Burley Cross Postbox Theft

by Nicola Barker

  I must confess that I hadn’t even really registered this unsavoury underground activity until Baxter first drew it to my attention (during a National RSPB-sponsored Big Garden Birdwatch Campaign at the end of January; we were part of an elite team of volunteers tabulating the number of wild birds in a small area of common ground directly behind the toilets at the time), but since he did, I have become increasingly preoccupied by the amount of undesirable ‘traffic’ these toilets seem to attract.

  Sometimes I drive my car up there (it’s only a distance of thirty or so yards from our cottage, in actual fact) and park it in the designated zone to try and get a proper sense of how bad the problem really is. I have started taking notes – writing down the car registration details of the men who enter the facilities and then seem to be taking a suspiciously long time to reappear.

  I showed this information to Baxter and he was very pleased and impressed by my levels of diligence, and promptly set up a BCPTW website on the back of it (another example of that boundless energy I keep harping on about!)! He even went so far as to appoint me ‘chair’ of the committee (a kind gesture, but an empty one, given that there are currently only three members, all told!).

  As a part of our overall strategy, Baxter then suggested that we might start taking surreptitious photographs of the worst of the offenders in order to establish some kind of a formal, visual record of the main participants in these degenerate activities. I was initially a little slow to warm to the idea, but after he invested some committee funds in a digital camera, and acquainted me with the fundamentals of how to use it in the most effective way, I must confess that I’ve become quite the ‘secret snapper’ (taking some pretty impressive shots – even if I say so myself!)!

  Of course the police refuse, point-blank, to consider amateur photographic evidence as a sufficient incentive to take these vermin to court. It’s deeply frustrating, but Baxter still feels it may serve a purpose (could be a useful resource to use as a ‘bargaining counter’, for example, and to show the police – and the perpetrators – that we are deadly serious in our concerns about the matter).

  My experiences at the toilets have certainly proved to be quite an eye-opener. I’ve been astonished by how many local men are frequenting these facilities on a regular basis. Many of them bring their dogs along – as a kind of ‘cover’. I’m presuming that a good proportion of these gentlemen are married and pretending to their ignorant spouses that they are out on the moor, exercising their benighted (and patently neglected) animals, while what they are actually doing is driving them over to the toilets, ‘parking up’ and then leaving the poor, confused creatures mouldering away inside the car for hours!

  I made the mistake of mentioning this gruesome scenario to Joanna (who had hitherto remained determinedly disinterested in the matter, being very much of the ‘well, if they’re not hurting anybody…’ frame of mind) and she quite literally went ballistic (proving – if proof were needed – that while people are perfectly welcome to do pretty much what they like to each other in Jo’s book – however sick or perverse it might be – once a dumb animal gets tangled up in the equation… Well, you’d better watch out!).

  I suppose it was partly as a consequence of Jo’s avowed militancy on the issue that I felt compelled (almost against my better instincts) to take some direct action in this regard during an especially bad instance of what I perceived as ‘serious neglect’ a few weeks ago.

  I had observed a man – youthful, brown-haired, quite fit and handsome, dressed for hiking – entering the toilets at approximately 14.00 hrs on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. He was driving a dark, metallic-green hatchback (some kind of Hyundai, I think). When he initially pulled up I noticed that he had a very beautiful, large and finely bred Red Setter accompanying him.

  I ducked down in my seat upon his arrival (so as not to be observed) and took a couple of preliminary shots (he definitely looked familiar to me – I presumed I’d probably seen him loitering in the vicinity before), then kept my eyes firmly trained on the toilets for the next fifteen or so minutes, patiently waiting for him to re-emerge.

  After he had been gone for five minutes (tops), I noticed that his dog was growing increasingly distressed (I was busily scribbling down his registration number at the time; I have a very handy ‘single binocular’ – a ‘mono-ocular’, I suppose you’d call it – a tiny black telescope which I bought at Millets for specifically this purpose). The dog was shifting around, frantically, in the back of the car and pawing at the window. Eventually it began barking, mutedly (but emphatically) through the glass.

