Postal Glory - Hark, thy Saviour!

Chantal Schaul, 2009

'Oh God’, thought Philatella, as the last thirty years’ Christmas number one hits wafted from the radio, 'what are we to do now? Our source of money has dried up, and it’s nearly Christmas.’ She rubbed her ripe belly. Another one about to pop out very soon.

Philatella was a devout Christian and had thought of herself as happy up to this point. She had five children, and another one on the way. To mirror her fondness of God, she had chosen religiously inspired names for all of them. From the eldest to the youngest, they were called: Theophile, Benedict, Maria-Magdabelle, Boniface-Bob and Mother-Theresa. As God had so evidently wanted it, they had all been born on Christmas Day, one every year. And the next one was due in a few days.

Philatella’s husband, Severin, was a hard-working man. By profession, he was a tree surgeon. He was out and about every day, sometimes even at weekends, and did what he could for the local trees. Sadly, most of the time he was told to cut them down, as they were too sick to survive and too lethal to be allowed to stand up on their crumbling foundations. Severin was far happier when he could patch the trees up, fill their holes and cavities with a secret mix that is only known to the tree surgeons of this world.

Just as much as Severin loved his job, as long at it involved some degree of tree-healing, Philatella was extremely passionate about what had always been her hobby, her favourite pastime, her art: collecting stamps and transforming them into meaningful collages. She needed a lot of stamps, of course, and this involved asking all her friends to cut out the stamps from all the envelopes they ever received in the post. But even these charitable stamp-giving activities weren’t enough for Philatella’s frenzied collage-making. She often had to get embroiled in criminal activity in order to feed her art. In the darkness of the night, she would raid post boxes and remove the stamps of not yet delivered post. As she was not a harm-doer, she would always replace the stamps with forgeries of her own. No postperson had ever doubted the autenticity of her extremely convincing replicas, which had always guaranteed the happy delivery of the item to which they were attached.

However, even though Philatella’s merry art-making seemed simple and god-given, there was one very clear-cut pre-requisite to it: time. Philatella’s children had to be fed, changed, dressed, occupied, amused, occasionally hugged, kissed and stroked; in short: taken care of. How could she ever put a single sticky stamp to paper if the action was sabotaged by, say, Boniface-Bob demanding some raisins and stamping his feet? And how easily could her train of thought be disrupted by Mother-Theresa needing the potty, or else increasing the laundry load. There were, in fact, a whole legion of demands that promised to cut short even the slightest excursion of the mind: leaky nappies, spilt juice, dismantlement of the Christmas tree, snotty nose trails on the sofa, accidental head bashings and finger crushings, in addition to nursing the frequent ailments and illnesses that children get during the winter months. No, art-making and child-rearing were definitely not compatible.

In the name of her stamp-collages and sanity, Philatella had long ago taken the necessary steps to provide her with a regular child-free environment. She had chosen a trio of nuns, Sisters Agatha, Fanny and Meredith, who were also experts at nannying. They looked after her children in the most educational and entertaining way thought possible at that point in pedagogical advances. The nuns were devoted to both God and little people, and indeed performed a marvellous job. They took the children to exciting playgroups, fascinating swimming pools, magnificent playgrounds, all the while teaching them literacy and numeracy, as if it were a mere game.

These nannying provisions, however wonderful they were, did not fail to go hand in hand with some susbstantial costs. But Philatella had, years ago, devised a most cunning way of procuring the much needed money. She raided her church’s collection sack on a weekly basis. She would always sit towards the end of the trail that the collection sack took. It was a green velvety thing, held open by a metal ring and attached to a short wooden pole. The choir boys, following traditional procedures, would never let the sack stray from its time-honoured path. Philatella, by the choice of her position on the pew, would make sure that the money sack reached her at exactly the second when 'Agnus Dei’ was sung. Thanks to the horrendously shrill voice of one singer called Griseldotta, the entire congregation would then flinch and shut their eyes for a short moment, perhaps as a substitute for shutting their ears. This split second was enough for Philatella to pour the entire contents of the collection sack into the safe haven of her skirts. She would then innocently pass the sack to the next churchgoer and sit with clenched legs until after the service, when the church was empty and it was an easy feat to finally move the cash from lap to handbag.

This harmless act of money collecting, as Philatella though of it (for was she not using the money for its intended charitable purpose?) got her through the years with her growing children. She could lose herself in her stamp collage-making and tackle ever more complex designs, while she was reassured that her children were having a wonderful time with the Sisters. The only disruptions occurred at Christmas time, when she was too pregnant to go on stamp raids, and too exhausted to stick stamps on her canvases. Then there were the actual births, which were tiring to say the least, and the disrupted nights that tore every last bit of creativity out of her for a while. Come spring, however, Philatella was back to normal, albeit mildly pregnant by then. But she could function fine.

