[More straining]
And the bottom line is…
[More straining – followed by a small plop – followed by a grunt]… that I effectively wrote this alone, Troy. The magic is all mine, eh? The content is all mine. The life is mine. Robert Pole just conducted a couple of crummy interviews, sent me a list of fatuous questions to answer and then typed my answers up in some semblance of order. I did all the donkey work on this thing, Troy.
Me…
[Straining]
Now I’ve finally seen it all written down, I realize how much of the overall content is just pure, undiluted Nebraska – it’s Frank K., through and through…
[More straining – followed by two further small plops]
Writer’s f***ing credit, my arse!
I mean who the f**k does this little worm think he is? Huh? He expects a credit now? For what?! For taking a little dictation and moving a few sentences around? For sorting out the odd place name and date? For confirming the odd bit of sequential detail? For meeting my mother a few times and finding out the colour of the kitchen lino, or how slow I was to be potty-trained? Is seven really that late, Troy? Seriously?! I mean do we honestly need to make such a f***ing issue out of that? [More straining, another plop]
I mean the f***ing gall of the little twit!
Who the hell does he think he is, Troy?! Huh?
To call me ‘High Maintenance’!
There it is… [Rustle of paper]… in black and white!
To call Frank K. Nebraska ‘High Maintenance’!
It’s downright bloody vindictive, Troy. It’s creepy! And to sneak around interviewing people behind my back? He’s like a stalker! I think he’s probably deranged! I think he’s fixated! He’s jealous, Troy! That’s it! He’s literally eaten up with jealousy – consumed by it! It’s pitiable, Troy, pitiable! If I didn’t hate him so much I’d almost feel sorry for him…
But lucky for you I do hate him, Troy, so that means you can fire him, with total impunity. We need to get rid of him, Troy. And let’s do this properly. Let’s take out a restraining order on him, and use a couple of contacts to blacken his name in the press. Say he was unstable. Say he was incompetent. And withhold the last payment, obviously. I don’t want the little pr**k getting paid for this drivel! He doesn’t need a f***ing reward for what he’s done here – he needs to be chastised, Troy! He needs to be brought up short. He needs to learn a harsh lesson, here, Troy – the harshest lesson…
No mercy, Troy. None. Because it’s probably kinder to treat him this way in the long run. I mean, who knows, in the end he might even end up thanking me for it.
Yeah.
Right.
Good…
And we need to do all this now, Troy. Okay? We need to do this immediately – like, yesterday. You need to contact the accountants and stop his cheque.
[Straining] This is urgent, Troy. It’s critical. Time is of the essence…
[More straining]
I mean where the f**k are you, Troy? What the hell are you playing at?
[Yet more straining] I mean who else’s agent f***s off to the Maldives for three weeks over f***ing Christmas?
Do you see me flitting off to the Malidives for f***ing Christmas, Troy? Do you? No! No! I’m at f***ing home, Troy, with my gormless, weeping, pregnant mare of a girlfriend. I’m saving my autobiography. I’m starting a new f***ing album. I’m just back from a promotional ‘tour’ of f***ing Japan – I turned up at the store in Kyoto and they didn’t have a single copy of my last album! Not a single copy! What kind of a shonky, two-bit operation is this?! I flew to Japan, you t**t! And there wasn’t a single copy of the last album in Kyoto for me to sign! That’s your responsibility, Troy. That’s your fault. I’m holding you personally accountable for that, Troy! Hear me?!
[Sound of tissue being pulled from a rattling holder. Dabbing. Grunting]
OI! KIZZY! KIZZY! THIS STUFF IS LIKE F***ING
SANDPAPER! WHAT’VE YOU DONE WITH THE GOOD
STUFF? EH? WHERE’S THE F***ING WET WIPES?
KIZZY!!
WET WIPES!
WET WIPES!
KIZZY!
WET WIPES!!
NOW!!!
[Silence]
Bollocks!
