Although I didn’t write down the date when we talked (and I’m kicking myself for it, now), I’ve had a nagging feeling that you said you were planning to come for your quick recce to Wharfedale today (the 21st). Given that I haven’t seen you, I’m presuming that either you didn’t make it to Burley Cross after all, or that you’ve happened across somewhere you think Mr Booth will prefer in Ilkley itself (although the noise will be a factor there, I can assure you, especially at the weekend. And if you’re seduced by the apparent grandeur of The Railway Hotel – and it does look grand on paper – be assured that the central heating groans like a wounded heifer, every night, without fail, from 3 a.m. onwards).
Did I see a small advert in the latest edition of the Wharfedale Gazette saying Mr Booth would be ‘appearing’ upstairs at the Middleton Theatre on the nights of the 6th and 7th of January 2007? I think I possibly did. Well, I quickly checked our diary, and both Dragon Tree (which is at the top of the house – very private) and Juneberry are currently free for those nights (although Juneberry is booked for the 3rd, 4th and 5th by a regular couple who come every year, Mandarin on the 2nd and 3rd for some German honeymooners, then again on the 9th for local celebrity Frank K. Nebraska’s mother-in-law – a lovely American lady, extremely cultured and affable, who always stays with us when she’s in the UK visiting her daughter, Kizzy).
Obviously breakfast is usually served between the hours of 7 and 9 a.m., but in the case of Mr Booth (and yourself) I would be willing to extend that time-frame until 10 (you said he would be ‘drained’ by the performance, although I remember you didn’t like to call it a ‘performance’. I can’t exactly recollect the word you preferred to use instead; it began with an e, I think. Was it ‘evocation’? No. It was something else. Something slightly more abstruse…
That’s it! I just asked Robin, who was wandering past in a terrible bate because a guest has cheekily purloined the crossword section from his Sunday Times: the amanuensis! Starts with an a! Silly me! Kind of like a secretary taking down notes from dictation, Robin said.)
After seeing the advert in the Gazette (will they be doing an interview with Mr Booth? Photographs? If so, I’m very happy to free up my spacious back conservatory for the press. It’s huge; Victorian; iron and glass, extremely beautiful and ornate, wonderfully ‘atmospheric’, full of fruit trees and a plethora of exotic palms) I idly mentioned my fascinating conversation with you to Wincey Hawkes at The Old Oak.
Robin and I had popped in there for a quick drink on Tuesday (bridge night, although the saloon bar where we usually prefer to sit is still presently closed after a small ‘contretemps’ with a local biker gang brought on by an abandoned darts tournament!), and she said you’d spoken to her, too (a couple of days after our conversation, I believe). Obviously we’re all rather excited about the idea of having a famous psychic staying in the village (or ‘a practitioner of the Esoteric Sciences’, as I believe Mr Booth prefers to be known!).
Wincey runs a tight ship at The Old Oak, but I think it only fair to warn you that since the death of her late husband (Marmaduke Hawkes – or ‘Duke’ as we all knew him), she’s been struggling somewhat to keep her head above water there.
Duke (I know, curious name for a Yorkshireman, but apparently it was common in these parts in the eighteenth century, and it’d been handed down through the male line of his family for years. Robin says – he’s just wandered back past again, still searching! – it comes from Maelmaedoc or ‘servant of St Maedoc’ who was a famous Irish ‘religious’ at that time) had instituted a number of improvements to the pub (extending the car park, a new kitchen, a new ‘dining room’ – which isn’t nearly so grand as it sounds!) and was then struck down by a throat cancer halfway through the process.
Duke was an enormous character, born and bred in Burley Cross. Fascinating life. Bit of an action adventure hero, really. He worked for years as a bare-knuckle fighter, then joined the Foreign Legion, went AWOL, returned to the UK, became a nightclub bouncer, which is where he met Wincey, at a place in Newcastle, where she was employed as a hostess (all completely above board, mind! This was the 1970s!).
