Joe

Joe is peeling potatoes. He fancies a bit of veggie pie for supper; he is working on some fine looking Maris Peers that he’s grown from a bag that he bought in his local supermarket. Growing potatoes seems like magic to Joe, and the whole process brings him pleasure. The shop-bought potatoes had sprouted nicely, sitting on the window sill in egg boxes. He still uses the tried-and-tested trench method his grandad showed him years ago, and this year’s crop has been excellent. Lots of sunshine and not too much rain in the Spring has brought them on a treat. The peas and carrots have also been grown in his vegetable patch at the end of the garden. He  shelled the peas earlier (a job that always takes twice as long as he imagines) and now he cuts the carrots into coins, ready for the veggie version of shepherd’s pie. Joe has been vegetarian long before it was hip. He doesn’t mind others eating meat if he is out with friends and family, but he can’t abide the “veggier than thou” antics from fellow vegetarians who manage to turn a pleasant lunch at a gastro pub into the Spanish inquisition. “And nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition”, he chuckles to himself, “Isn’t that right, Jack?” Jack looks up for a moment, and then continues with her snooze. Who cares if the raspberries are locally grown or if the avocados are organic? There’s enough conflict in the world, Joe thinks, without adding to it for no good reason. He puts the vegetables on to boil and turns on the radio in time for The Archers.

Joe retired from his job at the post office four years ago. He’d been an ordinary postman in the beginning, working his suburban patch on a bicycle with the post bag slung over his shoulder, out in all weathers delivering on behalf of Her Majesty’s Royal Mail. Over the years, the uniform (mercifully) became much more suited to the job, but the work remained pretty much the same. He’d been offered roles at the sorting centre in town, but he was content to carry on as an ordinary postie, happy to take on the more rural routes out of town when the opportunity came up. He thought of himself as a bit like “Postman Pat” but without the black-and-white cat. Instead, he’s always had a Jack Russell for company on his rounds. There have been four dogs over the years - always Jack Russells and always called Jack. The latest version (Jacqueline) is sitting in his dog basket, looking at Joe sideways. “OK, Jack, old girl, I’ll get supper in the oven, and then we’ll go for a walk.” Joe has discovered that there is nothing better than a terrier to keep him fit and healthy. These little dogs have seemingly endless reserves of energy and would go walkies every hour given the chance. 

As he mashes the potatoes, he wonders about getting away for a few days in October - the Lake District perhaps? He’s fond of the walks around Buttermere and Crummock Water: even their names are warm and inviting, despite the weather being anything but. He could find himself a homely bed-and-breakfast, somewhere that is dog-friendly, but gives the guests privacy. Nothing worse than those B&Bs where the owners exhaust you with their constant questions and chit-chat about the weather. Actually, there is, thinks Joe: those places where guests are seated at a round table and expected to make polite conversation over their Rice Krispies and boiled eggs. He shudders at the memory. 

With the dish safely in the oven, Joe takes Jack’s lead from the hook beside the fridge. The little dog needs no further invitation, and is soon snuffling at the back door waiting to be set free. Joe and Jack make a good team: both are past their prime, but both still have a spring in their steps and like to walk at a brisk pace. The evening is on the chilly side for late August, with long, low clouds that threaten rain in the night. Joe’s tied cottage is on the outskirts of the village along a single-track road that has long been ignored by most of the traffic since the by-pass was built. His usual route is along the lane to the farmhouse - a couple miles there and back, enough time for his pie to get that lovely golden brown colour. He lets Jack off her lead, since her rabbit-chasing days are long gone, and she prefers to trot a couple of paces in front of Joe, looking back from time to time to makes sure he’s still there. The lane is quiet, and Joe has time to think as he walks along, hands behind his back like Prince Phillip. As he walks, he wonders about the choices he has made over the years. 

He was married - briefly - to a girl he had known at school. Alas, they had married too young, and as they got older they had grown apart. They had started out well: a modest wedding at the local Methodist church followed by a reception in the church hall and a week in the Lake District on honeymoon. But it soon became clear that his wife - Anna - had wanted more than Joe knew how to offer. She’d wanted him to go for promotions, to get his sights on a better paid position in the Post Office; to earn some good money so that they could afford a nice detached house rather than their two-up-two-down terrace. Anna had a job at the local supermarket, working on the tills, but was putting in for a Supervisor’s role. 