[Disgruntled noises. More scuffling with paper. Sound of toilet being flushed]
Well, I guess that’s me pretty much done for the moment, Troy. I’m just gonna…
[Sound of distant female voice shouting something]
Huh? Oh. Yeah. Kizzy says enjoy the rest of your honeymoon…
[Sound of yet more distant female voice shouting]
She says she can’t get a courier to come to the house so she’s banging this tape straight into the post.
[Pause]
KIZZY? KIZZY?! WHAT HAPPENED TO THE WET
WIPES?
[Silence]
THE WET WIPES, KIZZY!
KIZZY…?
[Tape is turned off. Tape is turned on again]
Troy. It’s me. It’s Frank. On second thoughts, leave in all the stuff about Luella. Leave in the good stuff about Luella. Let’s keep her sweet and then try and reduce the f***ing alimony payments early next year at some point.
Good.
And you can sort out all the other stuff, yeah? The other stuff? Just tell Pole to return the tapes and then get some office dogsbody to type them up and gradually filter the bits I mentioned back into the text.
Now I come to think of it, I actually remember saying something really insightful – really profound – about Nostradamus at one point. Definitely put that in. Or – better still – get Pole to do it before you sack the little s**t.
Yeah…
Thanks, Troy.
Just get the f**k back here, now, okay?
Pronto.
Okay?!
[Tape is turned off again. Tape is turned on again]
Three weeks in the f***ing Maldives?!
Are you serious?
Is your secretary just taking the f***ing p*ss, or what?
I mean how much am I f***ing paying you for Christ’s…?
[Tape runs out]
[letter 20]
Finches
Lamb’s Green
Burley Cross
21st December, 2006
Dear Mr Jennings (or ‘Claw’),
May I just start off by saying that I am so sorry (so very, very sorry – words just can’t express) for my unwitting role in the dreadful events of the fateful night of December 12th.
Given your persistent refusal to accept all my visits and phone calls since that momentous date, I can only imagine that you’re still absolutely furious with me – and heaven knows, you’re certainly in good company!
The Crawfords remain utterly implacable, I’m afraid, even to the extent that Veterinary Crawford claimed he was ‘far too busy’ to come out and see my ailing love-bird, Tyrone, on Tuesday last, obliging me to depend on the services of his genial assistant, Mr McGraw (who is the first to admit that he has no special expertise in avian health issues!).
Then I saw Wincey – who nobody could deny has a heart forged from pure twenty-four-carat gold – dart and hide behind a parked car to avoid bumping into me outside the PO. To add insult to injury, I was actually being gently ticked off by Sebastian St John – this year’s AOP Events Manager (more of which, anon) – at the time!
Wharfedale’s dog warden, Trevor Horsmith (his beautiful, silver Clio was destroyed in the riot – I believe it was the one you purportedly ‘torched’), can barely find it in himself to exchange so much as a civil ‘hello’ …
And they’re just the tip of a rather large iceberg, Mr Jennings! In all candour, I’m starting to feel a little like a pariah in my own home (although please don’t think – not even for a minute – that I’m looking for sympathy here. Good heavens, no! Not a bit of it! I wouldn’t dare to! Because I’m perfectly well aware that by comparison to you I’ve got off very lightly – or at least relatively unscathed…).
I suppose all I’m really trying to say (if I can somehow manage to get my teeth in straight!) is that I do hope you don’t think that you’re suffering this awful trial of yours entirely alone. I am here for you (every inch of the way), as is the Gentle Nazarene (‘He is never far from us and is always close at hand. If he cannot remain within he goes no further than the door…’ Meister Eckhart).
Always remember, as St Paul says, ‘Virtue is perfected in weakness’ (2 Cor. 12: 9), and that all things finally must work to the good – ‘Yes, even sins!’ (St Augustine).
That said, Mr Jennings, I must confess that my poor heart sinks (it dives – it quite literally plummets!) every time I think of you, stuck in some tiny, overcrowded cell, on remand, in Leeds, knowing that I must bear at least some partial responsibility for the tragic turn of events that prompted you to end up there.
Oh, it must be such an unbearably grim and lonely time of year to be incarcerated (not that there’s ever a good time, I’m sure!). I do hope you’re managing to keep your chin up.
