Burley Cross Postbox Theft

by Nicola Barker

  ‘No!’ Lydia May exclaimed (her tone extremely heartfelt). ‘No! I’m not sure it’s an especially good idea! I personally think it’s an awful idea, a terrible idea, but it’s what Catrin wants, I’m afraid. She as good as demanded it. She’s set her dear little heart on it. And anyway – if I can be perfectly honest with you, Laura – the thought of hanging around here, for so much as even a second longer, with that… that thing, that monstrosity…’

  She pointed, grimacing, at the painting of the iguanas (I mean the fruit), emitted a strange, haunting ‘bleat’, then bolted for the door. What else could I really do under the circumstances, Mr Jennings, but quickly retrieve my stick (and my bag, and my book of samples) and clumsily stagger after her?

  So there you have it, Claw: an exhaustive account of exactly how it was that we ended up in the local hostelry that night (and the real reason why I purportedly ‘reeked’ of sherry when we initially arrived there!).

  Of course I had no idea at the time – not an inkling – that the earlier phone call hadn’t been from Catrin at all, but from the secure institution where Lydia May Eardley is usually resident, apologizing for delivering her to the Crawfords’ home a week early (she’d been given special dispensation to attend an engagement party – the one Catrin was collecting that designer dress for) and instructing her – in no uncertain terms, I’m told – to stay put.

  I had no idea at all about any of these things, Mr Jennings. If I had, I would have behaved quite differently, I can assure you, but as it was, I felt compelled to follow Catrin’s strict ‘instructions’ and to accompany Lydia May Eardley to The Old Oak.

  I can see no real point in detailing the series of disturbing events that transpired during our short walk to the pub together, Mr J. Suffice to say that in that brief, 200-yard journey Lydia May climbed a tree, urinated against a wall (standing up! Extraordinary! I could barely believe my own eyes!) and tried to steal a scooter (although she only actually succeeded in knocking the thing over. On to my foot. You will probably have noticed my exaggerated limp when we initially encountered each other).

  I also think it’s important to state, at this pertinent juncture, that I didn’t (as I believe has been suggested by local gossip-mongers), ‘ply Lydia May with alcohol’ when we first arrived at The Old Oak. Quite the contrary, in fact! I didn’t order any drinks at all (intent, as I surely was, on staying there for as short a time as possible!).

  What actually happened when we arrived at the pub was that I instinctively guided Lydia May to the new dining rooms (which were empty that night – as they are most evenings – although the fare there is generally excellent, if a little steep for local budgets), having noted that some kind of function – i.e. your darts comp. – was under way in the saloon bar. I sat her down at a table, gave her a menu to peruse (as a form of distraction) then went off, on my own, to try and locate the elusive Catrin.

  Of course it was naive of me (in the extreme!) to imagine that Lydia May would stay put for any lengthy period of time once I’d abandoned her to her own devices, but I could hardly have conceived of the fact that she would head off to the bar the very instant my back was turned and order four pints of ‘snake-bite’ from the barman there.

  It later transpired, Mr J, that ‘snake-bite’ is not generally sold in The Old Oak. This lethal combination of cider, lager and a dash of blackcurrant cordial (so beloved of ‘ravers’ and ‘Goths’ in the 1980s, I’ve since been told) is considered ‘too dangerous’ to be served in most responsible hostelries. As luck would have it, though, Wincey had a temporary barman working that night who was unfamiliar with the rules of the house, and consequently had no reason to think that it would be a problem to serve this toxic brew.

  I had barely popped my head into the snug, Mr Jennings (then turned around to quickly scan the window seats adjacent to the front entrance), when I espied Lydia May at the bar with four pints of revolting, purplish-brown liquid set out in front of her. I immediately dashed over there (well, as immediately as it was possible for me to dash given the slight injury I had sustained after the accident with the scooter; it later turned out that I had cracked two small bones in my foot!) and tried to intervene, but it was too late. The barman was already engaged in a heated argument with Lydia May about payment for the beverages (Lydia May wasn’t carrying any money with her! He was threatening to throw her out!).

