Gumpy the Postie

 

It’s a great job. Out in the fresh air all day. Talking to strangers who genuinely want to talk to him rather than being forced to do so by circumstance. Seeing the smiles light up on the faces of customers when something they are expecting arrives. Feeling a valued member of the community. Being a postie is everything he wanted it to be, and more besides. He is naturally an early-riser, which makes it even better! He’s home most days before 4pm so he can help out there too.

If anything, the lockdown simply reinforces his view. It’s a protected occupation so, unlike many of his family and friends, he is still working and earning. He knows things are beginning to change though. Also, the people he delivers to on his round seem more pleased than ever to see him, even though the delivery times are varying now according to staff availability in the Sorting Office. Life is good.

He has a mask to wear if he wants to, but has so far declined. He obeys the social distancing rules and makes sure his customers do likewise. He’s seen the news and read up on the statistics. If he became infected there is every chance he will get a mild dose because of his age, fitness and lack of other underlying conditions. Covid-19 is unlikely to kill him. He is white, Anglo-Saxon in origin, a non-smoker and extremely moderate drinker. Yes, he’s also seen what he considers to be scare stories about people like him who’ve succumbed, but he feels safe enough and, anyway, his customers depend on him. He couldn’t let them down.

His bosses at the Sorting Office love him because he doesn’t complain. He has his own area, but with the pandemic this has been expanded a bit. Rather than kick off about being expected to work harder for the same money, as some of his colleagues are doing, he looks at it as an opportunity to expand the social network that is his daily round. In a perfect world, he’d be able to make everyone he came into contact with happy.

His nickname at the Sorting Office is Gumpy, after Forrest Gump. They share a similar philosophy. He is the only postie who comes back each day frustrated there are no more letters for him to deliver. He hides his frustration well though. There is always tomorrow. He volunteers to work overtime and weekends whenever the work available. If there is a shortage anywhere, his bosses look at each other and simply say ‘see if Gumpy is free’.

At home, his disabled mother dotes on her only son. She calls him Mark though, rather than Gumpy. Nowadays, he answers to both names. His early finishes mean he can make an evening meal for them both, which they eat on their laps watching TV. They both love Pointless, but have recently noticed there are too many repeats. It is spoiling their enjoyment. They can remember the best answers from when the saw it the first time.

Mark’s mother has only one full leg. The other has been amputated below the knee. Poor circulation, a consequence of being Type I diabetic since childhood, is the cause. She’s on a list for an artificial limb to replace it, but she’s not holding out too much hope she will reach the top of the list before turning 60. She’s 56 at the moment. Her lower leg was amputated three years ago. Before the diabetes turned nasty, she was a postie too. It’s obviously in the blood. At least it’s not in the pancreas.

She likes to potter in the garden. It’s all she can do, but with Mark’s help it’s still the nicest garden on their estate. Rarely a day goes by when she doesn’t thank her lucky stars she has Mark. She would be lost without him. He gets his blood sugar level tested regularly because she insists, given what happened to her. He does it without complaint because he knows she’s right to be concerned. The thought of being unable to do his job in the future is more than he can bear.

It's a Monday. Mark is in the Sorting Office early, preparing his round. It looks like several of his fellow posties are absent today, so his round may be increased. Good news for him, but worrying for the missing posties. He asks a colleague what’s happened to them. All he gets back is a shrug of the shoulders suggesting they don’t know. He hopes they haven’t gone down with coronavirus because he might have to self-isolate if that’s the case. His mother isn’t classed as particularly vulnerable, but with her underlying diabetes problem and limited mobility he thinks she would find it difficult to keep going without his assistance.

There’s a meeting at 7.30am. It’s been called by management in response to concerns raised by the union that the job is becoming too dangerous during lockdown. Mark is optimistic by nature, believing a combination of the fresh air he takes in every day plus his health make it unlikely he will be struck down with the virus. He suspects some of the more pessimistic staff take a diametrically opposed view.

The meeting is interesting. Management have arranged for all staff at the Sorting Office to be tested to reassure them, their families and the public at large that everything remains well in the world of postal delivery. Mark thinks it’s a great idea, but is disappointed to learn the testing won’t take place for another four days. The union representative welcomes the plan, pointing out that no-one should ever think it won’t happen to them. He then reveals the missing posties have all exhibited virus symptoms over the weekend, which is why they are currently off work. Additionally, he tells the postal workers in the meeting room that their town seems to be experiencing an increased level of confirmed coronavirus cases and no-one knows why. His wife works at the local hospital. She knows about these things.

