“Right that’s them all. Will you remember and make sure that you close Mrs Johnstone’s gate properly, so that no dogs go into her garden……Oh and remember to push my paper all the way through the letterbox, so it isn’t obvious that no-one is in.” Old Caroline was on one of her usual rants, and it was my aim to get out of the paper-shop and on to my bike quickly as possible.

“Okay” I mumbled in response. I had only been awake for about five minutes and I wanted her to stop talking so I could think straight. I picked up the shiny blue bag of newspapers and pulled the black and white stripy strap over my left shoulder - noticing that it was a little heavier than usual. It must have been the free Euro ’96 supplement they were giving out with all the Sunday papers this week. As I made my way towards the front door of the shop I smiled at Lucy who was stacking batteries behind the counter. Earlier she told me that she had been feeling poorly the night before and the bell on the door was making her headache worse. I turned and smiled again as I pulled the door open.

Every Sunday I delivered newspapers to most of the large housing estate in which I lived. Smithton. An out of town development gone badly wrong. Why and when it had first been built I didn’t know, but these days it was predominantly full of working class families, single parents and drug-addicts. The main area of the estate and the location of the newspaper shop, Smithton Park, was by far the largest and the worst. A dense block of horrible smoke grey council houses and unkept gardens surrounding a small dilapidated primary school. I lived up the hill and across the main road from Smithton Park, in the street right at the top of the estate, whose inhabitants were slightly better off and more civilised than those halfway down the hill. For such an undesirable location, the view from my bedroom window was breathtaking. To the right I could see all the way across the Moray Firth and onto the Black Isle, which had the imposing figure of Ben Wyvis looking over it. If the weather was clear and it was dark I could see several little clusters of streetlights on the coast of the Black Isle, pockets of life in small villages scattered throughout the night. To the left I could see some of the features of Inverness in the gaps between the rooftops across the road. The bright orange brickwork of Raigmore Hospital and the Kessock Bridge stretching across the Moray Firth to the north. It was in neither of these places that my paper run started. I was fortunate enough not to have any customers at all from Smithton Park. I thought it sensible to leave my own street until last so that I could finish on my own doorstep. My first few customers lived in the area to the bottom of the estate, a more modern addition to the development. The houses there were all orange semi-detached houses with back and front gardens, they were all owned by their occupants too, who were readers of broadsheet newspapers – the only ones on my round. Every Sunday I followed the same path from the shop down to the main road and into this street to deliver a few copies of The Sunday Times and the Observer. This also made sense as I was getting rid of the heaviest papers first, making the rest of the cycle less of an effort. Upon completing my deliveries at the bottom street the boring part of the round was over, no-one in the street ever came out to the door for a chat or even to say good morning. But I knew that my next customer, Mrs Gray would, for if there was a morning that she wasn’t waiting at the door for me arriving I would have thought something was wrong.

Mrs Gray didn’t exactly live in my estate; she lived a few minutes down a single track farm road towards Inverness. I knew the little access road well; it was the quickest way to cycle into town from where I lived. It would be the quickest way by car too if it wasn’t for the locked gate under the railway bridge about half a mile in.  I used the route every day to cycle into town to school and on some winter mornings it would be pitch black and icy the whole way into the city. This June morning it was fine, even though it was only just after nine the sun was so hot I had left the house in just a T-shirt. Mrs Gray lived just before the railway bridge that passed over the little road. Her large house was on the left side; on the right side of the path was a green sea of farmer’s fields that reached all the way onto the edge of the city centre.

I cycled up the loose gravel path to the house, finding it difficult to pedal with the tyres getting so little purchase on the surface. The old lady’s horse was right up against the fence beside the path, so I slowed down and moved towards the animal. I’d never been fond of horses and hated the idea of ever getting on one, but this horse was old, tired, and friendly so I stopped for a while to stroke it.

“I’d let you give him a treat, but he’s just been fed.” Mrs Gray had heard me coming up the path and had come out onto the porch. She was a widow and lived alone in her massive house. As well as being old and frail, Mrs Gray was blind (I have to explain, a local friend visited on a Sunday for lunch, and to read her the newspapers). I laid down my bike at the bottom of the steps and made my way up on to the porch. As I handed over the News of the World and the Sunday Mail I was given a packet of pickled onion monster munch in return. This ritual had taken place every week since I strarted my paper round and even to this day I could never figure out quite how Mrs Gray had managed to pluck the same flavour from the multipack every week. Maybe it was a bizzare coincidence, or perhaps in her blindness Mrs Gray had acquired a sixth sense. We had the usual conversation about the weather and schoolwork and horses, before the old lady announced that she probably shouldn’t keep me all day.