  The barman was absolutely irate (I’m not sure what Lydia May had said to him, just prior to my arrival, but I later heard her snidely referring to him as ‘bunny boy’. You may recall the gentleman in question had unusually protrusive ears). He was so angry, in fact, that I instantly felt compelled to take the edge off the argument by simply settling the bill myself (£10.80, no less!). I told Lydia May to go and sit down, quietly, while I fished around in my bag for my purse.

  Lydia May did as she was asked (a rare occurrence, indeed, Mr Jennings – although she plainly balked at my use of the word ‘quietly’!), grabbing all four glasses in one go (I don’t know if you noticed during your brief encounter with her what an extraordinarily long reach she has – I’m sure she’d be quite a wonder on the keyboard!) and heading for a corner table.

  It was at this moment, I fear, that the die was truly cast for the horrors that were soon to unfold, because on her way to that table, Lydia May bumped into one of your party (on a quick visit to the Gentlemen’s toilets) and her drinks were almost upended during the collision.

  The individual responsible (if he was, indeed, responsible: I believe it was your dear friend – and comrade in arms – ‘Mutley’) apologized politely, but having duly noted that no drink had actually been spilt, reasoned (and quite rightly!), that no real damage had been done.

  I think it would only be fair to say that Lydia May was not of this opinion, Mr Jennings! By the time I came to join her at the table (and she was already halfway through her first pint at this point – and wearing a small foam moustache, into the bargain!) the poor girl had worked herself up into a rare old bate about the incident. This was, after all, the second near-mishap relating to alcohol of the evening (I say ‘near-mishap’, although the first was an actual mishap, and my fault entirely).

  It wasn’t just the little incident with Mutley that set her off, however. A secondary factor was the thudding of the darts against the wall directly adjacent to which we sat. It seems (I have since been informed) that Lydia May has extremely sensitive ears. Loud and sudden noises (except for the ones she makes herself – and she does make such noises, Mr Jennings, and at very regular intervals!) are apparently extremely distressing to her.

  The regular thud of the darts was accompanied by spontaneous cheers of support (from the teams and a small, but enthusiastic, cadre of fans), and the loud and often colourful tally of the caller.

  None of these appeared to improve Lydia May’s irritable mood. To counter her frustrations she ‘took refuge’ in her glass (as so many are wont to do, Mr J!), and I don’t think it was much more than three minutes flat before the first one had been completely drained – to the very last drop!

  I should probably mention that I had taken the precaution (on sitting down at the table) of moving two of the glasses to my side (determined, as I was, to maintain the – frankly, quite laughable – pretence that these had been ordered by Lydia May for my own enjoyment). Every so often I would appear to take a sip from one (although I was only really just touching the revolting concoction to my lips). Even so, Mr Jennings, I quickly began to feel the ‘snake bite’s’ lethal impact (remember, I had already partaken of the earlier sherry, and am completely unused to alcohol in any form).

  Lydia May, meanwhile, was determinedly attacking her second full pint, and loudly holding forth about how green was her ‘favourite colour in the whole world!’ (I don’t know if you noticed or not, but the corner benches in that part of the bar are upholstered in a fine, green velvet plush).

  ‘Green! Green! Oh, I love green!’ she kept saying. ‘Isn’t green the best? Isn’t it jus
t fantastic? Don’t you think green must be God’s favourite colour? I mean if God didn’t love green then why would he have made the grass green? Huh? And plants! And trees! And leaves! Leaves are always green – always! – aren’t they, Laura?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I concurred (fool that I am!). ‘Except in the autumn, of course, when our Dear Lord gently transforms them into a magnificent kaleidoscope of red and orange and yellow and burned ochre…’ (I now hold that my curious urge to wax lyrical about the change of the seasons was at least partially engendered by a perilous combination of nervousness and alcohol.)

  These words had barely left my lips, before Lydia May began to glower at me, ominously. ‘Don’t talk about autumn, you fool!’ she hissed, glancing nervously over her shoulder (although there was only the wall behind her). ‘Autumn’s strictly prohibited! It’s on my miss list!’

  ‘Sorry?’ I stuttered, lifting a tentative hand to wipe a fleck of her spit from my chin. ‘Your…?’

