Daniel, The Telegram Messenger Boy

A Xmas tail with Phoebe and Mags Worthington.

“ Madam,  Daniel is at the door with an urgent despatch for you.”

“ Find him a shilling Cook dear : after all  it is the season of good will.” replied Madam.

Dame Katrina Ogilvy’s ample hind quarters rose from the fur-lined settee like a buffalo that had just finished grazing on the American prairies. She uttered a long, deep, penetrating sigh. Madam’s ritual at weekends in the period before luncheon was to relax in the splendour  of the morning room.

She had been reading but had dozed off  in front of the open grate  beside a blazing coal fire : she and embers humming arias from Verdi.

The script composition  the great soprano was browsing was   Il Trovatore  for a New Year review being planned by her great friend, and Venetian expatriate, Alexander Biagi. The concert was  to mark an anniversary of the piece first being performed at the Tor di Nona in Rome in January  1853. 

As Dame Katrina had risen the loose copy of the finest Italian libretto by Francesco Maria Piave,  Verdi’s life-long friend and collaborator came flying off her lap. The pages glided like paper aeroplanes across the room in several directions,   accelerated by a measurable gust of wind created as Katrina got up in haste on hearing the news of a telegram.

Cook’s head and shoulders appeared from the hallway, poking through door as if there was no actual body attached to them.

“Very well Madam. I may even be able to find him some pirozhky; I have made an enormous tray of them this morning to be consumed later at for our tea and supper and into the holidays. I’ll see to Daniel.  It will give you time to compose a reply if I feed the boy. ”

Cook thought to herself… “He  is looking so dreadfully undernourished again, just so much like I witnessed the peasants in the borders of the Ukraine when I was running away from the Bolshevists in 1927. ”

“Oh Cook, Cook your own wonderful  pirozhky,   I thought I could smell the magical aroma of apples and honey cooking together.   Pirozhky : a marriage of tastes made in heaven.  Just like  my beloved Verdi and  Piave. ”

Daniel doffed his cap on seeing Madam arrive in the hallway. He followed this with a sort of mime of the word “Mam”. This was delivered as politely as the good public servant that he always was could muster,  on duty or not.  Daniel was tall, thin, and although pale he was handsome, with brownie blond hair. His voice had a element of the local accent,  more Pimlico than Belgravia, yet it was pleasant to the ear of the listener.  He then uttered a more confident greeting.

 “ Good Morning Mam”.  And he bowed as if you was going to dance the waltz .

Madam acknowledged the boy’s courtesies and sincerity.

“ Well, well, Daniel,  Halleluiah :  I trust you bring us all glad tidings of great joy, this day and for ever more.”

Daniel had no idea that Madam was attempting a little, topical, joke.  But once again he responded as politely as he thought appropriate.   He was used to Madam teasing him from time to time, sizing him up; she had once asked him to sing a note as he delivered his telegram in the hallway at the Mews. Madam had then commented:

“ Well, well, a singing telegram boy.  You have a  brave voice,  young man, you are definitely musical.”

Madam had not finished her interrogations :

“ Let me see your hands.” she asked, like a  request from a nurse.

Daniel did as he was told.

“ You do not have the hands of a clerk, you must study boy…I shall see to it. ”

To Madam’s pleasant surprise Daniel revealed that he had learned to read music when he was aged 7, and he could play the violin and the piano.

“You should be trained, dear boy, or  the gift will leave you, or you will be at best mediocre.” .

Daniel didn’t have a clue what mediocre meant, but he was worried about the word “ trained “. That sounded too much like his Post Office training course. On this he had been “sweated” as other generations of boy-messengers before him.  He had been trained physically, mentally and morally and made to appreciate that if he worked hard, he could secure a permanent position.

He thought  it  unlikely he’d ever want to leave the Post Office and take up singing for a living.   He was earning 25/- a week and Mr Raymond his supervisor had said he could earn extras from tips. All the telegram boys pooled their tips, Mr Raymond was the pool Manager and he took a share of the proceeds, for administration he called it! Mr Raymond had started as a telegram message boy and made his way up to sorter, then postman and inspector and now managed all the telegram message boys in the whole of  SW1. 

