Good heavens! You take a quick, halting step back. What an unexpected stroke of luck! Then, before you know quite what you’re doing, you’ve fallen to your knees on that icy pavement and you’re feeling around inside, reaching inside, frantically scrabbling your way through the letters (simply intent on removing yours), but then you hear the creak and clank of Susan Trott’s gate. Damn! Now what?! You rapidly tip the entire contents of the box into your coat – or a plastic bag you’ve brought with you (the bottle of lighter fluid, the vinegar, hidden inside it), and you run.
Oh, God! Back in the pub again, upstairs, in your bedroom, turning the lock on the door, you finally return to your senses and wonder what the hell it is that you’ve just done. Am I crazy? you think. Is this just some terrible nightmare? Or could Wincey Hawkes – the respectable pub landlady, an upright member of the community, a gracious doyenne of local charity events, a rock, a brick, a shoulder for all the world to cry upon – have just casually (and with malice aforethought), robbed the local postbox?! A mere five days before Christmas?!
You struggle to draw breath for a while (Am I a thief now? A vandal?), but then your mind turns back to Timmy Dickson, to Baxter Thorndyke, to that stupid argument in the church, and your heart hardens, your resolve deepens. This needn’t be so bad as it seems, you think. You make a plan. A good plan. You think it’s virtually foolproof.
The next day you carry it out. You have an appointment with Mhairi at Feathercuts in Skipton (to get your roots touched up – your red roots). Mhairi’s salon (what a happy coincidence!) just happens to back on to the same, quiet, scruffy back alley as Timothy Dickson’s house.
Just prior to the appointment you park your car, make sure the coast is clear, then carry a black refuse-bag with the letters hidden inside it into the back alley. You remove three letters from the bunch and scatter them around inside Mhairi’s small, neat yard. Then you go and get your hair done.
Halfway through (as is now customary), you sneak into the back kitchen for a quick fag, opening the back door (to air the room – as you generally always do). You place a further letter (which you’d hidden inside your pocket), on to the back step (to draw her on), then you return to the salon where you enjoy a fascinating conversation with a Miss Squires (charming woman, very affable, who you’d spoken to, on the phone, a couple of weeks before).
Just as you’d hoped, a few minutes later, Mhairi nips out back for a quick fag herself, and is astonished to discover…
But you’re well on your way home by then.
And the best part of it? You’ve won yourself some time – some valuable time! Because you didn’t remove those unbankable cheques. Nope. You cunningly left them behind. And they’ll become a part of the body of evidence, now. It’ll be days, weeks, months, even, before you get them back.
You feel like a weight has lifted from your shoulders. In fact you feel so light, so airy, that when Paula Coombes drops by to apologize about the fact that she can’t pay for the clock repairs, you tell her it’s just fine. And when she confides in you about the prefab, you tell her… How extraordinary! You find yourself telling her to move into the pub. There are three empty bedrooms upstairs. And the older boy can work in the kitchens, in lieu of rent (after his measles have cleared up). And Paula can work behind the bar. She has a barmaid’s temperament, you say, with a grin, a kind of crazy optimism – the kind you had yourself once, as a girl, the kind that makes people want to sit down, have a chat, and enjoy a drink.
Later that afternoon, the barman comes upstairs to find you (you’re sitting at Duke’s desk, in his study, doing the VAT). He passes you a heavy envelope (his finger swaddled in white – the bandage coming loose at the tip). You open it up. Your jaw drops. Three and a half thousand pounds, in used bank notes, and a short message, written on a piece of curiously heavy and porous paper: ‘For charity,’ it says.
Fin.
The end.
How did I do?
All right?
There are a few things I don’t know, obviously: did you keep the money? Did you manage to unblock that toilet successfully? Did the barman need a stitch? Did the VAT add up properly?
There are many things I don’t know, in fact, but there are some things I do. I know that Paula Coombes has been a Godsend. I know that business is slowly picking up. I know that Jared has finally found his joy in life (his passion – his true vocation) and that he’s training to become a chef. I know Madeline’s got a new fiddle, and that sometimes, in the early evening, she climbs up on to the bar and she plays it for a while (to tumultuous applause), then she throws it down, rolls up her sleeve and armpit farts, for an encore.
I know it brings a large tear to your eye, Wincey, every time she does.
And I know you’ll never forgive yourself for what happened to poor Rita – that you were the first person (aside from Peter, and from me) to visit her in hospital. I know you talked Peter around. I know you force-fed him on casseroles. I know you were incredibly kind, and generous with your time, same as you always are.
And other things – other things I know? Let’s see… I know that pubs are on their way out (hundreds are closing every week), that they’re merely a sad reminder of things past (the way we once were, The Good Old Days), just like ‘community spirit’ is, and communities themselves, and churches, and local bobbies, and pickled walnuts, and brass bands at fetes, and tall hedgerows, and handwritten letters, and home-cooked meals, and sparrows, and boredom, and books, and gob-stoppers, and ladybirds, and innocence…
Yes. All for the high jump. All for the chop. All nearly eclipsed, now (may they rest in peace), by a much bigger, brighter future, in twenty-four-hour digital HD.
Oh, and one last thing; one last thing I know (perhaps the most important thing of all, as far as you’re concerned): I know how to keep schtum. I know when to keep it zipped. I know how to hold my tongue…
And I am holding it, Wincey. And I will continue to hold it – for your sake. For mine. For all our sakes.
Fear not.
Discretion, as they say, is my watchword.
Happy Easter,
God bless you,
PC Roger Topping
PS I quite like the new postbox, as it happens.