  ‘My miss list,’ she reiterated. ‘Miss! Mis-take! Mis-chance! Misconduct! Mis-demeanour! My miss list! You mustn’t say it, Laura! It’s one of the bad words. It’s one of the words that makes me very angry. In fact I am angry, right now, simply because you’ve said it – simply because you brought it up! And having to explain it to you like this – and saying it myself, rehearsing it, again and again: Autumn! Autumn! Autumn! – makes me angrier still! It makes me seethe! It makes me boil!’

  She paused for a moment (to draw breath), peering down, somewhat forlornly, at the fabric on the bench. ‘Not like green,’ she sighed, inspecting it, fondly, ‘green is on my hit list, but autumn? Urgh!’

  She jabbed at the bench, savagely, with her knuckles.

  ‘Then let’s talk about green!’ I rapidly interjected. ‘Please!

  Let’s do that! Let’s just talk about how truly wonderful green is!’

  ‘Really?’

  She instantly perked up.

  ‘Yes! Of course!’ I enthused. ‘Because green is wonderful! It’s marvellous! I mean when I think of all the green things in the world and how amazing they all are, like… like apples! And pears! And… and…’

  Lydia May winced, dramatically, as another dart hit the wall behind her.

  ‘And… and certain types of grape! Wonderful grapes! Seedless grapes, from the Cape! And kiwi-fruits, which are brownish on the outside but bright green on the inside with hundreds and thousands of tiny, crunchy, little black pips…’

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ Lydia May conceded (not quite so enthusiastically as I had hoped, perhaps). ‘But can’t we think of any other kinds of green stuff, Laura? More interesting kinds of green stuff, maybe?’

  (She winced, once again, as yet another dart hit the wall.)

  ‘Other kinds of green stuff?’ I echoed, astonished. ‘But… but why, when there’s so much more exciting fruit to consider, like… like limes, for example?’

  ‘But I’m tired of fruit, already!’ Lydia May grumbled. ‘It’s so safe, so dull, so… so pedestrian!’

  ‘Well, how about lettuce, then?!’ I exclaimed. ‘And cucumber! And courgettes! And marrows! All wonderful, healthy, green vegetables! How about some of those?!’

  Lydia May shuddered as another dart hit the wall, and a roar of approval – followed by a ringing, ‘One hundred and eighty!’ – all but drowned out my words.

  ‘Then there’s always cabbage,’ I doggedly continued, ‘and broccoli, and sprouts—’

  ‘What I suppose I’m really trying to get at, here,’ Lydia May promptly interjected, ‘is the stuff that isn’t just vegetable in origin. More interesting stuff… like… I dunno… ’

  ‘Like the green baize on a snooker table!’ I smiled, confident of engaging her enthusiasm again. ‘Or… or your beautiful scarf, for example.’

  ‘But they’re man-made, Laura,’ she sighed, ‘and I want to talk about things that are really green, things that are truly green…’

  ‘Oh…’

  I was momentarily floored, Mr Jennings, and my mind began desperately groping around for yet more green things with which to tantalize her. Then suddenly, out of the blue, the word ‘frog’ sprang into my head (if you’ll pardon the pun!), but I hesitated to pronounce it, out loud, for some reason (I can’t begin to explain why, Mr J – perhaps there was something in her strangely pale and languid expression that gave me temporary pause… I don’t know… a kind of smouldering expectation, an evil torpor, a dangerous quiescence, like she was just toying with me, at some level, like I was merely a tiny, insignificant little fly unwittingly tangled up in her voluminous web).

  It dawned on me, in that same instant (and forgive me for contradicting myself here, Claw, because this is an explanation, of sorts) that perhaps ‘frog’ might lead us back, ineluctably, to ‘iguana’ (also green! Could that actually be just a coincidence? Or was it – God forbid! – a trap?!), and I definitely didn’t want to risk returning to that thorny old ground again!

  In order to avoid this terrible eventuality I tried to think creatively – tangentially, you might almost say…

  ‘Well, here’s an idea,’ I suggested, with a blazing smile. ‘How about we focus our minds for a while on all the wonderful words for green that there are in the world, like… like emerald green, for example?’ Lydia May was instantly engaged.

  ‘Emerald green,’ she echoed, impressed. ‘Yes! I like that! I like it very much! Let’s think of another one, quick!’ She gazed at me, expectantly.