Duke was a big man, a real bruiser. Bald as a brush. Huge, red cheeks. Roaring voice. Curiously light on his feet. Did an amazing ‘sand dance’ once he’d had a few. Liked to play a portable harmonium, with his fists, sitting perched on the counter of the saloon bar (to see him hunched over that tiny instrument, pumping away like a maniac, sweat pouring down his face, was truly a sight to conjure with! And he didn’t sound too bad, either, come to that!).
Becoming landlord of The Old Oak was apparently the fulfilment of a childhood dream for Duke whose parents both died young (and virtually destitute). He and Wincey (who’s from Portmeirion, originally) were like a breath of fresh air when they first arrived here (oh, about ten or eleven years ago, now). They took Burley Cross by the scruff of the neck and really shook it up (not that it particularly needed shaking – but there you go!).
Wincey – true to type – has bravely battled on since Duke’s death, but I’m not sure if her heart’s still in it. And she’s managed to become embroiled in a series of fairly rancorous disputes with a cross-section of local pressure groups (her decision to begin accepting coach parties at the pub – which used to be simply a cosy local – has caused a certain amount of ill feeling among some indigens). Not only that, but just at the point when she was starting to shake off her grief and move on – about eighteen months ago – the pub was burgled (completely turned upside down: obscene graffiti, paint trodden into all the new carpets, smashed up half the stock; they even defecated in the kitchen sinks!). I think this was the point at which her confidence took its most serious knock.
As I already said, though, Wincey runs a tight ship (a ghost ship, but a tight ship!), and I’m sure Mr Booth could do worse than to stay there.
I haven’t spoken to Ruth Hitchens at Lumsden’s (Burley Cross’s other so-called ‘quality’ B&B). Ruth is rather a perplexing character. I think she could fairly be described as ‘a bit of a shrew’. Her husband, Wyn, on the other hand, is perfectly wonderful. Very quiet. Fastidiously clean (which is always a bonus in a man!).
Unfortunately he and Ruth have been involved in a complicated legal dispute over Lumsden’s for about four or five years now. They’ve divided the property in half and still run it in tandem, but they never speak. When they do communicate, it’s only by hand signals and curt notes.
If you did speak to Ruth and she ‘idly’ happened to mention the animal crematorium at the bottom of our garden (trust me, this wouldn’t be the first time!), let me assure you that she was only ‘stirring the pot’. The crematorium is in fact just a small, ancient kiln which Robin – employing his entrepreneurial nous – put to use cremating pets when we first moved into Buckden House about twelve-odd years ago. The business never really took off, though, and we generally only use it now for ‘special requests’ on Thursday and Friday afternoons.
For the record, we’ve never run a cat sanctuary here, either. I kept Cornish Rex cats for many years, as did my sister, and my mother. When my sister moved to a flat in Plymouth and my mother passed away, I took on their animals. We had about seven at one point (and three on loan from the vets), but four of those have recently died, and the ones remaining are extremely sedate, far too old to manage the stairs, and chiefly inhabit the basement area.
Robin is actually an inventor, by trade. I don’t doubt that he and Mr Booth would have plenty to talk about. Is Mr Booth into keep fit at all (Robin’s a keen fell runner)? If he is, he will probably be intrigued by the prototype of a pair of shoes Robin has designed which he developed after hearing about a remote Native American tribe whose men run barefoot through mountains, apparently without sustaining any damage to their soles.
The secret to their apparent indomitability (and Robin can explain this so much better than me) is the tiny, almost mincing steps they take. It’s a new way of running which completely eradicates a whole number of sports injuries!
Robin was ‘burned’ once before at the hands of a large corporation, however, and is very suspicious about going into business with people of this ilk. The design has gained an almost ‘mythical’ status amongst the world’s running elite (since it undermines the fundamental logic of all those ‘air support’ shoes), and this has led to a series of threats (by any other name!) being made by these huge corporations against Robin’s reputation and his person.
When I say Robin was ‘burned’ once before, what I mean is that an earlier invention of his – ‘The Key Maker’ – engendered a huge commotion among international car manufacturers. The Key Maker is a small, portable device – a kind of laser, of sorts – which you (i.e. Joe/Josephine Bloggs) can use to gain access to any kind of lock. You simply point The Key Maker into the keyhole and it produces an instant 3D ‘picture’ of the missing key. You then take this ‘picture’ home, plug it into a small box (the size of a breadmaker) and it produces a replacement key, on demand (well, the entire process takes about half an hour, at best).