Severin was pleased that his wife could happily potter around to her heart’s content and create her charming postal collages. He was satisfied that his children were thriving under the hands of the capable nuns. Who was he to question where the necessary money came from? He trusted his wife and all her actions. She was the godlier one of the two and she would never commit a deed that was unjustified in the eyes of God. No, Severin could lay his head in peace.

And then the terrible day came, not long before Christmas. The house had been prepared for the holy occasion and the Christmas tree was twinkling in all its glory. Like every year, the nuns had instructed the children to build a nativity scene and a manger to go under the tree. They had also made garlands that were swaying below the ceilings in every room. The windows were decorated in fake snow and glittery painted stars. On the more medical side, Philatella’s birthing pool was sitting in the corner of their bedroom, ready to be inflated by Severin. Piles of plastic and sheets lay in wait for the happy event. The Moses basket stood proudly next to their marital bed, clean and primed.

When Philatella was sitting through the church service that day, poised to unleash the flood of collected coins into her lap, she had to suddenly stop herself when she realised with utter horror that Griseldotta’s ear-piercing singing voice was no longer ear-piercing. It had been replaced by the most harmonious and melodious voice imaginable. The whole congregation drew a breath of pure pleasure as they listened to the mesmerising twinkling of musical notes which were now emerging from that lady’s throat. Philatella sailed the green sack upright and passed it on to her pew neighbour with faltering heart.

'What happened to Griseldotta?’ she gasped.
'Haven’t you heard?’ whispered Bertha, a local farmer’s wife. 'She swallowed a fish bone and needed an operation on her throat. She had stitches put in, and this is what happened.’ She undulated her hand through the air to replicate the intoxicating sounds. 'She’s a diva now, she is.’

Philatella swallowed hard. A diva, and her ruin. Her head was spinning. She barely heard the words that Father Rasplecorn uttered between asthmatic breaths. She only just took in his praise for the unusual generosity of the congregation in today’s collection, and how the spirit of Christianity had led them to donate so oppulently in the days leading up to Christmas. How this hadn’t happened for years, and the tide of the parish was turning. Philatella sighed.

Back at home, she was faced with the weekly bill for the nuns. It was impossible to pay. Her thoughts reeled but found nowhere to focus.

'Severin?’ she whimpered.
'Yes, dear?’ he said with concern, looking up from his “Secrets of a Tree Surgeon” book.
'We have run out of money.’ She looked at him imploringly.
'Oh.’ He scratched his chin. 'And we have bills to pay?’
'Yes, the nuns’.’
Severin scratched his chin some more. 'I could try and get some contract work. Maybe do some rope climbing. Not many who are keen on that. I saw some lofty fungus and parasite removal work advertised recently. Or I could even do night shifts for some extra cash.’
Philatella shook her head sadly. 'No, Severin, I don’t want you to take such big risks, especially just before Poppet-Joan is born. A dead father won’t do.’
Severin nodded. 'I suppose we’ll have to take care of the children ourselves then.’
Philatella’s eyes started to water. 'That means I will have to do it, and give up my stamp collages, because you will have to go out and make money. How can I be happy without my art?’
Severin looked at the floor. 'I’m sorry my darling. I can’t think of a better solution. Perhaps we should stop, you know, having children.’
Philatella burst into free-flowing tears. 'But Severin, how? Using contraceptives is a deadly sin, you know that. No, no, no, I will find the money somewhere, I will!’

Philatella ran up to their bedroom and lay on the bed. A number of ideas floated through her head and were dismissed again. She could rob a bank, but that was too risky. She could run an online fraudulent slimming pills website, but she had no clue about technology. She could sell herself on the street, but that was a deadly sin, too, and would only lead to more children. She felt trapped and decided to go for a walk.

The village had been blanketed in snow a few days ago and the odd snowflake was still twirling from the sky. The clouds were darkening for more icy deluges. Light chains spiraled around countless trees and bushes in people’s gardens. The postman was collecting the overspilling post from the letter box, not realising that all the stamps had been replaced by forgeries during the previous night. How ironic that during a time where stamps came in copious abundances, Philatella was driven to abandoning her hobby.

Having dragged herself back home again, Philatella sat in her workshop and admired her collages up on the wall. How colourful they were. And how worth every minute she had spent on piecing them together.

Theophile, now almost six years old, came into the room.
'Mummy, we’ve been baking mince pies. Would you like one?’
Only now Philatella became aware of a delicious warm aroma wafting through the house. 'Yes, Theophile, that would be nice.’