  ‘Olive green!’ I promptly followed up. ‘Yes! Good! Another one!’ she squealed, clapping her hands together, delighted.

  My mind briefly went blank again, Mr Jennings (although, in retrospect, I should have just gone with ‘lime green’ or ‘pear green’ or ‘apple green’ – they’re all the most obvious ones, I suppose – but I fear a part of me was worried that Lydia May might consider these some kind of a ‘cop-out’).

  Truth to tell, Mr J, I actually looked up ‘greenness’ in my Thesaurus when I finally got home that night, and was honestly shocked by how few green words there really are out there. Real green words. I mean if you consider purple, for example, there are loads of them: I can think of lilac, violet, lavender, plum and amethyst just off the top of my head. Sage green isn’t a bad one (it just this second came to me!), and bottle green, of course…

  ‘Well, how about you think of one?’ I eventually suggested.

  ‘Why?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  I was shocked by her baldly acquisitive attitude.

  ‘I mean what do I get if I think of one?’ she demanded.

  ‘Get?! You get a wonderful sense of satisfaction, of course!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Oh.’

  She drained her second glass and then eyed my spare pint covetously.

  ‘A marvellous sense of… of achievement,’ I expanded.

  Lydia May just gazed at me, darkly, as yet more darts thudded into the wall It was at this precise point, Mr Jennings, that a small ‘need’ (which had been nagging away at me for quite some time now), suddenly transformed itself into a powerful ‘urge’. (Fastidiousness prevents me from discussing this issue in too much further detail, but suffice to say that by some strange process of osmosis, a quarter of my pint had miraculously chanced to ‘evaporate’ and I was consequently experiencing nature’s call.)

  ‘Very well,’ I eventually compromised, ‘I’m willing to strike you a deal. I’m going to dash off to the lavatory for a couple of minutes, and while I’m gone I’d like you to sit here, on your own, and try your best to come up with another word for green. If, when I return, you’ve come up with something especially good, I’ll give you a very, very beautiful gift – a prize, of sorts – which I currently have hidden away in my bag.’ (A lovely bookmark, Mr Jennings – plastic-coated – which I acquired on a wonderful trip to Wordsworth’s house in June. It had an abridged version of ‘I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud’ printed in pretty gold lettering on to a calming, daffodil-
yellow background.)

  ‘Okay,’ Lydia May instantly obliged me. She then gazed up at the ceiling, frowning, as if deep in thought.

  I clambered (heavily!) to my feet, grabbed my stick, and set off for the Ladies’ lavatories. And yes, yes – I know exactly what you’re thinking, Mr Jennings: that it was utterly foolhardy, even downright irresponsible, to leave Lydia May entirely to her own devices again at that sensitive juncture! And you’re right, of course (100 per cent!), but a call of nature is a call of nature, is it not?

  Aside from that, I was determined to locate Catrin now, come hell or high water. I had a fairly good idea that she wasn’t in the pub (I had a partial view of the car park and the front entrance from where I was sitting). My only sensible course of action, I felt, would be to try and persuade some charitable individual to let me use their mobile (I don’t own one myself, more’s the pity) in order to phone her from the pub and find out what the delay was all about (better still, to try and locate Wincey, and convince her to perform this small service for me).

  I visited the lavatories, Mr Jennings (really beautifully done out, they are, in subtle shades of grey and ivory), then returned to the bar in the hope of locating an obliging local whose phone I might use, but even as I did so, I became aware of some kind of a ‘commotion’ in the saloon bar (the regular ‘thud’ of the darts had been temporarily interrupted, and the caller was instructing the crowd to ‘please remain calm’).

  I have subsequently been informed of the extraordinary sequence of events that apparently played out during my short sojourn in the lavatories (all – or most – of which you yourself were a direct witness of, Claw).

  Can I just say that when I saw that Lydia May was gone from our corner table (and that every remaining scrap of alcohol had been consumed – totalling one and three-quarter pints!) I turned and literally sprinted to the saloon bar to try and protect my young charge from any of the potentially hazardous scenarios that instantly crowded into my overheated mind (none of which, may I add, were anywhere near as bad as what later transpired!).