  As the minutes gradually ticked by, the dog became more and more hysterical, leaving slicks of foam on the window, even hurling itself against the car’s interior bodywork (principally the wire mesh that separated the poor deranged beast from the rest of the car’s interior).

  Enough was enough! Disturbed and infuriated, I climbed out of my car and walked over to the Hyundai to try and calm the Setter down. It clawed at the window, still more frantically, upon my arrival. I tried to talk to it through the glass, but it simply ignored me (far too agitated). I cursed under my breath, impotently, and was about to turn towards the toilets (intent on heading in there and confronting the owner directly), when I noticed – with some astonishment – that the car was actually unlocked!

  At this point (and don’t ask me why – I can’t really say why) I found myself applying some slight pressure to the back handle, twisting at it, gingerly, and feeling the mechanism of the lock unlatching itself with a smooth, satisfying clunk.

  I suppose (in retrospect) that my instinctive aim was to open up the door by a couple of inches simply to try and give the dog a bit of fresh air, or perhaps to talk to it, soothingly, through the gap, and – if it didn’t seem unduly snappy or aggressive – to pat it or stroke it to try and ease its distress.

  No sooner had the mechanism sounded, however, than the dog (a large animal – larger, even, than you might imagine) had thrown its entire body-weight against the door and had violently burst its way out – sending me flying (I landed flat on my back)!

  Before I could so much as draw breath – let alone clamber to my feet again – it had bolted off, at speed, into the undergrowth (following a route I presume it knew all too well, down a nearby moorland path and then up on to the moor itself). I remained seated on the ground for a few seconds, somewhat dazed and confused, then quickly scrambled to my feet, breathless and slightly flustered.

  What now? I glanced around me, nervously. How to proceed from here with the absolute minimum of fuss and embarrassment? Did I quickly shut the boot (carefully wiping my fingerprints off the handle with my shirt sleeve) or just leave it gaping open (as if the dog had – by some miraculous fluke – managed to release the mechanism by itself)? Did I pursue the dog on foot and attempt to retrieve it (but what chance was there of that when I didn’t have a lead to attach to its collar, or even know the name to call out?)? Did I try and alert the owner, or simply (the cowardly option, perhaps) head back to my car and lie low (or nonchalantly drive home, as if none of this had ever happened)?

  I scanned the horizon for any witnesses. The coast seemed clear. I then quickly wiped the door handle with my handkerchief (better safe than sorry!), drew a long, deep breath, smoothed down my hair (or what remains of it!) and headed back to my car, fully intent on beating a hasty retreat. I’d barely taken five steps towards the car, however, before I was tormented by sudden, violent pangs of conscience. How could I possibly just walk away from this? Wouldn’t that simply be wrong of me? Even criminal (delinquent, immoral?)?!

  I stopped dead in my tracks and then turned, with a grimace, to face the toilet block. What would Joanna do, I wondered? How would ‘St’ Joanna behave under such trying circumstances?

  Need I even ask?! I gazed over at the block for several seconds, vacillating wildly, then swallowed down my qualms and set off, determinedly, towards it.

  It’s difficult to describe at this point – with any
real clarity or lucidity – the extraordinary series of events (one might almost call them ‘phantasmagorical’ or ‘hallucinogenic’, even ‘chimerical’) that now commenced to unfold around me (everything still remains such a strange, unconsolidated mess – a blur – in my mind, so please do your best to bear with me, Teddy). Suffice to say that I coughed, sharply, several times, before first entering the men’s lavatories. I may even have stamped the mud off my boots (although I wasn’t actually wearing boots) and whistled, nonchalantly, to telegraph the fact that my intentions were entirely legitimate, above-board and non-predatory. The door, as I recollect, felt extremely heavy against my shoulder as I pushed up against it, and opened with a loud, heartfelt – almost ecstatic – groan.