Mark leaves the meeting a little bit more worried about the crisis than he was before. On the one hand, he knows he’s going to be tested soon so he will be able to get some reassurance he’s OK to give to his mother. On the other hand, several posties at the Sorting Office have tested positive so the virus must be around now. He still feels absolutely fine, so he puts his worries to the back of his mind before picking up his round and getting the keys for the van he will be using today.

In another part of town, another meeting is scheduled to take place at 9am to discuss the spike in Covid-19 cases being experienced in the town. Representatives from local government, the hospital, doctors’ surgeries, support groups, the church and the police will be attending. The figures collated over the weekend suggest the spike is much greater than anyone anticipated it would be. Two local Care Homes have reported deaths. The local hospital’s ICU facility is full. Admissions have soared. The Registrar is considering stopping them because the system is at breaking point. The worst thing is, nobody understands why.

Mark has planned today’s route with customary precision. He’s lived in the town all his life and knows the quickest way to get around. He parks the van halfway down Blenheim Street, his usual first stop, grabs the postbag he’s separated from the rest needing to be delivered, and sets off, almost jogging. People walking down the street acknowledge him as he passes the recommended 2-metre distance away from them. Some swear to themselves he seems to be smiling as he passes them.

The 9am meeting is getting underway. Social distancing is being enforced. The attendees have serious, tired faces, a result of the intense pressures they are feeling because of the pandemic. First to speak is Shirley Wilson, representing the hospital. She provides an array of statistics that confirm the town is currently dealing with the largest problem it has ever had to deal with since it was built 40 years ago.

When she’s finished, she defers to a consultant from the same hospital with epidemiology knowledge. He has a theory why it’s happening, but no evidence to support his beliefs. What he says is better than nothing, but that isn’t saying much. The attendees listen with polite interest. If true, this theory has potentially disastrous ramifications for the community. The mood doesn’t improve.

Meanwhile, Mark is getting into his stride now. The business addresses are his least favourite to deal with as there is little opportunity for talking to the customers. Post is normally placed in a designated box somewhere close to the entrance of each business. It’s essential they receive their post, of course, but it’s just so sterile as an environment. He imagines the interiors are equally devoid of the enthusiasm he believes powers the world much more than technology. Anyway, enough about that – it’s time to meet and greet your public now the miserable part of the day is completed. He retrieves the next postbag from his van and sets off again.

He turns right out of the small industrial estate and is immediately confronted by a number of housing estates that have been built off Blenheim Street as part of the town’s quite rapid expansion over the last few years. The postbag is still quite full, even after deliveries to the industrial estate. His pulse quickens a bit as he turns into the first estate, Melrose Villas. He knows the number of properties in the estate. He’s delivered to all of them in the past few months. The postbag has letters for six addresses here and a small parcel for the seventh.

Back at the meeting, it’s obvious to all the crisis cannot be resolved despite the best intentions of everybody there. A decision has been reached to seek advice from Public Health England on the best way to proceed. Shirley Wilson waves to the consultant as they walk out to their cars.

“How certain are you that your theory is correct?” she asks as she opens her car door.

“It’s a theory. I can’t tell you hand on heart that I’m right. All I can say is I believe I am right. The next few days will confirm my opinion. I may be wrong of course. Let’s see.”

At 7 Melrose Villas, Mark sees Mrs Allinson pushing her bins out. The collection takes place the next morning. He waves and points to the letters he’s left on the bench at the front of the property.

“How’s Sid?” he enquires, as  Mrs Allinson retrieves her post. “He was telling me on Friday he’d nearly finished making that model aeroplane. Is it finished now?”

Mrs Allinson shook her head. “No, love. Sid’s been a bit under the weather. I’ve left him in bed this morning. I’m sure he’ll finish it soon. He’s only been making it for three months so far. If it hadn’t been for the pandemic I’m sure it wouldn’t be so close to completion.”

“Give him my best,” said Mark as he moved off. He completed the rest of the addresses in the estate without seeing anyone and then walked to the next estate, Compston Gardens. When he’d first started working for the Post Office, he’d asked how new streets got their names. The answer he got was, essentially, no bloody idea. Whatever the Council decided at the time was the norm. He imagined streets being named after prominent local people or councillors. For something to do one winter evening, he’d tried to research the names Melrose and Compston on the internet to see if there was a connection. If there was, it wasn’t known to Google.

