by Michael Bloor
[first published in Literally Stories, November 10th 2025]
I’d dropped into the Gordon Arms the other night, expecting to watch my team in a death-or-glory relegation struggle on the pub’s sports channel. Instead, they were screening some jaw-cracking yawn of a European game (how could you ever get excited about a team called ‘Borussia Mönchengladbach’?). I was just about to drain my pint and head home, when I recognised a familiar big red face grinning at me from a table in the corner. It was Willie the Postie, now retired, who I hadn’t seen for a couple of years. So I bought us a couple of pints and we settled down for a catch-up.
We moved swiftly through the obligatory Hymn of Praise to Retirement, Willie’s arthritis, my operation and sale of the cottage. And, with only a bit of encouragement from me, we progressed to Willie’s stories about his old postal round. In rural Aberdeenshire, the postie is a jack-of-all-trades: social worker, emergency plumber and electrician, and most importantly, the bearer of all local news. He told me some fine tales that night, most of which I’d heard from him previously, but they’d lost little in the re-telling. And like the artist he is, Willie saved the strangest til last: the time he found the road blocked at the Waterside Humpbacked Bridge…
#
Mr and Mrs Forbes, who had the Auchencriff Ironmonger’s shop on the High Street, were heading off to her niece’s wedding in neighbouring Strathblae. They set off early because her niece had asked her to deliver the wedding cake to the reception, the cake having been newly-completed in the Auchencriff Bakers. Apparently, the cake was a big, heavy, multi-tiered affair, a confectionery master-work. Mrs Forbes settled herself in the passenger seat, Mr Forbes carefully passed it through the open door to her. And they set off, with her clutching it firmly in her lap.
All was well til they approached the ancient single-lane bridge over the Blaewater at Waterside. The milk lorry was also heading for the bridge, in the opposite direction, making for Todlaw farm to empty their milk tank. Because of the steep hump in the bridge, the Forbes’ car was temporarily hidden from the lorry-driver’s view. The driver assumed that the car had given way for him. But that was not the case…
They met at the apex of the hump. It was not a high-speed crash, though the Forbes’ bumper did get rather tangled underneath that of the lorry. What made it so tragic was that the crash impact set off the Forbes’ airbags.
Willie arrived in his postie van, just as Mr Forbes was getting out of his car. ‘Jim Forbes didna’ look too bad: he only had some smears doon his left shoulder and some bits o’ marzipan in his hair. He wiz just collateral damage. He walked round the back o’ the car to open the passenger door fur his wife. I got oot the van to see if I could help; so did the guy in the milk lorry. Jim opened the door, but Mrs Forbes was a wee while gettin’ oot.
Lookin’ into the car, I wiznae surprised at the delay: it was awfy difficult to tell what was her, what was airbag, and what was cake. Once we got her oot and standin’ there, I was lost fur words, we all were. What a stramash! I couldna’ believe that one cake could do so much damage. It was on her shoes, her stockings, her dress, her face – everywhere except her wee wedding hat with a feather. She just stood there, mute.
And she never did say a word, puir thing, til I was putting her and Jim in the back o’ my van to take ’em back to Auchencriff. She just said: ‘I must look an awfy sight, Willie.’
#
Willie shook his head at the memory and went up to the bar to get us a couple of whiskies to round off the evening. When he came back to the table, he said: ‘Did ye know, that I wiz a fireman in Huntly afore I wiz a postie? Aye, I jacked in the Fire Service because I was scunnered with attending all the road crashes on that A96. Truth to tell, I had nightmares about one or two o’ those crashes.’
We clinked glassed and drank. Willie gazed into his glass and then looked across to me: ‘ And it’s a strange thing, but after I attended that Waterside-Humpbacked-Bridge-Cake-Disaster, those A96 nightmares completely stopped. The picture o’ puir Mrs Forbes plastered with confectionery had driven all those blood-splattered A96 car crashes right oot o’ my mind.’