The Telegram Boy

For senior readers they may well remember the telegram method for the fast delivery of important details.

As the telegram was charged by the number of words it contained all telegrams were brief and to the point.

To send a telegram you had to go to the local post office, request a special form, compose the message, have it looked at by the person serving you. Words were counted and the cost to send it worked out. You paid the fee, the massage passed to someone who transmitted it via a telephone wire to the post office closest to who ever it was for. There it arrived and was printed out on a strip of paper this was duly cut into short lengths and stuck to the telegram paper, put into a distinctive sized envelope, given to a person, often a young boy to deliver immediately to the address intended.

To secure the telegram the telegram boy put the telegram into a leather pouch or purse attached to a leather sling  he wore diagonally across the torso. They also wore a post office uniform, dark in colour with a red trim to the edges. Their bicycles were also a bright red and of a sturdy construction. So you see the boy and his image was distinctive. Often boys became post office workers, rising through the ranks in assorted jobs within the Post Office system as was then.

So here is my poem describing one of thousands that were needed in the period of WW2.   It is from my memory of the day he joked on our front door in 1941.

THE TELEGRAM BOY

Standing puffing, he’s only a lad,
What he’d brought he knew was bad,
Red faced, nie exhausted, uniform navy blue,
He’d been told exactly what he should do.

A ‘gram from his pouch he carefully removed,
This was a job he truly loathed,
The words within were few and short,
What news? This young man brought.

Jobs like this he’d done before,
‘Bang, Bang ‘ on a dull front door,
Name spoken; He must be right,
These are words of an awful plight.

A shaking hand; Great apprehension,
An envelope stuck with little tension,
Those eyes he watched, shows disbelief,
So few words… but oh… such grief.

“Shall I call a neighbour? Are you alone?”
Tears now flowing; a gasp; a groan,
MISSING IN ACTION, PRESUMED DEAD. Looked silly,
Those so few words, meant, ‘ Goodbye Billy.’

Once back on bike all painted red,
Clipped up trousers, off he sped,
News in haste was his only task,
Gone forever ; he’s now just an historic mask.

Keith Holt