The boy fetched the pie and snuck a look at his mother’s collages. Her workshop was normally off-limits for the children. 'They’re pretty,’ he said.
Philatella smiled, munching her mince pie. She was about to reply when she was gripped by a contraction so severe that it doubled her up. 'That’s too early,’ she croaked when it was over, 'it’s not Christmas yet. Poppet-Joan, what are you doing?’

Theophile knew the deal and ran for help. His father had to be called from out of a dense hedge that he was pruning. Even on a Sunday he worked. The midwife was called; the birthing pool was inflated; sheets were laid out. Sitting on the edge of the bustling bedroom, Philatella endured the contractions that seemed to tear her asunder. While the water was being poured into the pool and the hot water tank emptied prematurely, she dilated and heaved and pushed, and just as the midwife’s car door banged, Poppet-Joan arrived on the floor.

And while Philatella expelled the placenta and got on with cleaning herself up to feed the baby, Sisters Agatha, Fanny and Meredith came cooing over the newborn, as yet unaware of their impending redundancy.
'How sweet, and how she looks just like her mother’, said Sister Meredith.
'And what a lovely little nose, just like her father’s’, added Sister Agatha.
'Let me stroke her downy hair, finer than stardust’, chirped Sister Fanny.

Meanwhile, in a different place of the land, Griseldotta was recording her first album. Befitting the festive season, it was a Christmas album, called “Once upon a Star”. Spurned on by her ambitious nephew Rudolph, Griseldotta had competed in a talent show the previous night, and won. The audience had scorned her at first, for she was only an old spinster in a cardingan. But the divinity of her voice was such that the public had lain at her feet as soon as she uttered her first melodious syllable. After the show, record label executives had been standing in line to sign her up. She was so flattered that she had grabbed the closest pen.

“Once upon a Star” became a best-seller over-night. By Christmas Eve, when Philatella was still recovering from the birth but already receding into the depths of sleep-deprivation, “Once upon a Star” had topped the charts and was now constantly playing on the radio, as if to remind Philatella of her loss. The nuns had been sacked, at a time when they were most needed, and Severin was minding the children.

It was then that, unexpectedly, Father Rasplecorn paid a visit, with a miserable looking Griseldotta in tow.
'What a sweet little thing,’ Griseldotta peeped, poking the infant’s cheek. 'Oh how lovely it must be to be a mother.’ Her eyes watered.
Father Rasplethorn blessed the baby and said between abrasive breaths: 'Philatella, I have brought Griseldotta to see the baby because I thought it might cheer her up.’
Griseldotta smiled, embarrassed. 'I hope you don’t mind.’
Philatella was confused. 'But why would you need cheering up? You have a wonderful voice now, and you must be making millions.’
Griseldotta burst into violent sobs. 'I hate it,’ she managed to say.
Father Rasplecorn elaborated: 'Her record label boss wants her to go on tour. She would find that intolerable.’
'I only went on that show because my nephew Rudolph so wanted me to. He loves those talent shows. Silly me signed something that says I have to go on tour for three years. But I just want to stay at home.’ She sobbed some more. 'All I ever wanted is to have babies and look after them, but I never even found a man.’ Griseldotta was so upset that she buried her face in her hands and cried heart-breakingly.
'Oh,’ whispered Philatella, 'I never knew. But I do know what it feels like to have to abandon what makes you most happy.’ She pondered for a moment. 'Perhaps we could help each other,’ she said.

Father Rasplecorn nervously looked at his watch for the tenth time and got to his feet. 'I’m afraid, I have to leave you to it now. I must get back to my choir boys’ Christmas money collection training session.’ With those words, he swiftly left.

'How would you feel about looking after other people’s children?’ Philatella asked carefully.
Griseldotta answered despondently: 'I’d love to, but what mother would willingly give her children to a stranger if she can enjoy them herself? I could work in an orphanage, I suppose, but they’re always so heart-breaking.’
Philatella grabbed her chance: 'I am looking for some childcare, actually. The only thing is that I can’t afford to pay for it,’ she added quickly. 'What I need, really, is a charity nanny.’
Griseldotta’s eyes shone. 'If this is an offer, I would be so happy to spend my days with your children. Oh, but-’ she looked aghast, 'the blasted tour! I have to leave tomorrow!’

The two women were thunderstruck both at their sudden compatibility, and at the immediate devastation of their budding bridges.
Crushed, Philatella ventured: 'Do you think there’s any way of getting out of that deal with the record boss?’
Griseldotta shook her head sadly: 'I’m afraid, I’m at a complete loss. I have pleaded and begged, but this man is as immovable as a concrete wall.’

