Dear Doctor Lily by Monica Dickens

streets. It was tedious work, and often wet and cold. In old movies, newspaper boys hurled rolled-up newspapers from a great distance on to porches and front paths without getting off their bikes. The
Clarion
prided itself on personal delivery. Terry had to get off his bike, trudge to whichever door the customer wanted him to use, ring the bell or knock, wait, sometimes for ever, until somebody opened the door, and hand over the paper with the celebrated
‘Clarion
smile’. If nobody was home, you tucked the paper behind the stormdoor, and if there was no storm door, you put it in a plastic bag and left it on the step.
    It took a long time for not much money, but secretly Terry quite enjoyed the routine and the serious purpose of it. He would not admit that to Eddie, who knew easier ways to get money.
    He had to keep accounts, and have the right amount ready for the
Clarion’s
Mr Frazier, who called every week, counted the money with a face as if he were going to sneeze, and gave Terry his small share, which he often took round to Eddie, to see what they should do with it.
    He had a lot of trouble with Mrs Jukes. She lived with ailing Mr Jukes, who was imprisoned somewhere within and could be heard calling for her feebly and without hope. Their violet-coloured house was fronted by a painfully neat garden, where the stiff bushes stood to even height, like soldiers, and the two square flower-beds had shiny metal edges round them.
    For some reason, Mrs Jukes hated Terry. The first time he rang her bell, she stuck her big ugly purple head out of the back door and snarled, ‘Where’s Randy?’
    â€˜I’m on his route now, ma’am.’
    â€˜Why didn’t the paper tell me?’
    Terry shrugged. ‘How should I know?’
    â€˜Don’t be fresh. And don’t ring the bell again, do you hear? Never. There’s sickness here, whether you care or not. Put the paper in the mailbox.’
    â€˜Suits me.’
    Her mailbox was on a rustic post near the sidewalk. It was made like a little wooden model of her violet home, with her number on the hinged front door. On Friday, there was no money in it. Mr Frazier gave you a hard time if you didn’t collect from everybody, so Terry rang the bell.
    Mrs Jukes raged and stormed. ‘I
told
you,’ etc., etc. Mr Jukes’s voice called very faintly, as if he were bricked up between the walls.
    Terry swallowed and looked at his boots. ‘The money, ma’am.’ He kept his head down. It was raining. Water dripped off the hood of his rubber poncho. ‘I have to collect the money.’
    â€˜Tell the
Clarion
to send me a bill. That’s what they did before.’
    â€˜I don’t know nothing about that. Randy told me you paid him direct.’ ‘But it’s like blood out of a stone,’ Randy had added, ‘and she don’t tip.’
    One Friday, the door of the little mailbox house was swinging on one hinge, and Mrs Jukes swore that Terry had wrecked it. She would get him fired. She’d sue the newspaper. She despised the
Clarion’s
politics anyway. She was going to call Terry’s mother. He was the worst boy she’d ever seen around here. She didn’t want to see his frizzy hair again (rain made Terry’s hair curlier) or his ugly grinning face (he was trying to calm her with the
Clarion
smile). She was cancelling the paper.
    â€˜Suits me,’ Terry said, and ran off without collecting her week’s money.
    When Mr Frazier told him he would have to go back, or pay it himself, Terry folded his arms sullenly and said, ‘No way,’ which upset Mr Frazier, tired, fussed, always in a stew about the paper carriers and their money.
    â€˜Leave her to me,’ Eddie said, when Terry reported all this. ‘I’ll fix Mrs Pukes. Meet me at the corner around seven.’
    When it was dark, Eddie stuffed paper soaked in kerosene into Mrs Jukes’s empty mailbox and set fire to