“The sky is the limit  for anyone who reaches the hallowed rank of being the area postmaster. ” he told Daniel, as if to inspire him to reach this position.

Cook could see that Madam was beginning to hog Daniel’s attention. She pounced  on the telegram boy and ushered him into her kitchen lair, but he knew the way.  He delivered upwards of  two or three telegrams a week to the “The Big Lady who sings” .  Often the number of telegrams topped 30 something when Dame Katrina Ogilivy sang in a concert  in London at the Albert or Wigmore  Halls or the Coliseum or Sadler’s Wells.  She had fans and admirers all over the world.  

“You know, Cook,  you spoil that boy.  Last week I swear I  saw you sewing on one of his buttons on his jacket and mending a rip in his coat  .”  Madam was half grinning as she uttered these words.

Cook grinned back, but stood her ground.

“Well, they must be smart at all times wearing as they do the uniform of the Tsar, they are under an obligation to conduct themselves in a manner which shall never bring that uniform into disrepute.  ”

“ The King,  you mean  the King,  Cook.”  

It was as though Cook was reminiscing again of battles fought much further afield than on that  particular time and place and setting in  the relative safety of Central London in 1949.

“ But, besides that Madam,  he has such a  gentle smile. Boys of his age are always losing buttons from their garments, catching their coats on loose nails on doors and gates and of course they are ALWAYS ravenously hungry.”

Phoebe had witnessed the proceedings from a stairwell, she was another secret admirer of Daniel. But she was also worried.

“Oh dear”, she thought “Not a telegram.”

Phoebe had shivered as if she was sitting on an ice pack  at hearing Daniel’s unmistakable knock on the door. He had his own special rat-tat-tat, it was different from the usual day callers. Mr Russell and Mrs Walker were trades people who came to see Cook, as  did Chris the gardener. Their knocks were more of a rat tat.

Rupert D Jones, a Welsh tenor, who was also a part-time detective, that Madam used to make enquiries called once a month, with his “ action reports”.  There was also a collection of professional turns, acts, friends and associates that passed through the Mews often in the presence of  Lana, who had a more tat-tat-tat-tat on the front door.

Lana was the stage manager of Dame Katrina’s touring company, Caledonian Opera. Other  members of the company on regular call were Cissie and Dollie Curl-Up (  “ladies of pleasure ”  ) who lived at Windsor;   James Ally ( who had once been a Catholic priest );  Alan Braybentos ( a Brazilian gigolo );  Dorothy Leach-Winning ( an elocutionist, and part-time mathematician);     Sally Ann Riband ( often called “Blue”), and the  Dodos  (  a husband and wife singing duo whose real surname was Dodecanese).     

To discuss contracts and the business end of things Lana visited twice a week, when Madam was in residence at the Mews.  Otherwise the nitty gritty of running the company was dealt with as they toured around.

Then there were Madam’s frequent “ celebrity guests callers ”….Some were always welcome like young Felix Ogilvy the motor racing driver. He had brought his charming lady friend Bella Nola to the Mews, others out stayed themselves, as with Dame Sheba Gingers.  There had been an unforgettable visits that year by Caroline Du Barry, the romance fiction writer, by Madam’s publisher Sutton Hastie-Miller, her spiritual advisor  Rev Anthony Willy-Gass,  her lawyer Richard Whittington, and  by  Bobby and Babs McTooth of Greenock, who had been involved in tracking down Phoebe’s lost children.

Madam‘s grin was transformed into a more serious looking type of demeanour. She retrieved the telegram. Cook could see Madam was unsettled.

“ I hope it’s not another engagement, Madam,  not now when you desperately want to have some holiday time with the girls.  You have not had a Xmas together for  many years. You are always working, Madam”

All the commotion of the telegram being received at the Mews and the banter between Madam, Cook and Vincent had awoken Mags who was snuggled up in the tiny vestibule in Cook’s living quarters.  She knew Daniel’s voice immediately; he always had an affectionate word and sometimes  played games with her, when he was waiting to take back a reply from this VIP customer to her respective respondents.  

