Burley Cross Postbox Theft

by Nicola Barker

  LOT 7

  Promise made: Norma Spoot of 13, The Beck, BC (or c/o Choice Cut’s Butchers, The High Street, BC) promised one of her legendary sponges.

  Purchased by: Jonty Weiss-Quinn at Saxonby Manor.

  Amount paid: £12

  Upshot: Mr Weiss-Quinn bought the cake as a surprise for his wife Rosabella’s birthday (Rosabella wasn’t actually in attendance at the auction), but when Mr Weiss-Quinn confirmed the details with Norma afterwards, he idly let slip that Rosabella was severely gluten intolerant. Poor Norma was utterly horrified! Her ‘legendary’ sponge comes from a recipe that has been in her family for generations. As you will know (probably better than I, Prue), it is soft and light and very, very wheaty (it’s a sponge, for heaven’s sake!). What Mr Weiss-Quinn wanted, in effect, was Norma’s wonderful sponge cake but without its main, constituent ingredient. What he received was a delicious chocolate fridge cake made from dark chocolate, Kirsch, grated almonds and coconut (Norma apparently got the recipe from a gluten-free cake site after several thankless hours spent trawling around on the internet). The ‘sponge’ was delivered to the Manor on Rosabella’s birthday, with due ceremony. Rosabella professed herself ‘delighted’ with it, ate a large, sticky slice and promptly began to gasp (it transpires that Rosabella is also chronically allergic to nuts!). The emergency doctor was called. A buttock-full of anti-histamines/adrenalin was injected. Rosabella’s eyes apparently swelled up ‘like a toad’s’ (the change was almost imperceptible, then. Ho ho!). A weekend trip to London’s Dorchester Hotel was cancelled, and the tickets they’d had booked for Wicked went to waste. (It was Rosabella’s fortieth – I was astonished when I found out. She always looks so effortlessly ‘well-preserved’ I had her down for fifty, at the very least!) The following day a curt card was sent to Norma (via the butcher’s), chastising her for not having informed them, in advance, that such a ‘toxic allergen’ had been ‘thoughtlessly included’ in the cake’s list of ingredients. Norma was understandably furious. ‘I mean what the heck did that pair of gormless idiots think the damn thing was made out of?’(she apparently said afterwards) ‘Gypsy teeth? Fairy eggs? Elf breath?!’ The Weiss-Quinns are now refusing to pay for the cake, ‘out of principle’, and Shayne Spoot, in turn, has unofficially ‘banned’ them from the shop.

  LOT 8

  Promise made: Jeremy Baverstock of The Retreat promised a ‘no-holds-barred’, private guided tour of the legendary dungeons at Saxonby Manor (parties of up to ten people accepted).

  Purchased by: Emily and Duncan Tanner’s son, Ned Tanner (of 3, The Mead, Denby Lane, Fallow Hill) who happened to be visiting his parents in BC on the night of the auction (he’s currently resident in Bradford). It seems his daughter, Cherry (aged seven), is ‘obsessed by Vampires’, and Ned felt it might be useful to try and redirect this (somewhat baroque) fascination of hers in a more traditional, healthy, ‘historical’ direction. Ned is a truly sensitive and wonderful man. It never ceases to amaze me that he managed to turn out so well with such a crazed, hysterical blabber-mouth for a mother.

  Amount paid: £27

  Upshot: What the lovely Mr Jez Baverstock didn’t get around to telling us all was that he had neglected to acquire permission from the Weiss-Quinns for this wonderfully exciting tour of his. Somewhat perplexingly, Mr Jonty Weiss-Quinn was still in attendance at the auction when this lot was being bid for and yet didn’t see fit to save us all from a world of heartache by speaking up on the issue at the time. Instead he phoned Mr Baverstock afterwards and apparently gave him ‘a piece of his mind’ (it would have to be a small piece, Prue, because it’s a tiny mind. Not by any stretch of the imagination could we count Mr Jonty Weiss-Quinn among the world’s ‘intellectual mammoths’ – although he is, on occasion, quite a cunning little swine). Mr Baverstock professed himself ‘somewhat taken aback’ by Mr Weiss-Quinn’s ‘aggressive, not to say uncharitable attitude’. He claimed that he had conducted ‘numerous’ tours of the dungeons during Lady Beatrix Morrison’s long residency at the Manor (she was ‘constantly pestering’ him to do them, apparently, and, when he did, she invariably tagged along on the tour parties herself because she found Mr Baverstock’s ‘fresh, historical perspective so utterly riveting’!). In fact the Weiss-Quinns were so unnecessarily spiteful and hostile towards Mr Baverstock (and his charitable scheme) that his suspicions were aroused and he promptly decided to conduct a small investigation into the matter using ‘a secret “contact” with ready access to the Manor’ (Sally Trident, I’m assuming. Doesn’t she polish their silver?). Using this ‘secret contact’, Mr Baverstock was soon able to discover that the Weiss-Quinns had actually converted the ancient dungeons into a luxury gym and pool room – without acquiring the requisite planning permission!

