Burley Cross Postbox Theft

by Nicola Barker

  Donal nearly rolled off his chair laughing when I told him about it – first time he’d cracked a smile in weeks! I was only sorry you wasn’t there yourself…

  Come home soon, kid!

  Merry Christmas,

  God Bless,

  XXX

  Helen

  PS. If what follows looks ominous, at least thank your lucky stars you don’t have to tell Paula Coombes and her mob that the prefab in Lower Field’s just been designated ‘unfit for human habitation’ by the local council. I saw Thorndyke sniffing around it – during one of his infernal ‘rambles’ – not a fortnight since (muttered something to me, in passing, about ‘the strange angle of the chimney’) and now this! I could happily swing for him!

  We all know it’s just tit-for-tat. The little creep’s still filthy with Donal after he got behind Wincey at the public meeting in June.

  Poor old Paula! With her luck, she’ll end up sleeping in’t stables (I know it’s three days afore Christmas, but…).

  Will fill you in on all the gory details over a large (very large) bucket of cheap plonk when you get back…

  XX

  H

  [letter 16]

  ‘Tiddlers’

  The High Street

  Burley Cross

  19th December, 2006

  Hi Prue, darling –

  Seb here. You asked me to keep you up to speed on this year’s BC Auction of Promises, and I must confess – to my eternal shame – that in spite of all my good intentions, I’ve been actively avoiding getting in touch because I’m so deeply, deeply mortified by the horrible way things have been panning out… (In fact this is how bad it’s got, Prue: on Tuesday I spent the entire afternoon sponging down my kitchen blinds – each, individual wooden slat, front and back – with a warm water and vinegar solution, having convinced myself that they were ever so slightly ‘claggy’ to the touch. On Wednesday I lime-washed a perfectly nice chest of drawers. On Thursday I spent hours removing the lime-wash. On Friday I dragged my poor, dear, long-suffering Chloe – who turned fifteen last week – over to the Pet Parlour in Guiseley to get her teeth de-scaled, only to be told by the receptionist – the moment we arrived, and in tones of some astonishment – that she’d just recently had it done, in late August, no less!)

  In short, I’m basically at the end of my tether, Prue. I mean call me naive, or stupid (or both, if the fancy takes you) but I can honestly say that I had no idea when I agreed to take on this precious ‘baby’ of yours that it would be quite so needy, or so demanding – or so badly behaved, for that matter. (The late nights! The early mornings! The ruined meals! And I’ve virtually lost count of the number of times the little tyke’s puked down my shirt!)

  All levity aside, Prue, it’s been an absolute nightmare – a living hell. And I’m not sure if it’s just because I’m relatively new in town, or whether you have some special kind of influence over people here (cue music for The Stepford Wives – original version. Bags I’m the gorgeous Katharine Ross…), but since you left for Olonzac the whole thing has quite literally ‘gone to pot’.

  It’s no exaggeration (well, not much of one) when I say that BC, as it currently stands, is A Village At War. Threats have been made, Prue. Oaths have been forsworn. Dignities have been violated. Boundaries have been drawn, then flagrantly crossed, then painstakingly re-drawn (principally by muggins, here), then flagrantly crossed again.

  I have been obliged (in my role as AOP ‘caretaker’) to transform myself, overnight, into BC’s answer to Kofi Annan (and believe me, the traditional, garishly patterned African tribal tunic is so not my style!). I have put myself on the line, Prue – not just once, or twice, but dozens of times. Yet for all of that, none of the parties involved seems even remotely inclined to either relent or give quarter.

  People are just being so selfish, so vile and pig-headed, that it actually almost beggars belief! I mean this is a charitable endeavour, Prue! I must’ve said it till I’m blue in the face! ‘This is for charity, people! For all those skinny, shoeless little kiddies in the Sudan, remember?!’ But nobody’s listening! I feel like I’m basically just banging my head against a brick wall (or a beautifully reconstituted limestone one, in this particular instance).

  What’s become increasingly – agonizingly – clear to me over the past month or so, Prue, is that I totally lack your natural air of command; your authoritarian edge (I suppose this must be one of the pay-offs for all those years spent nestled deep in the bosom of HM’s Prison Service… Well, that and the great pension allowance. And the dinky little baton. And the fabulous, fabulous uniform…).

