Mail Day on a Lighthouse

New Zealand Listener, Volume 19, Issue 491, 19 November 1948, Page 32

Mail Day on a Lighthouse

(Written for "The Listener by }

G. R.

GILBERT

UR mail-day comes around once each fortnight hereon every other Wednesday, weather conditions permitting, On that day, usually a little after ten in the morning, we get our first . sight of the supply-boat through the telescope up in the look-out. It is only a little dot of white then-just a bowwave. But we can pick it out from a dozen other boats which may. be coming our way. Only. then can we be certain that the mail will arrive according to schedule, and then we harness up Tommy the horse ready to take the konake down to the little wharf. But although the arrival of the supply-boat is the core of mail-day-tHe hard centre-mail-day in the broad sense has begun the night before at least, for then, the eddies and countercurrents that attend this mild fortnightly crisis in our human affairs begin to swirl about us. Pledsurable. anticipation of what we might receive mingle ‘with desperation at the thought of the ‘letters which we have to write-for to both Joy and me writing letters ‘is difficult and painful; we would much rather receive them, ar Therefore, on Tuesday evening all is scatter and confusion with the scene resembling a chapter from Freud’s Psychopathology of Everyday Life-everywhere the subconscious is triumphant. . Usually Joy and I begin the session by recalling ~_with some relish-the great number of letters which the other has to write. We remind each other cattily not to forget so-and-so as we did last fortnight, or that a particularly difficult letter has been lying around for months-and with a mail only once in 14 days that can happen quickly enough. HEN it becomes obvious that’ this ‘topic is exhausted we prepare for the actual writing. There is a search for the tools of trade-here . the influence of the subconscious is markedly felt. First the fountain pen which we share cannot be found. ‘Suspicion is fastened first on the- children, and then as we warm up we accuse each otherusually not without reason-of having misplaced it. Slyly we hint. that this is a deliberate attempt to embarrass the other. When it is found it is always dry of ink. The ink being dug from its hiding place and the pen filled, we discover that we forgot to order any writing paper last fortnight and a search begins for any oddments left lying around. I offer Joy typing paper, but | she screams at me that for the hundredth time she must have paper with lines an tine y= ee : I’ wilt and retreat fo the typewriter and begin miy own correspondence, but I cannot be deaf to the mutter of accusation that comes from the-kitchen as Joy

finds everything going wrong, By this time the neglected fire has gone out and the few tattered sheets of paper she has unearthed have hidden themselves again-the implication is that I am: the’ spirit behind this. Furthermore, on these nights the lights appear to deliberately dim so that she can hardly see what she writes: A hint is thrown out that I: have omitted to charge the batteries on purpose. But I bear all this silently and wade through my own letters with flying but inaccurate ‘fingers. Filled with self-satisfaction and virtue when ‘they are finished I go into the kitchen: and announce the fact, "Ha! Ha!" I say, rubbing my. hands. "All done. Three letters all finished. What d’you think,of that, eh?" But ‘there is.no" welcoming smile. Only a look filled with bitterness and even animosity. "pee ae : "You and that typewriter of yours," she says." "All you. do is go ‘tap-tap-tappity-tappity-tappity’ and it’s all done. Look at me-that’s all I’ve done and ‘there’s dozens more to get through. I'll be up all night, and I can’t write a word while "you’re pounding away on that wretched thing in the other room, It's easy for you to’ come in and tell me how much you’ve done... ." I let all. this pass, but I admit she does look a little miserable sitting huddled up by the stove with the paper perched awkwardly on one knee, wearing a trapped look on her face. Tactfully I decide that it’s time EF went up to the look-out and sent the weather report. R HAT is the first phase of mail-day. Except that later there is .always, -some trouble over the stamps, If we haven’t lost the lot of them, then there aren’t enough to go around, The second phase begins after the supply-boat has arrived and the mail has been sorted by the Principal Keeper. I take our share down to the house, and although neither of us would admit it we are on tip-toe with excitement. Has it arrived? For there is always one special thing that we are looking forwagd to. The letters and parcels are stacked on the sofa in the, living room. Each fortnight we say, "Well-we definitely won’t open any until after lunch." There is good reason for this, because if we start on the mail then the process continues for most of the afternoon "while the fire goes out and the meal congeals and finally we have a little something tossed hurriedly together about

half-past four in the afternoon. So we decide to lunch first. In theory, that is. Actually, after the good resolution has been taken, one of us tries to steal a march on the other and silently open a particularly promising letter or parcel. That begins the avalanche and in five minutes the floor is a sea of paper and string, with letters lying about ia wild confusion, while we heatedly accuse each other of breaking the agreement. Lunch, of course, is indefinitely postponed, : Slowly the exhilaration of having received any mail at all fades as we become more and more aware of the things that have not arrived. Usually at least one thing that we have set our heart on and confidently expected is missing, and that means a wait for another fortnight. We carefully explain to each other why these things have not arrived, but the disappointment remains’ like a Nagging tooth. HUS, more or less contented-ex-cited yet disappointed-the second phase ends. The paper and string are collected and tidied away after a hopeful last search for any cheques that might-just might-have got in among them, and we prepare a belated meal. All seems calm, but we are busy with our thoughts-Joy is wondering why her patterns haven’t put in an appearance,

while 1 am sure that the books I ordered should have arrived. Secretly we run over all the accidents that could befall a parcel — a@& wrong address Or our order lost. We picture callous businessmen nonchalantly tossing our letter out a ; window, or contemp- * En eR =

tuously lighting a cigar with it, or. an indifferent postal clerk popping it into the tray marked Greenland just for the hell of it. You see, out here we tend to become a little suspicious of mainlanders, But that, too, passes, as on the Thursday the third phase, thé post mail-day neurosis, begins. Our tempers are a little frayed, our reactions a little uncertain as the repressions arising out of what we have got and what we haven't got rise to the surface. An overdue account accompanied by a sticky reminder, a few innuendoes, real or imagined, in a letter, a parcel with the incorrect order in it, these work their way with us. We feel that mail-day did not live up to expecta-tions-was a bit of a farce in fact. We find ourselves with a tendency to bicker or take each other up short. The children steer clear of us. The day passes through a series of short arm jabs and -with it go the last bitter-sweet remnants of yesterday’s excitement. Then, some 12 days later the wheel will have described the full turn and we will be once again feverishly accusing each other of deliberate sabotage as we search for the pen; the ink and the envelopes. Then the tapping of my typewriter will again be heard and Joy will slam all the doors between me and the kitchen as she wearily prepares for the evening’s torture. Then will the very

elements rise up once more to confound her-for the | wind will. carry the accursed tapping to | her ears, while the ink bottle will be} dry, and the damp | will have stuck all | the envelopes _ together. before we have had the opportunity of enclosing any letters in them.