Joe didn’t know what to make of it all. He’d always been a placid, reserved soul, happy with his job as a postman, contented to lead a quiet life, minding his own business. He felt that his work was important, that ensuring people’s post was delivered efficiently and on time was a worthwhile occupation. It meant something. And outside work, he’d always enjoyed his garden, especially growing vegetables. Anna wasn’t much interested in gardening, preferring to spend her weekends reading magazines or watching TV.  At the start, of course, they’d barely had two pennies to rub together, but they had enjoyed making their small house into a comfortable home. As time went on, Anna was more and more discontented: it wasn’t enough to be the wife of a postman, and she left him for one of the managers at the supermarket. Joe was devastated, but he put his life back together bit by bit. The garden had been a sanctuary for him: as he dug over the soil and planted his vegetables he felt that he had purpose, that he was creating something worthwhile. It was at this time that he got his first Jack Russell from a friend, at the Post Office, Tom, whose pet had just produced a litter. 

Joe smiles as he thinks back to that first puppy: both of them helpless, both alone, both trying to find their way in the world on wobbly legs. Joe quickly learned how to cook, adding new recipes to his repertoire as the months went by. Jack kept him company, and his need for constant exercise meant that Joe had no time to sit on the sofa and wallow in self pity. Tom was a lot like Joe in many ways: quiet and unassuming, content with his Post Office job and good at it. Unlike Joe, he wasn’t much of a gardener: reading was his passion, and he could always be found in the staff canteen with a sandwich in one hand and a paperback in the other. He didn’t say much when Joe told him that Anna had left, but it wasn’t long before Tom suggested Joe should take one of the puppies to keep him company. Joe is so grateful that he took him up on the offer.

Joe waits for Jacqueline to do her “business”; she is fussy about this, and refuses to pee if anyone is watching, so Jack turns his back politely and surveys the landscape. The wheat has been harvested, and the huge cylindrical bales look like huge discarded cotton reels. The breeze is picking up a little and Jack kicks her hind legs out to signal that she is finished, scuffing up bits of grass and dead leaves. Joe smiles down at her as she bustles ahead, sniffing the air, her stump of a tail wagging. Joe wonders how Tom is getting along now that he is retired. He moved away years ago, but they’ve continued to exchange Christmas cards over the years. He knows Tom’s wife died a couple of years back - breast cancer, was it? Wicked, wicked disease, thinks Joe as he recalls his mother dying from the same affliction. Perhaps he should give Tom a call - he reckons he has a telephone number for him somewhere. They could even meet up and reminisce about their time at the Post Office. Having reached the farmhouse, Joe and Jack turn on their heels and return home. 

When they arrive home, Joe puts on the kettle for a cup of tea and sorts out Jack’s supper, before dishing up his own. Jack doesn’t seem too fussed about her food, but that’s not unusual - she’s a picky eater and will turf her little button nose at any food that does not meet her standards. The veggie pie is delicious: cooked to perfection and just the ticket after a long walk. After clearing up the dishes, Joe decides to look for Tom’s phone number. His address book is full of scraps of paper and bits of Christmas cards, but he soon finds what he’s looking for. He gives Tom a call. 

Tom is delighted to hear from his old pal, and they chat back and forth for a good forty minutes about how retirement is treating them. Tom has been volunteering at his local library over the summer, and has enjoyed helping the library assistants re-shelve the books and organise the children’s story-telling sessions. He tells Joe that he’s thinking about taking a short break in October, just to get a change of scenery and do a bit of walking: he no longer has a dog, but he still enjoys his daily constitutional. Joe has an idea: perhaps these old codgers should get together and spend a few days in the Lake District - a few gentle strolls around the lakes and hearty pub suppers in the evenings? Tom agrees. Joe puts down the phone and logs on to his computer to look up timetables for Keswick.