  Your name has a measure of gravitas in these parts, Prue – you are respected, admired, even feared – while I, by comparison, am just ‘that skinny, camp antiques dealer who likes to wear spats’ (I overheard Jez Baverstock describing me to Sally Trident with those exact words in the queue for the post office last week! I literally didn’t know where to put myself! Although, on reflection, I suppose I am quite svelte… and the spats are sort of my ‘trademark’ …).

  To cut a long story short, Prue (or shorter, at any rate), I’ve grown so frustrated (not to say disillusioned) with this whole, torrid Promise Auction scenario that I took the liberty of getting Reverend Paul involved (I do hope you won’t be upset by this decision; while I’m relatively new in town, it’s still fairly apparent to me how fiercely different local ‘factions’ like to guard their own particular ‘patch’ – be it social, charitable or ideological – although I like to believe the reverend, as a representative of the Church, is above all that).

  For the record, Paul’s been amazing, a Godsend (an absolute Godsend – an Angel of Mercy, in effect), and has doggedly employed his – not inconsiderable – skills in trying to smooth over some of the stickier disputes and get things back on track.

  It’s early days, though, Prue, early, early days, and, to quote everybody’s favourite poet, Robert Frost: ‘I [still] have promises to keep, and [many – to help the thing scan] miles to go before I sleep…’ (I’m sure a smart cookie like you will realize that my real source of this poetic reference is actually the classic seventies psychological thriller, Telefon, starring Charles Bronson. I’m naturally type-casting Baxter Thorndyke in the Donald Pleasence serial-killer role…).

  On a more positive note (and I think there is a positive note to be found here, although I’m not entirely sure what it sounds like – probably a B flat), the auction itself went off fairly well. As you strongly hinted before you left (and I must admit I thought you were being perhaps a tad paranoid at the time), the aforementioned Thorndyke did try to railroad the whole event by taking to the stage (uninvited) and making a very odd, impromptu (at least I think it was impromptu) fifteen-minute speech about manhole cover theft, which had the overall effect of really shaking some of the more elderly bidders up (I saw at least two of them head for the door, panicked. One of them – that half-Chinese woman from Menston who works part-time at the local shop – almost in tears).

  There really is no getting around the fact that this unplanned intervention of Cllr Thorndyke’s somewhat soured the jolly mood. In the end, the only way we could bring a halt to his impassioned diatribe (the hall was booked till nine – The Burley Cross Players had it after that for early rehearsals of their Passion, which I must confess is going swimmingly. Meredith has finally found her Jesus! He’s from Hebden Bridge, a professional, and unbelievably dishy!) was by turning all the lights off and pretending we’d had a power cut (this was Helen’s idea; she said you’d been obliged to take this course of action before. It did seem quite an effective ruse – although the microphone still continuing to work was something of a giveaway, I suppose…).

  Anyhow, by the time I finally stood up to deliver your little introduction (thanks for that, it really did take the pressure off) the party atmosphere we’d all worked so hard to create – with the free rum punch, the Waitrose party finger-food and the balloons – had been somewhat undermined (although your
joke about the BC Bell Ringers trying to get into the Guinness Book of Records went down a storm; you’ll have to explain it to me properly when you get back).

  That said, Helen was quite the star of the night when she paraded the second ‘promise’ into the hall on a leash. The turkey (a huge, repulsive-looking thing) trotted along beside her like a dog and was incredibly well-behaved (although no prizes for guessing who ended up spending the best part of an hour scrubbing turkey mess from the parquet… Then, on top of that, there was the blasted cleaning bill for Baxter Thorndyke’s corduroy trousers – one of the biggest cheers of the night came when Helen inadvertently allowed the bird to evacuate what seemed like the entire contents of its bowels into his immaculately pressed turn-ups. Of course we offered to cover his dry cleaning costs. He sent me the bill last week: £38! This was almost as much as we raised on the bird itself! And he’s still maintaining that they couldn’t entirely get the stain out!).

  Anyhow, to simplify things for you, I’ve gone to the trouble of breaking all the promises down, individually – in almost forensic detail – so you can get a general idea of where we currently stand (and trust me, it’s no accident that I’ve chosen to employ the language of pathology here!).