“O.k., thanks again, see you next week.” Just like she did every week Mrs Gray stood on the porch and waved down the path until I was gone. I cycled full speed back along the farm road hopefully gaining enough momentum to make the climb up the hill to my street easier. I could have taken a shortcut up the small path in the trees to the right of the road, but I knew that in this heat the small wooded footpath would be nothing more than a cloud of flies and midgies. The hill up the road was fairly steep and by the time I reached the top I was sweating again, but at least I was nearly home and just had the customers in my own street left to deliver to. Although my blue Press and Journal bag was still more than half full of papers this part of the run was the easiest and by far the quickest.

I stopped at number 2 to deliver another Sunday mail. The lady who lived in the little bungalow at the bottom of my street had never come to the door, and always paid for her papers in the shop. She also lived alone, and due to the way that she dressed and acted all the kids in our street believed that she was a witch. There was constantly an army of cats gathered in her untidy garden. Catwoman or ‘the witch’ they called her. Nobody knew whether they were hers or not. She always left her house dressed all in black except for a pair of bright red socks into which she had tucked her trousers. My mum had assured me that she wasn’t a witch and that we shouldn’t be so silly, but I wasn’t so sure. I lived at number 26 and delivered to most of the even numbered houses before my own.

The guy who lived at 22 was no older than 20, and was the only customer on my round who ordered the Sunday Sport. Paul Henry was his name, and everytime I went to collect his money he would invite me in to his mother’s house for a while. It was well known by our neighbours that Henry was a troubled individual. He had taken a drugs overdose a couple of years ago and attempted to kill himself by jumping off the Kessock bridge but to me this meant nothing. He often gave me a tip, usually in the form of a can or a CD which I was to bring back the next week after I had listened to it. I liked the way that Paul Henry spoke to me as if I was an adult, and I also admired the brutal honesty in all of his anecdotes. I posted the Sunday Sport through the letterbox along with Second Coming by the Stone Roses, which had been by far the best album he had given me a loan of so far. The riffs and guitar solos on the album had sounded far fresher than the American grunge I had been listening to at the time, and left me hungry for more of the same. After hearing the CD case drop onto the floor I turned around and returned to my bike. A few more houses up at the end of the street and then I was finished and could go home. The last house before mine was usually where I stopped the longest. The house that belonged to Mr Green.

Like many of the older customers on my round Mr Green too lived alone. He was a tall man with thin grey hair, and always looked remarkably clean and smart. I wasn’t sure what had happened to his wife, and had never been bold enough to ask. Mr Green knew my mum fairly well, so it was always fine for me to go into his house on a Sunday morning for a cup of tea. As I sat in the soft brown chair in the elderly man’s living room he would tell me all sorts of stories. He had a son who was in his early twenties and was travelling around the world with the navy. At this point in time he was in Kosovo, the Irag of its day. The old man would show me letters from his son, and proudly point to the photos of the young uniformed soldier that were on display all over the house. Even though I had never met him, I knew more about Mr Green junior that I did his father. The pride that the old man had for his son was clearly the most important thing in his life, and Mr Green spoke about the future as if he was going to live forever.

“When Brian gets back from overseas, and if your parents allow it, I’ll ask him to take you down to the new football stadium to see Caley play. You’d like that. Brian loves his football. Every time he writes he asks how his teams are getting on.” I nodded. This was the latest of a string of nice gestures by Mr Green. Just as he did every week Mr Green pressed a shiny pound coin into my hand as I was leaving.

 

*****

 

I put down the telephone. The news from my mother about Mr Green’s recent death had shocked me. I hadn’t thought about any of these people in years. My own life was unfolding in a different city and I hadn’t the time to think a great deal about the past. Maybe the overwhelming lack of hope in the old council housing estate had repressed the memories. As I sat there mentally retracing my old Sunday paper round I thought about how old Mrs Gray was coping, and whether she still stood on her farmhouse doorstep every Sunday morning, armed with a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch, waiting for the paperboy to arrive. I also spared a thought for Paul Henry, and promised myself that I would look out my copy of Second Coming and have a listen, for old times sake.