Anyway, there were letters for five addresses here, including Lizzie at No. 12. If pushed, he would admit to being a little bit in awe of Lizzie. He thought she was a lovely person. She was always nice to him when they met. Last week she offered him one of the cakes she’d baked as a way of retaining her sanity during the lockdown. He’d accepted in a heartbeat. When he bit into it whilst walking away from her address towards Kilverton Close, he found out cakes were not Lizzie’s strongest suit. Nevertheless, it was nice to be asked.

He arranged the deliveries so as to arrive at No. 7 last. It would provide him with the chance to talk to Lizzie if the opportunity arose. She was just getting into her car as he walked towards her front door.

“Hi Lizzie. Good weekend in the circumstances?”

“Not really Mark,” she replied, giving him a half smile. “I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts. I’m just on my way to the chemists to get something for it.”

“Sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better soon. By the way, thanks for the cake.”

“No problem. I’m baking again later this week if you want something. Let me know.”

“I will,” Mark replied, thinking it’s no wonder she’s feeling ill if she’s eaten all those cakes. He left Compston Gardens and turned into Kilverton Close. Just three deliveries here. No-one was around.

It turned into a quiet day for Mark. Few of the people he normally spoke to were around, which he found slightly unusual. Of those that were, the conversations he had with them suggested the weekend had proved almost universally miserable. By the time he returned to the Sorting Office he was feeling a bit depressed by it all. This was highly unusual for him, but he found solace in the fact tomorrow was another day. He cheered up and went home to make tea and watch Pointless with his mother.

The Sorting Office staff were tested for coronavirus on the Thursday, some three days after the management meeting. Mark was called at home by his boss on Saturday morning.

“Sorry to call you on your day off,” his boss began, “but something has come up.”Mark immediately thought there was additional overtime in the offing. “No problem,” he replied. “How can I help?”

“Your test results have come back from the lab,” said his boss. “There’s no easy way to say this, but you’ve tested positive for Covid-19. That’s not the worst of it though. There seems to be some kind of anomaly with your result. The lab wants to get you into the local hospital for urgent tests as quickly as possible. I’m afraid I don’t know any more than this.”

Mark was stunned, not least because he felt so well. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Of course I’m happy to have more tests at the hospital, but what shall I do about my mother? She’s disabled and depends on me.”

“I suggest you explain this to the people at the hospital. I’m sure something can be sorted out. In the meantime, an ambulance will be with you within the next hour. I’ve been asked to ask you to bring a change of clothing and some toiletries just in case you need to be kept in. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news Gumpy.”

So Mark explained the conversation to his mother, who understood completely and insisted she’d be all right for a couple of days. She had friends who could help out. It was more important that he got the treatment he needed. He got a bag together. The ambulance collected him within the hour. He was taken to the local hospital under the care of two people dressed as though approaching Chernobyl. It’s madness, he thought. I feel fantastic.

Shirley Wilson received an email from the consultant she’d talked to at the meeting a few days after Mark was admitted. They’d kept in touch as both were keen to try to understand what was happening with the dramatic increase in Covid-19 cases locally.

‘Hi Shirley,

I thought you might like to know that my theory about the cause of the spike in Covid-19 cases seems to have proved correct. A patient was admitted last Saturday. He’s a postman. He was tested by a lab last Thursday and found to be positive. There was something unusual with his results which led them to believe further investigation was required. Strangely, he has showed no symptoms at all, yet to all intents and purposes he’s been carrying the disease for several weeks. I think he’s a super-spreader.

Not much research has been carried out on super-spreaders. The term is not officially recognised, but there have been a few cases reported over the years. For reasons not immediately clear, these people are inherently more able to pass on the disease compared to others. They cope better with it and rarely show any symptoms.

We’ve looked at his typical working week and tried to correlate his location with several of the people recently diagnosed. A lot of his co-workers at the Sorting Office have been similarly tested positive, many of them prior to the testing procedure organised by the Post Office themselves. He has a standard route for delivery which coincides with the addresses for several new cases. It can’t be a coincidence.

I will provide better clarification once I know more.’

Regards,

Matt