At least know that you are never far from my thoughts. I’ve been into our local church – St Peter’s – and have lit a candle for you every day since I first learned of your awful plight. I suppose you might almost say that I’ve been mounting a small vigil there on your behalf.
And if it isn’t too self-indulgent of me to mention it, I have also been reciting a special prayer – morning and night – which I found in an ancient little book of Meditations and Prayers for Particular Occasions which my grandmother (who was a devout, Catholic lady) gave me as a child. The prayer in question is ‘A Prayer Before Going on A Journey’ (because this is how I have chosen to perceive your cruel incarceration, Mr Jennings, as a journey, of sorts).
If you can stand it, I would like to take the opportunity to copy it down here for you, in the feeble hope that it might give you some kind of sustenance in your hour of need (you will see that I have taken the liberty of inserting your name into its fabric – to give it a more personal and authentic feel. I do hope you won’t consider this too much of an impertinence).
O Almighty God, who fillest all things with thy presence, and art a God afar off as well as near at hand, Thou didst send thy angel to bless Jacob in his journey, and didst lead the children of Israel through the Red Sea, making it a wall on the right hand and on the left; be pleased to let thy angel go out before Mr Jennings and guide him in his journey, preserving him from dangers of robbers, from violence of enemies, and sudden and sad accidents, from falls and errors. And prosper his journey to thy glory, and to all innocent purposes; and preserve him from all sin, that he may return in peace and holiness, with thy favour and thy blessing and may serve Thee in thankfulness and obedience all the days of his pilgrimage; and at last bring him to thy country, to the celestial Jerusalem, there to dwell in thy house, and to sing praises to thee forever. Amen.
(Jeremy Taylor)
You may – or may not – be aware of the fact that I spoke (at some length) to your barrister, Mr Tracey, yesterday. It was he who actually suggested that I write to you, not only to assuage my guilt, beg your forgiveness and wish you well for your court appearance on January 3rd, but principally to explain, in the plainest possible detail, why it was that I behaved as I did on that horrible night of December 12th. He hoped that by dint of this enterprise, I might finally provide you with the best chance of understanding how it was that the Cruel Fates connived to bring this sorry situation into being.
To start at the very beginning, Mr Jennings, I should tell you that I am a seventy-two-year-old widow, a practising Christian and a grandmother of three beautiful girls (Sophie, Zoe and Victoria, who live in Ontario with my only son, Patrick, and his wife, Renee).
I have chronic arthritis in both of my knees (which tends to flare up more severely in winter, and means I am sometimes obliged to walk with the aid of a stick).
As a consequence of this (the arthritis, which can be quite disabling, although I’m not complaining here, Claw, since God has blessed me – and quite copiously – in countless other ways: I have excellent eyesight, for example, which I thank him daily for), I have developed a keen interest in tapestry and sewing, and am fairly well known in Burley Cross for my handmade patchwork quilts (sorry to rabbit on about myself like this, but these boring details are pertinent to the story and aren’t simply the senile witterings of a lonely old crone, I can assure you!).
Over the past couple of years I have been very happy to participate in the Burley Cross Auction of Promises, an annual event where citizens of the town auction off their humble services in the hope of raising money for charity (this year I believe it was to support a wonderful school for deaf children in the Sudan).
For the past three years (like I say) I have auctioned the promise of one of my patchwork quilts. The quilts come in all shapes and sizes and can take anything from a month to six months to produce. This year the proposed quilt was purchased by Catrin and Alan Crawford (Burley Cross’s resident vet and his wife) for the princely sum of £109!
Obviously every quilt I make is unique. The overall look and feel of the thing depends on a whole variety of factors, the colour, shape and texture of the individual patches being but three (square or honeycomb, plain or patterned, cotton or satin, the choices run on and on, virtually ad infinitum!).
When (as in this instance) the quilt has been specially commissioned, I generally like to have a good chat with the person (or persons) I am making the quilt for, well in advance of commencing work, so that their preferences are clearly established (some people are perfectly allergic to bright colours, for example!). I suppose you could call this highly informal process ‘a consultation’, of sorts.