Mags knew that Phoebe would have been close at hand to superintend the scenes

in the hallway. 

Phoebe was  planning to follow Madam back into the morning room. Before Phoebe could complete her plan Mags was on the war-path looking for answers.

“Phoebe, Phoebe, Who is the telegram from? Is Madam going to have to work? I mean not again, not this Xmas again?  Tell me darling, please tell me….  ?”

 Mags sounded anxious and depressed.   She was so looking forward to spending this Xmas as a family, with those whom she loved and who loved her.  

Phoebe had no idea who had sent the telegram. Madam had failed to open it right away.  What was she playing at, why hadn’t she mentioned anything about expecting a telegram.

Cook saw the girls were showing signs of stress.

“ Come on, you two, we’ll hear the nature of the news soon enough.”

“ You take the kitchen Mags,  Daniel is still in there , munching,  he may tell Cook what’s in the telegram.”

“ Does he know, Phoebe?

“Of course he knows.!”

“ But is it proper for him to divulge its contents?”

“ No, I don’t suppose it is, really.  Yes, he could get into serious trouble. ”

We don’t want that, do we?  Tell you what : I’ll go into the morning room and look at Madam’s facial expressions, as she reads the telegram to herself. You know she can’t hide anything from me, I’ll know if she’s leaving us for a Xmas show.  She’ll not look me in the eye.  But if it’s a venue that has gaming tables, you know what she’ll do.   We’ll rendezvous back here in 5 minutes, is that understood Mags?”

Mags nodded in the affirmative,  took a large intake of  breath inside her lungs and made for the kitchen.

“ Hello Mags”, said Daniel with the most perfect emphasis of her name. He always knew her apart from her sister Phoebe.

“ Did I wake you up with my telegram, Mags love?  Please forgive me sweetheart.”

Daniel had lost no time tucking into the boundless treats laid on for him, including   pumpkin oladi,  tvorog – with two small bottles of TommyVile’s ginger beer to wash things down; Cook had a pen pal called Cecilia who sent these bottles in crates from Monmouthshire in Wales.   Cecilia owed Cook her life,  she was also a  refugee from  tyranny in Europe.  

Both Madam and Cook had taken almost a maternal  interest in the boy, Daniel. He had been coming to the Mews  with his messages for over a year.  Unlike many of his fellow workers who had advanced to motor cycles, Daniel delivered his assortment of good and bad news on a pedal-bike.  Some firms received telegrams every hour, to inform them of stock market prices,  sports fixtures and results, and news about the weather and all the latest happenings overseas.

Daniel was kept very busy and as there were wars going on in Asia and the Middle East, there was still a stream of “ We are sorry to inform you telegrams ”  Daniel delighted in having 10 minutes in Cook’s warm kitchen, especially as this winter there had been greatly reduced temperatures.   Cook had knitted him a  pair of gloves for Xmas, and she also had a box for him from Dame Katrina which had a pair of fur lined boots inside, good enough to be taken on a polar expedition.  

“ You must take care Daniel as you move around the streets; the London traffic is so heavy now and the fog and frost is so slow at clearing away at this time of year.”

Mags added her own support to Cook’s representations for the welfare of the good looking boy who even whistled sometimes, which always endeared itself to Mags’  heart.

On several occasions Daniel had given Mags a ride on his bike around the garden.

Mags was fearless, unlike Phoebe she didn’t mind fun, but not when it was dangerous and she thought Mags riding a bike was not only dangerous, it was absurd.

Mags clean forgot why she was sent by Phoebe into the kitchen. The telegram, the telegram…and she had forgotten to report back to Phoebe.

Daniel had something to tell Cook. He didn’t  like telling her. He had come to appreciate not only the kindnesses of   “the  nice foreign lady ” on his rounds he called “Cookie “.  But, he felt good inside realising that the people at the Mews actually cared  for him,  his feelings for them were identical.       

Daniel had grown up in a Dr Barnardo’s  home,   he had virtually no family,  and lived in simple lodgings at a centre owned by the Post Office,  in  dormitory style accommodation  he shared with three other lads.