  On entering the block, ‘proper’, I rapidly glanced around me, fully tensed, expecting to see the dog’s owner lounging against the latrine, or standing by the sink, but there was no immediate sign of him. I suppose I could have just called out something (in retrospect, I think that would’ve been the most sensible plan of action). I could have called out something like ‘Hello? Is anybody there? I’ve just come from the car park where there’s been a most unfortunate mishap involving a dog…’ (I’ve rehearsed this scenario since, a thousand times, in my mind.) But I didn’t. I didn’t speak. I just glanced around me, slightly spooked. Then I walked over to the latrine (it seemed the obvious thing to do – I was nervous, my bladder was full and I desperately needed to relieve myself).

  As I made use of the latrine, my ears were pricked and my eyes were peeled for any unusual visual or aural stimuli. There were noises – very slight noises, but noises, nonetheless. They seemed to be coming from the furthest cubicle (there are three cubicles, all told). Once I’d finished passing water, I automatically turned and walked towards them (the noises), tensed, anxious, my stomach churning, almost holding my breath.

  I was preparing myself to say something – something like… like… I don’t know… like: ‘Hello? Is anybody there? Would you happen to be the owner of a Red Setter by any chance? Because if you are, then I’m sorry to have to inform you…’ but before I could utter so much as a word, I noticed something glinting on the floor – a coin – a silver coin – a ten pence piece…

  Of course I automatically bent over to pick it up – to retrieve it. I leaned down, I leaned forward (to take hold of it, this coin, this dropped coin), and as I leaned over, as I bent down (to retrieve this coin) I glanced up (as you do when you lean down, sometimes), and unwittingly found myself staring straight into the furthest cubicle – the end cubicle – where the door, it now transpired, had been left propped slightly ajar…

  It’s important to underline how utterly unintentional this was, Teddy. I mean if it hadn’t been for the coin (which turned out not to be a coin at all, just a small metal disc of some description, embedded in the tile), then I wouldn’t have bent down, I wouldn’t have leaned forward (not at all! Wouldn’t have dreamed of it!), and, in this idealized scenario (this fantasy scenario) I would have consequently avoided… would never have seen or borne witness to… to this extraordinary scene – this bizarre tableau – this strangely inchoate and confusing spectacle of… of…

  It took a few seconds to make any sense of it, a few seconds to render intelligible the complex arrangement of their bodies, the curious positioning of their limbs… It took a few seconds to assimilate. And then that natural pause – that shocked hiatus – as the brain tries to process what it’s witnessing (on a social level, a moral level), as the brain tries to fully fathom the sight it’s beholding…

  Thirty seconds, at best, until my brain could make any real sense of it. Forty seconds, at most. And remember, I was still thinking about the coin – distracted by the coin, the metal disc – embedded in the tile, which I’d thought was a ten pence piece (just processing the confusion of that whole silly incident) and steadying myself, physically, as I straightened up after bending down.

  And the most ridiculous thing of all (you’ll laugh at this, I know you will) is that in my confusion – in my natural confusion – having been initially alerted by those perplexing sounds while standing, innocently, by the latrine (or ‘nervously’ by the latrine – I forget which it was, now), in the inevitable confusion that followed (and I wish you could have been there to see how swiftly time passed – so swiftly! – and to judge the distances involved – it was so close – it’s so very cramped in there, barely any distance at all!), in those few vital seconds that followed, I had somehow not quite managed to… I had yet to… to finish off my… to tuck away my… to put away my…

  It was still idly propped in my hand! Suspended in my hand! But utterly unconsciously! Like a girl holding an old rag doll! Like a child holding an empty pop bottle! I was just caught off my guard, that’s all! Still dazed from the fall (remember?). Still confused from the incident with the dog by the car, the sudden pang of guilt, the change of heart, the whistle, the cough, the stamp of my foot…

  Yes.

  And there I was, all agog, struggling to make any sense of that strange tangle: that mess of limbs and heads and lips and hands… Just this extraordinary abstract. This sensual Guernica. The one figure sitting down, his back slightly arched, his eyes closed. The other kneeling – on his knees – kneeling (did I already just say that?) towards his lap…

  And the moment of horror – of shock – of recognition – when the seated gentleman (I call him a gentleman) chanced to open his eyes for a second, with a groan of ecstasy, to invite me in, almost, to include me as a player – an unwitting player – in their little drama… In that moment – in that brief moment – we looked – we saw – we recognized…

  Robin?

