Tiddler trudged through the grey Norbridge slush on her daily mail run to the post office. Pushing open the heavy door and stepping into the stifling heat within, she groaned. The queue was snaked right around the ropes and spilling out into the display of First Issue stamps. Shrugging out of her heavy coat, she joined the line behind a tiny and elderly woman laden down with several cumbersome parcels.
"Eight grandchildren!" the woman beamed at her, proudly – as if having fertile offspring was an achievement, Tiddler thought sourly. She smiled and nodded as the woman began prattling off their names, ages and current locations.
"And then there's Simon, he's just gone over to France on a scholarship . . ."
"The line is moving," replied Tiddler as the queue inched forward.
"Oh, that's all right, dear. I'll catch up. Now, where did I get to?"
"Simon," replied Tiddler wearily.
"Oh, yes. Simon. He's just won a scholarship and is over in France so I'm sending him this box of tea. The French simply don't know how to make a good cup, don't you find?"
Fortunately, Tiddler was spared the discussion on the tea-making abilities of the French when Api, one of the post office workers, recognised her and gave a shout.
"Hey, Tiddler! We've got the Junior Gazette mail already sorted for you up here!"
"Brilliant!" Tiddler squeezed her way up to the counter.
"Yeah, too much for the mail box today," said Api cheerfully. "You lot are really popular down at the Junior Gazette, aren't you?"
"Well, we are pretty loveable," grinned Tiddler. The grin disappeared quickly as Api hefted two large mailbags onto the counter.
"There you go. You can bring the bags back next time." He patted them cheerfully. "Two Santa sacks! Merry Christmas!"
"Merry what?" muttered Tiddler but Api had already hurried back to the counter to serve the next customer.
Sighing, Tiddler shouldered the mailbags. How was it that the youngest and smallest person in the office should be doing such heavy lifting?
Walking back to the Junior Gazette offices, she was in sight of the front doors when one of the mailbags abruptly split and letters began trickling out like blood from a wound.
"Fridge!" yelled Tiddler at no-one in particular (though a small boy eyed her suspiciously) and scooped up the soggy mail, cramming it back in at the top. Holding the split closed with one hand, she hefted the bags again and, using all the momentum her small frame could muster, made a dash for the doors. Crashing through them, her feet caught in the mat and she went down, sprawling most inelegantly all over the mailbags which promptly disgorged their contents all over the floor.
"Have a nice trip?" asked an American voice.
"Shut up, Spike," muttered Tiddler, blushing. "Help me up, can't you?"
Spike lazily extended a hand and hauled Tiddler to her feet. "There you go, Tids."
"Don't suppose you care to help me pick these up?" asked Tiddler, surveying the corridor now carpeted with envelopes.
"It's not that I don't care, Tids," said Spike, moving towards the door. "Only I gotta go and get Lynda a Christmas present and I . . ."
"Right, fine," said Tiddler, tiredly. "Go on, then!"
"Merry Christmas!" said Spike as he scampered out.
"Merry what?" grumbled Tiddler for the second time that day. She bent and started scooping the spilt post back into the bags and then dragged them over to the mail-sorting area which was currently a spare desk at the back of the newsroom. Half-heartedly, she dumped a few envelopes onto the desk and then marched over to her editor's desk.
"Lynda."
Lynda continued editing the article she was reading.
"Lynda," Tiddler repeated. After working with her for some time, Tiddler was aware of the possibility she hadn't been heard but also aware of the possibility Lynda was ignoring her.
"Tiddler, we've been through this," said Lynda, not looking up from her article. "The mail has to be done and it's a job that goes to the most junior member of staff."
"Lynda, it's Christmas. I've just about put my back out carting two heavy bags back from the post office and now I have to walk around delivering them to everyone's desks. Don't these people have home addresses? And why can't we have pigeon holes? Why do I have to walk around and around the office? It's just not -"
"Good idea," said Lynda.
"And I – what?" Tiddler stopped, mid-rant. Had Lynda just agreed with her?
"Pigeon holes. Good idea. Make it happen."