  I do hope you won’t judge me too harshly on what you read below, Prue.

  Hugs and Kisses,

  Seb

  PROMISE AUCTION

  19th November, 2006

  FOLLOW-UP REPORT

  LOT 1

  Promise made: Unity Gray of Finches, Lamb’s Green, BC, promised a unique, handmade, patchwork quilt (size, colour etc., to be specified by the purchaser and agreed by mutual consent).

  Purchased by: Catrin and Alan Crawford at Skylarks, Fitzwilliam Street, BC.

  Amount paid: £109

  Upshot: I’m sorry, Prue, but I would need to write a novel to explain the various ramifications of this fraught situation. It involves Catrin’s psychotic second cousin, Lydia May Eardley, and an ill-advised trip she took with Unity (who I believe is teetotal) to The Old Oak on the night of the grand final of the Regional Darts Championships (with players from the local amateur Bingley and Otley darts teams in attendance – most of whom appear to’ve been either Hell’s Angels or members of another, similarly unedifying, satanic, knife-wielding, long-haired, northern biker gang called The Otley Ridgebacks). This aforementioned ‘ill-advised trip’ culminated in the grand final being hijacked – after Lydia May Eardley stole the top Otley player’s replacement flights and wouldn’t give them back. The title was then awarded, by default, to the Bingley team. This shock result (Otley were long-time Champions, and by far the better side) led to the destruction of Wincey’s prized nineteenth-century saloon bar, over £7,625 worth of damage to vehicles in the car park, and the renewal of a savage gang war between Otley and Bingley bikers which had apparently been in abeyance for the past twenty-five-odd years. As yet, no sure resolution has been reached re the quilt, either. Both parties are still feeling too ‘raw’ to meet up.

  LOT 2

  Promise made: Free-range Christmas turkey supplied by Helen and Donal Flint at Sharp Crag Farm.

  Purchased by: Steve Briars at Chevin Cottage, 3 The Beck, BC.

  Amount paid: £40

  Upshot: Well, this is quite a bizarre one, Prue. The particular turkey Mr Briars bought was later stamped to death – in a brutal attack – by an angry horse. The gentle turkey had apparently been put into a field with the high-strung beast in order to try and ‘calm it down’ (although I hear this same animal had already killed a sheep by the same technique!). Helen – Mrs Flint – made the mistake of informing the purchaser of this tragic fact (I rue the day she did this, Prue, but then I suppose that’s just our dear Helen all over, eh? Utterly devoid of artifice, straightforward to the point of bluntness, speaks as she finds, salt of the earth, etc. etc.). Unfortunately, Mr Briars did not take the news well. He is now insisting that the replacement bird – which he’s been up to the farm to inspect – isn’t of the quality of the original one, and has kicked up a fair old stink about it. He is also demanding that ‘some kind of punitive action’ be taken against the horse. (We’re entering the realm of madness, here, surely? I mean what does the man expect?! Fifty lashes? No grooming for a week? A reduction in its nose-bag?!) The horse in question (as you’re doubtless already aware) belongs to Helen Flint’s daughter, Gayle (who’s ballooned in recent months – must’ve put on three stone, at the very least. Is it any wonder the poor nag’s in such a temper?!). So far as I can tell, the replacement bird is an excellent creature, of comparable quality, if slightly less tame (but that’s hardly an issue, is it? He’s intending to eat the thing, not go on a date with it!). Having said that, I’m the first to admit that I’m hardly an expert on turkey flesh (Arts and Crafts furniture, yes, the literary works of A.A. Milne, yes, coins and medals from the Ancient Near East, yes, turkeys, no). On top of all this, we already have that cleaning bill of £38 to factor into the equation.

  LOT 3

  Promise made: Mhairi Callaghan of Feathercuts in Skipton promised a ‘home re-style’ to anybody – of either gender – who felt themselves in need of one.

  Purchased by: Meredith Coles (your dear neighbour) from Flat 4b, The Old Cavalry Yard, The High Street, BC.