  The Prof?!

  Robin Goff?!

  Oh God!

  No!

  And I had completely forgotten about the dog (in my confusion). I was all… I was just… I should have mentioned the dog before – or even then, right that second, perhaps. If I had mentioned the dog – or the coin – then it might not have seemed quite so… so… But I didn’t mention the dog. No. I didn’t mention the coin. I just stared. I just stood there, helplessly, holding my… I just… How long? I’m not sure. How long did I stand there, in shock? In horror? In awe?

  I’m not… I don’t…

  Of course you mustn’t breathe a word of this, Teddy! Please! Make no mention of it in your next letter. Or if you do, then encode it. Refer to it as… as The Wreck of HMS Julia (Shipwrecks; first series; 1985). I’ll pretend that I’ve lost it (the stamp). You can say something casual like, ‘Have you found The Wreck of HMS Julia yet?’ or, ‘You were a damn fool to lose The Wreck of HMS Julia,’ or even, ‘I feel so sorry that you lost the… so dreadful for you… I’ve been there myself, many times, and I understand completely…’

  Yes. Something comforting like that. Because Joanna likes to read our correspondence, on occasion, and we couldn’t – I mean if you accidentally let something slip, that would just be so… so horrendous. Unthinkable! I couldn’t possibly… Let’s keep this our little secret, shall we? A private exchange, between the two of us?

  (I just needed someone to confide it, Teddy. Someone I can trust.)

  They still haven’t found it, I’m afraid. They haven’t found HMS Julia (the dog). It’s been all the talk in the village. There’s a Lost Dog photograph on the notice board outside the shop. There’s been a small article run in the Wharfedale Gazette. And the best part of it? The crowning glory? The identity of the heartbroken owner? PC Peter Richardson!

  A police officer!

  What a fool I’ve been! What a fool he’s been (because there were photographs – already downloaded on to the computer from the camera; I had seen him parked up there before – and Baxter suddenly came across them, randomly, a couple of weeks ago, while going through the files… So I think he knows, now! I think he suspects!).

  The circumstances of the dog’s loss are being called ‘suspicious’, but that’s currently about as far as it goes… Although it’s
been sighted, at least twice, over the past six weeks: once, on Guy Fawkes’, up near Saint’s Kennels (the day after it first went missing), purportedly worrying a sheep. Another time, a couple of weeks later, by a local man out hiking near Piper’s Crag – or Herber’s Ghyll – I forget which…

  Nothing since.

  I keep thinking about that poor animal, Teddy; out there, all alone on the moor in the cold. It’s been six weeks! Sometimes I lie awake at night – as Joanna sleeps beside me – and I think about it ranging around up there: hungry, unbidden, almost feral. I can’t get it out of my mind! It haunts me! And when I do finally fall asleep, it fills my dreams: this handsome, burgundy animal, tormented by ravening appetites. This powerful, proud, red beast: untrussed, unfettered; uncowed; truly wild and utterly unconstrained.

  But how will we ever bring it back into the fold, now, Teddy? That’s the thought that torments me the most! How can we possibly hope to civilize it again after such a sweet and tantalizing taste of liberty?

  How?

  Oh, God! That’s the door! Joanna’s home. I must finish up. I promised to pre-heat the oven for the lasagne. I swore I’d fill the coal scuttle… So much still to say, old friend. But enough for now, eh?

  Enough.

  Thank you for bearing with me. It means the world. Please, please don’t judge me too harshly…

  Tom

  PS Hope the asthma has improved. A Very Merry Christmas to Merrill and the kids. Do enjoy the stamps.

  [letter 24]

  12 Rivock House

  Jaytail Crescent

  Ilkley

  20th December, 2006

  Dear Dr Bonner,

  It’s good news, I’m afraid (or bad news, I’m happy to say.

  You know what I mean…).