“ Next week, Cookie,  I’m  getting my brand spanking new BSA 125cc motorcycle. I’m so excited, all the other chaps at the depot have them, now I’m 17, I can have one too.  I’ll be able to deliver my telegrams much more quickly.”

“ Oh my boy, you will be very careful, wont, you?”

Cook always thought the worst was going to happen to those she was  fond of;  this was bourne out of experience on what befall her family in Russia. She promised to say a little prayer for Daniel when she next attended Church that week.

Meanwhile,  in the morning room, Phoebe had posted herself under an easy chair.

 Madam was pacing up and down, shaking the telegram. She had a tiny notion  who the sender of the telegram was likely to be. She suspected the small brown envelope carried the news she was waiting to receive to seal her plans for Xmas.

She opened it up the envelope as carefully as if it contained the verdict in a  capital murder case at the Old Bailey. 

“ Yes, oh Yes”,  she cried out excitedly.  I must write the reply immediately.”

This was done, it was short :  She read it aloud…

“ Cousin Effy : The girls and I will arrive on Saturday, in time for Xmas Eve.  Love and Hundreds of  Kisses  Katrina O.”

“ That will do very nicely ”, thought Madam, feeling as pleased as if she had been handed the largest bouquet of flowers  in the whole length and breadth of Covent Garden market.

Phoebe knew everything now. She would still act as if she was surprised when Madam gave out her news. She must find Mags and tell her to take up a strategic position awaiting Madam’s announcement….and to also act surprised…..

“Cook, Cook,  ” cried Madam out loudly,  as well as ringing a bell she had agreed with Cook she’d use for household  announcements, which was to be better than shouting, but she always forgot.  

“ Here  Cook, is the repy for Daniel., if have you finished molly cuddling him. ”

Madam looked around  to see where the girls were, It was just past 10 o’clock.

She had caught sight of Phoebe earlier on the stairs, but Mags had not been seen that morning.

In her excitement she had not seen Phoebe in the morning room watch her opening the telegram and compose the  reply.

By now Phoebe had caught up with Mags.

The girls had the run of the house they could stray into a upwards of  half a dozen nooks and crannies.

“ Remember Mags ” cautioned Phoebe.  “ Act surprised. ”

“Girls! oh girls!”  cried Madam, as loud as the opera singer could afford to shout without putting a strain on her most precious asset, her  voice.

“ Phoebe…Mags…where are you girls?   Come to Mama ”

Cook overheard Madam’s declaration.

“Madam,  remember you must not stretch your voice…”

“ You too Cook, this concerns you too my dear, dear friend.”

Cook was  keen to hear of the contents of the telegram: 

Phoebe arrived at that moment looking as innocent as a nun closely followed by Mags who just looked like herself.

Both were aware of the importance of the telegram…. 

“Such splendid news, Cook, girls, oh girls  we have all been invited to Murdie for Xmas and New Year. We’re off to Bonnie Scotland to stay as guests of  my sweetest cousin,  Effy Ogilvy. ”

Cook raised a half smile, Phoebe and Mags looked surprised. All three were old hams at pretending.

“ Let’s celebrate, have luncheon,  then we must pack. We’ll need warm clothes. ” announced Madam.  “ Scotland is rather nippy.”

Cook  was not looking forward to going to Auld Murdie Castle. For one thing she abhorred the housekeeper there, named  Bella.  Rumours were that she was a Communist :  Bella was also a plain cook.   To keep the peace,  especially as Bella had known Madam since she was a child, Cook would hold her tongue, but it was not going to be easy.

Mags remembered Auld Murdie Castle very well; sometimes she thought she had the memory of a elephant rather than a cat.  Murdie was where she had come face to face with a dragon. She knew too if she wanted sardines for tea there this time, she’d need to pull off another similar act of bravery.

Phoebe was relieved they were all spending Xmas together. She found a quiet spot near the fire in the morning room, lay down and just  purred and purred.

Next Tail - A  Brave Wee Moose, Aboot Auld Murdie  Hoose

How Phoebe, Mags, Madam and Cook spent Xmas !

Out Soon!

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