The car people (and the big insurance companies) were apparently so alarmed by this invention that they put pressure on the British government to gag the manufacture of this device. Not only did Robin have British intelligence on his tail, but members of a series of dangerous gangland fraternities, who were keen to get their hands on The Key Maker to fulfil their own questionable agendas.
Eventually Robin and I were forced into hiding (which meant I was obliged to abandon my promising career as a woman pilot). We destroyed all evidence of the prototype, and came up here, to Burley Cross, where we opened a bed and breakfast.
This move was entirely funded by the sale of another of Robin’s inventions: ‘The Cat Pill Remedy’, which is a remarkable aid to the ‘concerned’ cat owner in feeding prescription medication to fussy felines (and we’ve had a few of these ourselves, over the years!). I won’t bore you with all the details, but the device effectively transforms the prescription medication (whatever its original constitution) into a curious gel (gels really are Robin’s speciality) which can be applied to any part of the cat’s body (apart from the head, obviously!), and the cat will lick it off, immediately.
We have never understood why this invention has never gone into formal production. From what Robin can glean on the internet, the company went into liquidation shortly after it purchased the design but has still fiercely maintained its ownership of the copyright.
Given that Mr Booth is fascinated by ‘the mind’, I imagine that he might be interested in Robin’s wonderful stress-busting device, aka ‘The Heart Beat’, which is a small, iPod-style object (tiny, hand-held screen, earphones etc., very portable) which completely alleviates panic attacks by reproducing a slow heartbeat (aurally, and as a palpable vibration), combined with a special visual graphic pattern which (and I won’t go into all the science, but it’s truly fascinating) automatically bypasses the conscious mind and instructs the unconscious mind to calm down. It can even put those who are especially susceptible into an involuntary trance!
It works within twenty seconds, without fail. The people at NASA have been on the phone twice this week, already. Google (a ‘web engine’) are apparently ‘champing at the bit’ to get hold of it. Apple want to integrate the device into their top-of-the-range mobile phones. It’s all very exciting!
Was Wincey only waxing lyrical when she mentioned that you’d said Mr Booth was actually the by-product of a secret tryst between a prominent individual from the Salvation Army dynasty and one of the legendary Trebors (who I believe invented Extra Strong Mints)? What an utterly intriguing heritage that is!
Robin’s great-great-grandfather actually invented nail polish (although my heritage is singularly unspectacular, I’m afraid)!
As I said on the phone, we would certainly consider reduced rates for Mr Booth (and yourself) on the basis of a small mention in the tour programme…
Do get back to me if you have any other thoughts or queries. Wishing you all the happiness of this wonderful season,
Yours Faithfully,
Brenda Goff
PS Please forgive the awful spelling mistake in the second paragraph of the brochure. That should be ‘can’t’.
PPS The photograph of the entrance hall needs to be updated. It was actually fully retiled in November.
[letter 19]
1, The Old Cavalry Yard
21/12/2006
Hello there, Nina,
I know this must seem a bit strange – me writing you a letter, when you’re sitting at the post office counter not fifty yards down the road from here – it’s just that I’ve been in about five times to try and speak to you, in person, but each time I’ve reached the front of the queue my nerve has gone (and I’ve ended up buying stamps, or airmail letters, or asking stupid questions about my television licence – for the record, I do actually know you don’t need a special licence to watch TV programmes on a computer).
And then there’s always the people waiting in line behind me; gossip spreads like wildfire in this place. Everybody always has their nose stuck into everybody else’s business. I didn’t want you to feel awkward, basically, or to put you on the spot by asking if I could meet up with you, privately, after work – just for a quick drink at The Old Oak or something – in front of… well, Emily Tanner on Monday (which was bad), Jill Harpington on Wednesday (which was pretty bad – she’s thick as thieves with my mother), then Bunny Seymour on Thursday with – drum roll – Sebastian St John directly behind her (classic combination! I might as well have broadcast our imminent exchange from a public Tannoy system!).