"But Lynda – why me?"
Lynda put down her pen and looked up at Tiddler.
"Because you flagged it and I want you to be the one to drive it. Take on more responsibility, Tiddler. Wasn't that what we discussed in your career management plan?"
"Yes, but . . ." Lynda picked up her pen and looked at her warningly. Tiddler took the hint. "Right. Okay. I'll sort it out."
"Right answer," replied Lynda, bending her head back over her work.
Tiddler rolled her eyes.
"Lynda? The boxes from the printers are here," called Jeff from the door.
"In the meeting room, Jeff. That reminds me, Tiddler. I have more responsibility for you to take on,"
"What?" asked Tiddler warily.
"Come with me."
Tiddler followed Lynda into the meeting room where the former picked up a box-cutter and sliced the top of the first box open. Reaching in, she pulled out a piece of cardboard.
"What's this?" asked Tiddler, even though she knew perfectly well.
"Our corporate Christmas cards," said Lynda, folding along the crease and handing her the card. On the front, a stylised Christmas tree formed from letters was printed in green foil.
t
h
ejun
iorgaze
ttethejuni
orgazettethe
juniorgazettethe
juniorgazettethejun
iorgazettethejuniorga
zettethejuniorgazettethe
ju
ni
or
Inside, the printed greeting read:
"Season's Greetings from the team at the Junior Gazette"
Tiddler had a sinking feeling.
"What I need you to do is co-ordinate the logistics of the mailout," said Lynda. "We need a list of recipients with names and addresses. We need each card to be signed by the relevant people and we need labels for the envelope. Then we need everything mailed out and we need it by Friday. Clear?"
"How many cards are there?" asked Tiddler, quietly.
"Three hundred," replied Lynda, crisply. "We need them to go to our distributors, our suppliers, the printers, Mr Campbell, people at The Gazette, people at the school, anyone who's sent us one of course . . ."
"Of course," said Tiddler.
"Is there a problem, Tiddler?" asked Lynda. "Because if you don't think I can handle it, I can assign the task to someone else and you can stick with mailroom logistics and the junior page."
"Trapped!" said a voice inside Tiddler's head, which sounded uncannily like Lynda herself.
"No problem. It's just that – err, should we really be using all this paper what with all the logging and rainforest destruction?"
"We're a newspaper, Tiddler, in case you hadn't noticed," replied Lynda, dryly. "Paper is what we do. And, to alleviate your concerns . . ." she plucked the card out of Tiddler's hands and turned it over to the back where a cheery message said "Printed on 100 Recycled Junior Gazette!"
"Colin's idea. He thinks it saves money. I didn't have the heart to tell him," said Lynda. "Does that put your concerns at ease?"
"Trapped again!" said the little voice gleefully.
"Yes, Lynda. I'll take care of it."
"Merry Christmas," said Lynda, turned on her heel and walked out.
Tiddler looked glumly at the three hundred cards boxed up in front of her.
"Tids! Babe!"
"Not now, Colin," she said without even turning.
"Hey, come on! Is that any way to spread the festive cheer?" asked Colin, undaunted.
Tiddler turned. "Colin, what are you wearing?"
"Kris Pingles!" replied Colin, cheerfully who was decorated with red and green-coloured half ping pong balls.
"What?!"
"Kris Pingles. Absolutely the latest thing in seasonal greetingwear. Everyone's gone mad on them, I can hardly keep up with the demand. That's why I'm prepared to let you in, Tids, on the ground floor." He held out two red and green Pingles to her.
By now, Tiddler knew it was easier to buy from Colin than to refuse.
"How much?"
"50p each," replied Colin. Tiddler felt in her pockets.
"I don't have any money with me, Colin. Sorry."
"No problem," replied Colin, pressing them into her hand. "Enjoy!"
Tiddler was stunned. "Colin! Thank you!" Not that she was overwhelmed by the gift of two half ping pong balls but could it be Colin had discovered the meaning of the season?
"I'll just take it out of your pay this week," continued Colin cheerfully. "Merry Christmas!"