who came too close of impending danger. I had named it the Beast Box.

There wasn’t a tube on the box. There wasn’t a pole either. No, the worst thing about the Beast Box wasn’t the way it looked. It was the fact that it was attached to the front door.

Finally, I had reached the bottom of the hill. The wind was blowing stronger than ever. I felt as if I was going to be blown over like piece of paper, or even worse, sucked into the bushland.

Forcing my way across the road, I glanced at number 71. The trees that surrounded it danced angrily, almost warning me to stay away. The chain link fence thrashed against the rusty posts, sending up an ear-piercing shrill. The loosely fixed ‘DO NOT LEAVE PAPER ON THE GROUND’ sign slammed against the fence, sternly ordering me to make my way to the Beast Box.

The driveway, covered in large, jagged stones, was too much for my bike. I’d tried it once before, resulting in a puncture of both my tyres. I rested my bike against the chain link fence, grabbed the last paper from my bag and began the treacherous journey down the rugged driveway.

Every step I took forced the giant rocks under my feet to clap together. Loud enough to pierce the wind and signal to whoever was inside that someone was approaching. There was no way of tiptoeing. Each step I took clicked and clacked, creating tightness in my chest.

A giant wind gust pushed me off balance, making my feet dance over the rocks. As they shifted under me, I lost my balance and fell hard to the ground. I wanted to yell out in pain, but I knew that would alert whoever lurked inside the house.

I took a few deep breaths and struggled back to my feet. I checked my arms and legs. Both were grazed. My left hand had a deep cut from catching the edge of a sharp rock, preventing my face from damage. But there was no time to worry about it now.

I carefully moved across the rocks and picked up the newspaper before locking eyes with the Beast Box. This was it, I thought. I was going to make a dash for it. I would leave the newspaper on top of the Beast Box, then turn and sprint back to my bike. I would push it up the hill faster than a swooping magpie. And after today, I too would quit this paper route. I was sick of risking my life just to deliver a measly newspaper.

I took a giant sniff before running as fast as my aching legs could take me along the shifting rocks. My ankles twisted on the uneven surface. I skidded to a stop as I reached the front door. I tossed the paper on top of the letterbox but it fell. I quickly moved forward and picked it up.

That’s when I heard the lock on the door click. I was just in time to see the doorhandle turn as I swiftly placed the newspaper on top of the Beast Box. My heart stopped. But my legs didn’t. I turned and ran.

That was when my toes caught the sharp edge of a rock and I fell face down with a crash. I didn’t have time to absorb the pain. I jumped up and continued to run gingerly down the driveway.

My entire body hurt. I tried to sprint but my legs were jelly. The wind wasn’t helping either. It was pushing me towards the house, almost as if the Beast Box was sucking me towards it.

I struggled on, my ankles twisting and straining against the uneven terrain. At no time did I look back. For all I knew, there was no one behind me. I didn’t care to find out. I continued to stagger along until finally I made it to my bike.

I grabbed the handlebars and tried to push my bike towards the road – but it wouldn’t budge. I pushed harder and harder. Nothing. I looked down to see the pedal tangled up in the rusty chain link fence. The wind pounded the fence against my bike, making it almost impossible to find where the pedal was stuck.

I quickly sat down and threw my feet against the fence in an attempt to force the pedal free. But it was stuck fast. I gritted my teeth and pulled harder and harder.

Suddenly the bike separated itself from the fence and pinned me down. I pushed it off me and saw that the pedal had been ripped off and was lying on the other side of the fence. I reached through a metal loop to grab it.

That’s when a hand grabbed my wrist.

I froze in fear as a shadow grew over me. I forced myself to look up along the gripping arm to see a small old man with a head of frizzy hair. His giant wire-framed glasses sat tightly against his bony cheeks. The old man loosened his grip and picked up the broken pedal before looking at me with his cold, grey eyes.

I couldn’t help myself. I SCREAMED at the top of my lungs. It was louder than the wind against the chain link fence. It drowned out the heavy rustling of the swaying trees.

I stood up and sprinted all the way up the hill. Dogs were barking. Car alarms began to ring. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be as far away from number 71 as possible.

I ran out of breath just outside my house. Panting, I scurried inside, locked the door and ran to my room, throwing my head back under my pillow. As my heart raced at a million miles per hour I promised myself that I would never return to the bottom of the hill as long as I lived.

I didn’t leave my room on Sunday, even though Troy kept coming in to annoy me every five minutes. On Monday, I felt embarrassed. Tuesday, disappointed. By Wednesday, I was angry. Angry that I had left my prized possession at the bottom of the hill to rust away like everything else at number 71. By Friday afternoon I had built up enough courage to return.

I waited until Saturday came around. Paper day. This time, I got out of bed before sunrise. I left the newspapers on the front doorstep and stormed down the hill.

By the time I had reached the bottom the sun had peeked over the horizon. I decided that I was going to approach the old man and demand the return of my bike. I could see the chain link fence. I could see the jagged path. I could see the house. And that’s when I saw my bike against the Beast Box. Well, I thought it was my bike. There was something odd about it.

I took a deep breath and walked up the driveway. This time I strode more confidently over the rugged rocks, trying to stay composed. I was going to quickly take my bike and return home.

As I got closer, I noticed the pedal had been reattached. But in addition, something had been attached to the bike’s frame. It was a giant circle with many small tubes on the outside. Similar to the tubes attached to letterboxes.

Attached to the giant circle, a thick pipe ran to a box behind the seat. On the box were printed the words ‘LOAD PAPERS HERE’.

A thin blue wire ran from the box along the frame and up the handlebars. Attached to the handlebars was a smaller box with a keyhole and a red button with a word inked on top: ‘SHOOT’.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The old man had modified my bike. It looked incredible!

From the corner of my eye, I saw something glimmer in the rising sun. I turned to see a key dangling from the rusty snarl on the Beast Box. I reached over and carefully removed the key from the sharp steel. Hesitantly, I put it in the keyhole on my handlebars and turned.

Immediately, the giant circle began to rapidly spin. I quickly turned it off. I didn’t want to wake the old man.

I looked up at the house. That’s when I noticed a smiling face had been scratched into the black paint on the window. An orange light glowed from inside the house, making the smiling face seem warm. Welcoming.

I smiled back at the window before carrying my bike along the rocks and on to the road. As I stood beside my bike, I looked back at the house. It looked different now. The chain link fence sat still against its posts. The trees surrounding the house swayed gently in the breeze. Number 71 looked peaceful.

Still smiling, I walked my bike up the hill.

It took some time to get used to, but my modified bike became a sensation. Once the box was loaded with papers, they would push through the pipe and into the tubes around the giant circle. When the button on the handlebars was pressed, the tubes would shoot a paper into each letterbox. I could shoot papers from fifty metres away without missing a target. And the best part was, I never had to stop pedalling.

After a short time, the owner of the newspaper, Mrs Chambers, gave me more and more delivery routes. People began to gather out the front of their houses to get a glimpse of the bike in action. Some people even moved their letterboxes to different places to test my aim. Still, I never missed.

People clapped and cheered every Saturday as I sailed through their street. Other kids on bikes would follow me for kilometres. I had become a celebrity.

The Basic, Goliath, Artsy Fartsy all felt the full force of the paper-shooter. Even the star-shaped tubes became easy targets. I used the device to deliver every paper.

All except one.

At the bottom of the hill at number 71, I hand-deliver the newspaper to the Beast Box. I haven’t seen the old man since that day, but I know he is watching. Watching his magical invention do wonders from the scratches on his black painted windows.