Poppet-Joan ruffled her limbs and emitted a deafening scream. She was hungry. Philatella rapidly stifled her cries by stuffing the tip of an overflowing breast into her mouth. If only her own problems could be solved that easily.

Torrents of tears falling freely down her face, Griseldotta left the mother and baby and went back to her own empty house.

Christmas Day arrived, and with it five children’s birthday celebrations. Severin had done his best to prepare food, presents and a party, but compared to recent years where the nuns had worked their magic, the celebrations went less smoothly. The turkey was over-roast, the Brussels sprouts undercooked, the gifts mislabeled. Despite all its failings, the day was a joyous one and the children had lots of fun. Apart from Theophile, who was old enough to get an inkling that something was amiss, none of the other children noticed Philatella’s despondency.

The entire family went to church that day; even Poppet-Joan was dragged along in a sling. Because Griseldotta was so famous now, people were queueing to see her sing; the press was there, and even some TV reporters. The pews were packed with strangers, so that Philatella and her family had to squash into a space that could only have accommodated three bums, snugly, at that. The aisles were dense with a standing crowd, as vertical as strung together parcels of asparagus.

Father Rasplecorn rose to the challenge of his increased audience. He preached beautifully and thought-provokingly about the admirable layout of the new life-sized Nativity scene in his church, and why the shepherds had to face this way, and not that.

After some more preaching and then prayers it was time for Christmas carols. The organ started up, the singers sucked their first gulp of breath. The seated congregation sat back in their seats and closed their eyes, awaiting the heavenly tunes. The standing crowd held hands and swayed gently. But, traumatically and inconceivably, what struck their ears was the most screechingly high-pitched and off-key singing voice they had ever heard. The sound was so unpleasantly strident that everyone bolted upright and froze. At first they thought there was a technical problem; perhaps a speaker had reverberated. But the locals soon knew. After the initial shock had abated, they recognised the woman who had just jabbed their hearing so painfully. It was Griseldotta.

There was a whispered 'sorry’ from the choir, and then a short silence. The singing restarted, but without Griseldotta’s contribution. Whispers went through the thinning crowds. By the time the service was over, the pews had become comfortably spacious again. Only the curious and the press were standing outside the church when the locals finally came out. Griseldotta would have to provide an explanation. The press jumped on her as soon as she was spotted.

She said innocently: 'I’m mortified, my voice has gone.’ That was all the press could get out of her. They dropped her like a hot potato and drove off. She was of no more interest to them now.

Griseldotta spotted Philatella amongst the congregation crowd and waved at her. 'I can be your nanny now,’ she beamed.
Philatella ran over to her. 'What happened?’ she whispered.
'You know I was so desperate to get out of my contract with the record label boss. So I fiddled with my throat a little bit last night. I put in a crocheting needle to loosen the stitches, or at least move them around a teensy weensy. I actually think I did a bit too much,’ she chuckled.
It felt like Philatella’s deepest wishes had come true, even though she felt terrible about the price Griseldotta had chosen to pay. She had an obligation towards her now, which she fulfilled on that same day. Griseldotta was invited to be a nanny on a full-time basis.

The last part of that Christmas Day was ecstatically cheerful. Snowflakes danced across the frosty window panes as Griseldotta simultaneously prepared an evening buffet and looked lovingly after the six children. After the delicious bites had been consumed, she somehow managed to clear up, do the washing up, change nappies where necessary, and put all the children to bed, all at the same time. Philatella and Severin, for the first time in years, were free to share an armchair and whisper sweet nothings to one another.

As time went on, Griseldotta continued to perform her duties wonderfully and conscientiously. She never lost patience, or ran out of energy, or even felt bored with the repetitiveness of her tasks. The children loved her and affectionately called her 'Aunty Dotta’.

Philatella was able to pursue her creations in stamp collages to her heart’s content and there was no need for Severin to do night shifts or perform audacious tree surgery stunts high above the ground. Life got even better when Theophile gradually discovered a passion for stamp collages himself, and started to accompany his mother on nightly post box raids. He became her apprentice in stamp forgery-making, as well as collage-fabricating.

In just a few years, Philatella built up a reputation and all her exhibitions sold out. She made a name for herself internationally, and many, many artists tried to imitate her techniques, but never succeeded. Theophile, on the other hand, started his own line in postal collages, specialising in air mail stickers. No one ever rivaled his methods either, though they never failed to try.

When Griseldotta died at the ripe age of ninety-seven, she had successfully raised Philatella’s seventeen children almost single-handedly, and thought of herself as the most fulfilled woman in the entire world. Equally, Philatella never had any regrets about the nanny arrangement they had struck on that fruitful Christmas Day.