The point – if I can actually get to it – is that I really didn’t want anyone to misconstrue my intentions for something they patently aren’t (although, to be perfectly honest with you, Nina, I’m not entirely sure what they are, as it currently stands).
I actually tried bumping into you as you were leaving work on Friday, but you always seem to have somebody with you. I even went so far as to follow your car (in my car – this was about a week ago), in the hope of attracting your attention on the road and getting you to pull over (I’m cringing as I type this – it all sounds so pathetic. It is pathetic! I don’t really know what I was thinking… I guess I wasn’t thinking – not coherently. In fact I probably shouldn’t have told you. You’ll definitely think I’m a freak, now – if you didn’t think it already. You’ll think I’m stalking you or something.
I’m not stalking you, I promise. I’m just… I’m just making a monumental arse out of myself – same as always, I suppose).
Lucky for me (or unlucky for me – I’m not sure which), just as I was pulling out of town (trailing you, in my car, like a psycho) I got hauled over by one of Baxter Thorndyke’s Road Safety Committee monkeys (it was my dad, actually) who gave me a massive, public dressing-down for speeding (I’d barely changed into second gear, but he insisted that I had already reached 50mph. Showed me the reading on his special meter).
This completely freaked me out. I was already feeling a little weird about the whole thing. I mean it isn’t normal to follow someone home in your car just because you’re too socially inadequate to speak to them in public, is it?
(Is it?)
In my own defence (and I don’t deserve defending; what I’m obviously crying out for is a massive, involuntary dose of horse tranquillizer, followed by a few sharp clips about the head), I was beginning to feel kind of desperate. But when they pulled me over (Dad pulled me over, dressed in that ludicrous yellow poncho thing – like some nightmarish, Day-Glo, neo-Nazi – a tragic, mid-life crisis in jack-boots) I suddenly started thinking that perhaps I was behaving irrationally and that I should ju
st leave you the hell alone. (Let sleeping dogs lie. Butt out. Grow a backbone. Stop humiliating myself. Get a hobby: paragliding. Archery. White water rafting. Squash. Needlepoint. Karate. Anything)
I’m well aware of the fact that you have an awful lot on your plate with Glenn at the moment. Is he still very depressed? (Bollocks. Scratch that. ‘Is he still very depressed?!’ What am I thinking?! Of course he’s bloody depressed! He had both feet blown off in a roadside bomb in Iraq for Christ’s sake! Why wouldn’t he be bloody depressed?!)
What I mean to say (and I’m typing this very quickly to try and push through my pain/embarrassment threshold) is that I fully appreciate the fact that you’re under a huge amount of pressure right now, and I really don’t want to add to it. I would never forgive myself if I upset you or made you feel uncomfortable – that’s the last thing in the world I want.
Although as you’re reading this you’re probably just wishing I would sod off. You probably think I’m a pest – a moron. In fact I probably won’t post this thing anyway – it’s just a pile of self-obsessed waffle, the sad and deluded ramblings of a maladjusted, twenty-something half-wit.
Nope. I definitely won’t post this thing. My nerve will go at the last minute – like it did all those other times in that stupid queue…
Glenn was 100 per cent spot-on: I am just a big, myopic dweeb. A turd-brain. A dunderhead.
Oh yes – and while I’m on the subject – I’m really, really sorry about the arm-wrestling thing. I felt terrible about it afterwards. I honestly didn’t think I had a cat’s chance in hell of beating him. His arms are massive (huge! Ridiculous! Like a giant pair of steel hawsers!), and I’m such a puny little bastard by comparison.
But he seemed so determined to go ahead with it – got so, well, aggressive about it. I seriously expected him to thrash me, hands down. But then, when he didn’t, when his wrist started to buckle, I half thought about reducing the pressure on my side, just subtly (to try and give him a break, help him get his breath back. I dunno). But there was this strange look in his eye, Nina – a furious look – kind of like: I might be in this chair, I might’ve lost my legs, I might’ve lost my job, but I still have my self-respect, my dignity (you patronizing little dip-shit). So I didn’t. I mean I tried not to. I just… well. You were there. You saw what happened.
Burley Cross Postbox Theft Page 19