  Amount paid: £20

  Upshot: Meredith has actually already had her ‘re-style’ and is pleased as punch with the results – although she went into the salon in Skipton to have it done, rather than getting Mhairi to come to her home (as she generally does) because the ‘look’ she had in mind required both a perm and a tint. I love Meredith to death, Prue (and don’t let anyone dare suggest otherwise!), but I won’t pretend that Mhairi wasn’t somewhat put out that Meredith should demand all of her most time-consuming (and costly!) services while paying her £5 less than she usually does for a standard, basic trim! Ouch!

  LOT 4

  Promise made: Wincey Hawkes at The Old Oak, The High Street, BC, promised a convivial ‘family lunch’ in the pub’s recently refurbished dining rooms.

  Purchased by: Paula Coombes – c/o Sharp Crag Farm, nr BC.

  Amount paid: £10

  Upshot: As I’m sure you can imagine, once Paula put up her hand for this lot nobody else had the heart to bid against her. Wincey hasn’t breathed a word about it herself (isn’t that just Wincey, though? So wonderfully sensitive and discreet?), but I was talking to someone (they shall remain nameless – discretion is my watchword) who happened to be dining in the pub on the day Paula went to claim her promise (okay – you twisted my arm, Prue… God, you’re so good at that! – it was Leonard Noble) and he told me – perfectly aghast – how her ‘mob’ ate poor Wincey out of house and home. He said it put him in mind of the time he was on safari in the Gobi Desert during the early 1970s and met up with a primitive clan of nomads who sacrificed a goat in his honour. Apparently they didn’t waste an inch of the creature, but consumed the entire animal – brain, eyes, ears, hooves, tail… (Do goats even have tails?) He said the Coombes family behaved in a comparable manner, even going so far as to range around the dining rooms like a flock of locusts, devouring leftovers and scraps from other diners’ abandoned plates. He said they licked the crockery clean, and one of them – the littlest – even ate the decorative sprigs of parsley which the fish dishes were served with (and pronounced them ‘delicious’!). Oh yes, and they all talked – with their mouths full – throughout the meal, in unison, without interruption, and at a perfectly deafening volume. Leonard said the dining rooms were all but empty when they arrived and completely empty by the time they left. A uniform success, in other words.

  LOT 5

  Promise made: Nick Endive at 1, The Old Cavalry Yard, The High Street, BC, promised a rare tour of the ‘Space Surveillance Centre’ at RAF Fylingdales (where he is currently employed).

  Purchased by: Nina Springhill, 7 Station Road, Ilkley (or c/o BC PO).

  Amount paid: £45

  Upshot: The tour took place a few weeks back and wa
s accorded a ‘triumph’ by all parties (although I believe there was some difficulty with wheelchair access for Ms Springhill’s disabled beau).

  LOT 6

  Promise made: Tilly Brooks from Threadbare Cottage, The Calls, promised to decorate a piece of white porcelain – of the purchaser’s choice – with one of her (I must say) incredibly beautiful flower paintings.

  Purchased by: PC Roger Topping, 17 Dean Street, Addingham (or c/o Ilkley Police Station).

  Amount paid: £95 (much to Tilly’s blatant horror/embarrassment/astonishment!)

  Upshot: I think this was a good result, overall, Prue. I know it took a huge amount of persuasion (on your part) to get Tilly to agree to auction some of her work, but the demand for it really was quite substantial! We even had a phone vote for this one: Joanna Jones, who resides part-time in BC at the Winter Barn, started the bidding off – from her studio in London – at £50. The bids then went up in £5 increments until, at £90, the phone line suddenly went dead and PC Topping (who turned up – out of breath – halfway through) was able to secure Tilly’s services for himself! Strange man, the PC. Grows on you, over time (rather like a mould, I suppose). Collects Staffordshire figures, you know. He once confided in me that his father – a manic depressive who died by his own hand when poor PC Topping was ‘naught but a lad’ – had worked for a short but blissful interlude as a painter in the Staffordshire Potteries. Some of PC Topping’s most prized pieces were subsequently bequeathed to him in his father’s will. I must confess that he has a surprisingly sophisticated eye for such a huge, apparently gormless lunk of a man. Ms Jones – by the by – is absolutely furious that she missed out. She gave me quite an earful on the subject when we met up, by chance, at Samson’s Electricals in Ilkley the other afternoon (somewhat unnecessary, I felt… I mean am I now to be held responsible for the vagaries of technology on top of everything else?!).