my arm and I have to stand at the edge of the River Shannon so that the whole world won’t see the tears of a man the day he’s fourteen. Monday morning I’m up early to wash my face and flatten my hair with water and spit.The Abbot sees me in my new clothes. Jaysus, he says, is it gettin’ married you are? and goes back to sleep. Mrs. O’Connell, the fat woman, says,Well, well, aren’t we the height of fashion, and the thin one, Miss Barry, says, Did you rob a bank on the weekend? and there’s a great laugh from the telegram boys sitting on the bench along the wall. I’m told to sit at the end of the bench and wait for my turn to go out with telegrams. Some telegram boys in uniforms are the permanent ones who took the exam.They can stay in the post office forever if they like, take the next exam for postman and then the one for clerk that lets them work inside selling stamps and money orders behind the counter downstairs.The post office gives permanent boys big waterproof capes for the bad weather and they get two weeks holiday every year. Every- one says these are good jobs,steady and pensionable and respectable,and if you get a job like this you never have to worry again in your whole life, so you don’t. Temporary telegram boys are not allowed to stay in the job beyond the age of sixteen.There are no uniforms, no holidays, the pay is less, and if you stay out sick a day you can be fired. No excuses.There are no waterproof capes. Bring your own raincoat or dodge the raindrops. Mrs. O’Connell calls me to her desk to give me a black leather belt and pouch. She says there’s a great shortage of bicycles so I’ll have to walk my first batch of telegrams. I’m to go to the farthest address first, work my way back, and don’t take all day. She’s long enough in the post office to know how long it takes to deliver six telegrams even by foot. I’m not to be stopping in pubs or bookies or even home for a cup of tea and if I do I’ll be found out. I’m not to be stopping in chapels to say a prayer. If I have to pray do it on the hoof or on the bicycle. If it rains pay no attention. Deliver the telegrams and don’t be a sissy. One telegram is addressed to Mrs. Clohessy of Arthur’s Quay and that couldn’t be anyone but Paddy’s mother. 311