  Oh-ho!

  So what does Mr Baverstock do? How does he choose to respond to this shocking piece of information? But how else, Prue?! Blackmail, of course! He promises to keep their flagrant act of architectural vandalism under wraps if they, in turn, offer him public support over some convoluted rights of access issue he is currently engaged in relating to his small cottage – The Retreat – which is located inside the Manor’s extensive grounds.

  And how am I privy to this information, Prue? Why, Mr Baverstock told me himself! Bragged about it, no less, when he phoned me up to tell me that the tour was probably off, then airily offered the Tanners a guided walk around the church crypt instead (which – for the record – he hasn’t bothered asking Reverend Paul permission for, either!).

  Ned Tanner has yet to get back to me on the matter.

  LOT 9

  Promise made: Rhona Brooks of Threadbare Cottage promised to put her extensive horticultural skills to work by offering a basic, Winter Garden Overhaul to any resident of BC who felt their garden might currently be in need of one.

  Purchased by: The Jonty Weiss-Quinns at Saxonby Manor (yes, they did have a busy night, Prue. Sorry? What’s that strange and powerful aroma, you wonder? Could it be the pungent stench of Noblesse Oblige, perhaps? Or did someone just tread in a fresh cowpat?).

  Amount paid: £25

  Upshot: God. As soon as I even start to think about this situation, Prue, my blood literally begins to boil. I suppose this is because in the short time I have been living in Burley Cross I have developed a powerful admiration for the senior Ms Brooks, who strikes me as a fair and reasonable sort of female (not unlike yourself). Admittedly there’s always that gruff exterior to contend with (she can be a fearful old battle-axe), but underneath it – I’m convinced – beats the kindest and most Christian of hearts. It is this very Christian heart of hers, I fear, that has allowed the superficially brusque and irascible Ms Brooks to fall prey to a false sense of ‘obligation’ to the Weiss-Quinns (which I feel sure is having a seriously deleterious effect on her physical and psychological well-being). When Ms Brooks promised a Winter Garden Overhaul at the auction, she surely can’t have had any inkling that the garden she would soon feel duty-bound to ‘overhaul’ would be one of over seven and a half acres (possessing 230-odd foot of yew hedges in desperate need of ‘work’). And all this for the princely sum of £25! While I don’t doubt that Ms Brooks’s constitution is relatively robust, she is hardly in the first flush of youth, and I have almost lost count of the number of times that I have chanced to see her in the Manor’s grounds (on my daily perambulations with darling Chloe), perched precariously atop a ladder, brandishing some shears, or trundling home through the village after dark, plainly exhausted, pushing her squeaking wheelbarrow full of tools. I have tried to talk to her about it, but she simply brushes me off. ‘I like to think I’m as good as my word, Mr St John,’ is all she’ll volunteer on the issue. I’ve also had several ‘tête-à-têtes’ with the Weiss-Quinns, but they treat my interference with the standard combination of fastidious hauteur and lofty amusement. ‘Oh, but Rhoda just loves to potter around the grounds all day,’ they say, or – worse still – ‘We’re sure she’d be dreadfully offended if we asked her to s
top before she’s completed the job.’

  For the record: their old, full-time gardener, George Swinbourne, retired in June, after fifty years’ service, without a proper send-off. And they still haven’t forked up the £25 yet.

  LOT 10

  Promise made: Mrs Tirza Parry (widow) at Hursley End, Lamb’s Green, promised a piece of her handmade jewellery to be ‘created, to order’.

  Purchased by: Mr Conan Hopkiss Jnr, 111 Wellington Drive, Denver, Colorado.

  Amount paid: £2,175

  Upshot: Yes, Prue, I know. Utterly, utterly bizarre. But then it gets still stranger!

  All of the promises for the auction were listed (by yourself) on the BC Village website for ten or so days before the auction took place (‘to give people a general idea of the kinds of things that were up for grabs’).