During this ‘consultation’, I often take along a few photographs of some of the quilts I have produced in the past (I have a whole scrapbook of the things, believe it or not!), then go though some colour swatches with them, and even (if it is deemed in any sense helpful) have a quick peek at the room/the bed/the chair for which the quilt is finally destined.
In the case of Catrin and Alan, this ‘consultation’ had been rather difficult to arrange because they both have quite demanding jobs (Catrin is the local school secretary, and she is also doing a part-time course in Reflexology, while Alan is obviously a vet, so his hours can be long and somewhat erratic).
Two initial attempts to meet up both went awry and on each occasion the fault was entirely mine (on the first, the gas boiler in my cottage suddenly started making an extraordinary screeching sound, and I felt compelled to call in a twenty-four-hour plumber. On the second, I made the unwelcome discovery of a wasps’ nest inside the trunk of an old hibiscus – a mere three yards from my front door. I was pruning the hibiscus when this happened, and inadvertently pushed my elbow right into the heart of it! I was stung at least thirty-seven times).
A third meeting was eventually scheduled for six o’clock on the evening of the 12th, and I knew that under no circumstances would it be acceptable to register yet another no-show.
As luck would have it, Mr Jennings, it had been a particularly long and stressful day, after I was awoken, at an ungodly hour, by the refuse disposal men, who were kind enough to inform me that a fox had somehow managed to upend my new green plastic composting bin (which had recently been delivered – free! – by the local council) and had spread the contents (kitchen scraps, in the main) all over my front lawn.
I then spent the following forty or so minutes painstakingly gathering up tiny fragments of egg shell, torn tea bags and little pieces of grated carrot by torchlight (an eccentric piece of behaviour, I’m the first to admit, but I was anxious that it might rain and the mess become permanently embedded in the grass).
This laborious process – and the cold weather – duly set off the arthritis in my knees and compelled me to take double my usual dosage of painkillers.
I was late to start my breakfast (always a mistake if you’re on heavy medication!) and was just bolting down a quick Shredded
Wheat when Baxter Thorndyke appeared at my window, irate, because he’d driven his Range Rover over five bags of poo (dog poo) which had been placed (inexplicably), at regular intervals, along the edge of the grass verge in front of my cottage.
Without delving too deeply into the sordid ins and outs of the affair, Mr Jennings, the bags of poo had burst under the pressure of his vehicle’s wheels, festooning the under-carriage of his car with a stinking layer of excrement (why he’d felt the need to drive his huge 4×4 up on to my small grass verge in the first place still remains something of a mystery!).
I explained to Mr Thorndyke that the poo wasn’t my responsibility (I don’t own a dog – or even cat – only a lone, ailing love-bird), and that it had obviously been placed there, out of pure mischief, by some deeply troubled and unstable individual (but let’s not get in to all that right now, eh?).
It quickly transpired that Mr Thorndyke was on Lamb’s Green to photograph the local manhole covers (I have an especially beautiful one – apparently – in front of my property!). Even though I was in no way responsible for the filthy discharge, I did feel obliged to lend a hand in cleaning it from Mr Thorndyke’s car with the aid of my trusty pressure-hose.
I’d just returned inside (to towel myself off) when Janine Loose – my neighbour – phoned me, in a complete panic, because a Muscovy duck (which belongs to two sisters who live on The Calls – the road backing directly on to ours) had somehow connived to force its way into her kitchen. The duck (a large, rogue male) was perched, quite contentedly, in her kitchen sink, and was in no particular hurry to leave!
I rushed around there and tried to encourage the cheeky devil out. This took quite some doing since it had inadvertently pushed its foot through a scone cutter, which had, in turn, become tangled up with a fork.
I don’t mind telling you, Mr Jennings, that by the time I finally made it over to the Crawfords (having filled the previous three hours overseeing the hanging of a tapestry exhibition in the village hall – quite a trying process, physically and emotionally) I was an absolutely spent force.
Burley Cross Postbox Theft Page 22