  Towards the end of this ten-day period (just after you left), an email was received, from America, offering £2,175 for Lot 10, sight unseen! Well, initially I thought there must have been some kind of a mistake (I swear I thought she made those awful monstrosities out of Play-Doh!), or that this was simply a cruel prank. So I got back to Mr Hopkiss Jr myself (online) and it transpired that he was a ‘keen collector’ of Mrs Parry’s work and extremely determined that the new ‘piece’ should be his! I didn’t mention this extraordinary communication to anyone, thinking it would be more exciting to announce the bid on the night in front of a live audience. This was a mistake on my part – a big mistake. I made the announcement – to audible gasps (and the odd snigger, naturally) – then was astonished when Mrs Parry stood up on hearing the bidder’s name (and seeing his cheque, which he had already sent, sure in the knowledge that his bid wouldn’t be bettered), declaring that Mr Hopkiss Jr was ‘a pest’, and that it was ‘inconceivable’ that she should make a piece of work for him. She then turned to the assembled mass and asked, ‘Isn’t anybody going to make me a better offer?’ Silence. ‘For a Tirza Parry original?’ she exclaimed (as though perfectly astonished by their reticence). I tried to move things along (as auctioneer) by suggesting to Mrs Parry that we might ‘discuss the issue afterwards’. This we did. Mrs Parry remained adamant. It seems that Mr Conan Hopkiss Jnr has been collecting Mrs Parry’s work for several years, and that his appetite for it is so great that he has effectively ‘hoovered it all up’ from the market – something Mrs Parry seemed to find deeply objectionable. In fact she repeated this phrase – ‘hoovered it all up!’ – with expansive gestures several times in her odd, Bulgarian accent, while stamping her white, cowboy-booted foot (I must confess that I find the woman absolutely terrifying). I asked her if she would just ‘think about it’ for a few days, and reminded her that the auction was ‘for charity, after all’. Her immediate response was to tell me to ‘drop dead’ and then to storm out of the hall! She has refused to speak to me ever since. Twice, she has slammed her door in my face! After the auction I had taken the precaution of giving the cheque to Wincey (our lovely Treasurer) for safekeeping, but as my confidence in bringing Mrs Parry around began to falter I asked for it back (intent on returning it). Wincey then confessed that she had already banked the damn thing, naively believing that Mrs Parry would ‘inevitably feel morally obliged to fulfil her promise’. I have consequently put Reverend Paul on the case (although I don’t hold out much hope – I believe Mrs Parry is a passionate atheist). He has promised to visit Mrs Parry this very evening, so I just hope and pray some good will come out of his intervention.

  LOT 11

  Promise made: Tammy Thorndyke (at The Old Hall), promised a beginner’s course of five private Kundalini Yoga lessons (a type of yoga at which she apparently excels).

  Purchased by: Shoshana Baverstock (at The Retreat) was delighted to buy them.

  Amount paid: £23

  Upshot: I couldn’t really see how this transaction might go awry, Prue (more fool me!). But after only two sessions I had Tammy Thorndyke banging on my door, in floods of tears, late at night (well, some time after nine, at any rate), begging me to think of some way – any way – to get her out of the promise (she even said she would refund Shoshana’s money and contribute a further £23 to the charity herself to make up for the loss). And the reason for this sudden reticence on Tammy’s part? Shoshana’s eczema! Tammy had developed a sudden, extreme horror of it! Apparently Shoshana insisted on doing the sessions in just a bra top and g-string (she would’ve done them nude given half a chance) and Tammy had become increasingly obsessed by the idea that Shoshana was ‘shedding skin’ on her shagpile carpet (‘I’ve tried vacuuming,’ she said, ‘but it just doesn’t feel like it’s nearly enough…’). I explained to Tammy that eczema wasn’t remotely contagious (and Shoshana’s eczema’s hardly that bad, anyhow. I’ve seen her almost naked myself on countless occasions – who hasn’t? – and there’s just the odd rough patch behind her knees and inside her elbows; hardly anything to write home about), but Tammy wouldn’t be convinced. She said the thought of Shoshana’s dead skin becoming ‘embedded in my shagpile’ was making her ‘physically ill’ (she did have quite a deathly pallor). ‘But how on earth are we to get out of this promise without severely hurting Shoshana’s feelings?’ I asked. Tammy didn’t have a clue. After some lengthy consideration, I decided that it might be a good idea if I approached Shoshana personally, telling her that I had heard ‘really great things’ about the health benefits of Kundalini Yoga on a recent repeat of an old episode of Oprah, and that I was ‘desperate’ to try it out for myself, so would she mind terribly if I offered a contribution to the AOP Charity Fund and joined the classes? Oh, and then if – on that basis – we could move the location of the classes from The Old Hall to Tiddlers? (I told Shoshana that this was because I had bad circulation and The Old Hall would be ‘way too draughty’ for me to withstand in my Lycra.) Shoshana promptly responded by telling me that ‘Kundalini Yoga is a huge waste of time’, and that Tammy ‘doesn’t have the first idea how to teach it’. She said she was desperate to get out of the sessions but hated the idea of hurting Tammy’s feelings. So there I was, Prue, stuck between a rock and a hard place. I therefore persisted with my scheme (in the hope of sparing the feelings of both parties), and the next session was duly held in my cramped study at Tiddlers (Friday last): me, resplendent in my yellow striped cycling shorts and cap-sleeved tee struggling to grapple with the many intricacies of the Downward Dog as a small cassette recorder piped out the tinny sounds of trickling water and harp (not an easy union, Prue, believe me). Shoshana made yet another trip to the bathroom and Tammy finished a short lecture on The Importance of The Perineum, relit the strawberry incense, declared feelingly, ‘Without fresh air, even the finest fire dies,’ or ‘No one can love you, unless you love you,’ (I forget which), lay down on her back and commenced a frenzied interlude of Pelvic Bouncing (as I gently averted my tormented eyes). One down, Prue, two to go… May the Sweet Lord have Mercy on my Soul.

  LOT 12

  Promise made: Arthur Wolf of Buck House, Old Woman’s Lane, promised to guide anyone ‘fit, bold or daft enough’ on a hike up Raven’s Peak on Kex Gill (included in this ‘package’ was a short, preparatory climbing lesson at Harehead Quarry).

  Purchased by: Penelope McNeilly of Hawksleigh House, 5 Shortcroft Road, for her niece and nephew (Astrid and Ethan Logan), who are currently resident in BC while their parents are away in London.

  Amount paid: £45

  Upshot: The hike took place a couple of weeks back and was proceeding extremely well (by all accounts) until Mr Wolf chanced to see a Red Setter darting behind some scree at the base of the peak and hared off in hot pursuit of it, leaving the two young ones stranded for over an hour (believe it or not). Arthur had determined that this Setter was the same poor, mad creature that had escaped from a car outside the public toilets and had caused chaos at Saint’s Kennels on Guy Fawkes Night. He claimed that he would ‘recognize the dog anywhere’, since it came from the same litter as his late, much beloved Nell. During his extended absence (according to Astrid
– a lovely girl. Shy. Modest.

  Extraordinarily thin) a sudden, moorland mist came down, then the heavens opened up and the two children were left without rainwear (or refreshment) because Arthur was carrying the rucksack. Ethan has a severe hearing disorder (as you probably know) and is not to get water in his ears at any cost. Both young people were getting drenched and so Astrid made an executive decision to guide her brother home under her own steam (although they later turned up in Hazlewood or Middleton or somewhere equally improbable!). By the time Arthur returned (sans dog) they were nowhere to be seen (obviously). The two of them finally made contact with the McNeillys over five hours later (having borrowed a stranger’s phone to do so). A moorland search and rescue operation was already well under way. The whole thing was, all in all, an absolute bloody catastrophe. Arthur Wolf (for his part) swears that he didn’t leave the kids unattended for more than five minutes, tops, and that during this interlude the weather remained dry – if cloudy. Of course he has insisted on paying the £45 to the charity out of his own pocket, in a pathetic attempt to redeem himself, but I think it’s going to take a little more than that to rebuild the shattered tatters of his reputation, quite frankly.

  LOT 13

  Promise made: BC’s own celebrity folk singer and storyteller: the legendary ‘Little Wren with the Big Whistle’ aka Frank K. Nebraska (as he now prefers to be called) of the beautiful Solstice (formerly Rombald House), Piper’s Ghyll Road, promised an original song to be composed in honour of the purchaser, or an individual of the purchaser’s choice.

  Purchased by: Trevor Ruddle at the Wharfedale Gazette. Amount paid: £475

  Upshot: Oh-ho, I’m saving the best till last, here, Prue. Trevor Ruddle bought the promise with the intention of using it as the main prize in a raffle at his newspaper, the Wharfedale Gazette (while doing a large article on The Little Wren and his recent move to the local area to generate reader interest). He paid a generous amount for it and we were obviously all absolutely delighted at the BCAOPC for the extra publicity this generated for us. The only spanner in the works, I suppose, was that the promise was actually made by Frank K.’s wife, Kizzy Nebraska, not Frank K. himself (who was off on a promotional tour of Japan at the time).