17/03/07
17.00 hrs
Dear Mrs Hope,
I won’t be in tomorrow morning. A couple of little jobs for you:
1 We need to ring Mrs Lockwood about Sam Lockwood’s missing crutch.
2 I see we’re almost out of Toilet Duck.
3 There’s a pile of letters on my desk, and a list of addresses printed on to a sheet of paper next to them. The letters need to be resealed/re-packaged/readdressed, as specified (whichever method you think preferable), and then returned to the sender as soon as possible. Two exceptions. The letter addressed to a Dr Bonner, please forward it to Nick Endive. And the letter addressed to Nina Springhill: deliver it to her, personally, at her mother’s. You’re neighbours, aren’t you? (Nina’s still staying there, I believe, getting some r&r after her unfortunate miscarriage, prior to her imminent move down to Bristol. Or Taunton, is it? Either way… Yes. Thanks.)
4 The ants have returned! It occurs to me that I might have dropped a half-empty (or half-full – depending on how you like to look at it) bag of Revels down the back of the filing cabinet. I fear that’s probably what’s attracting them. Should we take some kind of decisive action do you think? Or just wait for them to polish the Revels off and then gradually lose interest? I can’t quite decide…
5 Have a lovely weekend.
6 I’m sorry about the bullet points (or the numbers), they just keep coming up on the screen whenever I start a new line, no matter how hard I try to…
7 Ridiculous! Quite ridiculous!
8 What a clumsy oaf I am!
9
10 Have a lovely weekend.
11
12 Did I say that already?
13 Sorry. Getting a bit flustered…
14
&n
bsp; 15 I’m off on a jaunt to the L.S. Lowry museum in Salford on Saturday. Never been before. Hired a Zafira (people carrier). I’m actually quite excited…
16 Wish me well!
17 Bye for now.
18
19 Oh yes. Congratulate Lucy on those wonderful accountancy exam results.
20 And best regards to Colin. Hope his tooth is feeling a little better.
21
22 Roger
23
24
25
26
27
28 Dammit.
29
30
31 Dammit!
32
33 What’s wrong with this stupid thing?!
34
35
36 Why’s it always so much easier just doing this stuff by hand?
37 Eh?
By Nicola Barker
Love Your Enemies
Reversed Forecast
Small Holdings
Heading Inland
Wide Open
Five Miles from Outer Hope
Behindlings
Clear
Darkmans
Copyright
First published in Great Britain by
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Copyright © Nicola Barker 2010
1
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1 Are you one of the Cirencester-based Withycombes? If so, then I was extremely privileged to serve with the Royal Air Force in Burma (1961–63) alongside your late maternal grandfather, Major Cyril Withycombe (although – on further reflection – Cyril may well have been a Withycoombe).
2 Hurrah!
3 Sic.
4 Transparency is definitely not one of Mrs Parry’s main characteristics.
5 I’ll make no bones about it, dear: phallic.
6 Norma Spoot works part-time at the local butcher’s, and told me – in between hysterical gales of laughter – of how she overheard Mrs Parry boasting (while she was having a chicken deboned last Tuesday) that her jewellery ‘sells like hot cakes’ on the internet.
7 I do not mean to include you in this sweeping statement. That would obviously be ridiculous.
8 People refuse to believe that she actually became eligible for a free bus pass last February.
9 And then some! The poor chap’s tall as a door handle but weighs in at over seventeen stone!
10 I’ll abbreviate Mrs Parry from this point onwards, if it’s all the same to you.
11 Did she have it yet? Was it – as I predicted – a bonny little chap with a bright tuft of ginger hair on top?
12 The youngest child’s initials are still scratched into the bark of our old apple tree.
13 His voice ranged over several octaves – although my late wife used to say that while he might reach a note with all apparent ease, he could never actually succeed in holding one for any extended period. I used to tell her that this was simply ‘the rustic style’ (I’m fairly well informed on the subject), but she refused to be convinced.
14 The topiary was never as good after he left.
15 I call it ‘a crime’ although a corpse was never discovered (there were signs of a struggle and several suspicious spots of blood, however).
16 Bertrand Russell, the famous philosopher and coward, apparently stayed there on several occasions.
17 In the early 1990s these letters were adapted into a play called My Dear Hinty… I can’t remember, off-hand, who starred in it – possibly that game young lad who used to ride his bicycle up and down those steep, cobbled streets in the old Hovis adverts. Either way, a dear school friend of mine – Hortensia Sandle, an RE teacher, charming lass, who lived in the Smoke and had a penchant for the theatre – was persuaded to attend the opening night (I’d been given free tickets by Hinty himself, but was a martyr to chronic piles at the time so found it difficult to remain seated for extended periods). I still don’t know for sure what she actually made of the production (one review I read said the direction was ‘all over the shop’), because – for some inexplicable reason – she refused to ever speak to me again afterwards. Very odd.
18 To use the main entrance would actually involve cutting through a yew hedge and then swimming across a large Japanese pond full of ornamental carp.
19 The Morrison line ended with Emily. We had no children of our own – though certainly not through want of trying! Rumour has it that an inappropriate liaison between two first cousins in 1810 caused a genetic weakness in the Morrison gene pool which rendered all subsequent issue physically and reproductively flawed. Aside from her infecundity, Emily had the added distinction of a third nipple. In poor light it could be mistaken for a large mole, but she was very self-conscious about it and always wore a robe whilst lounging by the pool. Once, on holiday in Kenya, she allowed her guard (and the robe) to fall and the mark was spotted by a sharp-eyed cocktail waiter. We were subsequently evicted, unceremoniously, from the hotel. To protect Emily’s feelings I determined to keep the real reason for our eviction hidden from her (and was relatively successful, to boot). She always naively believed that we were turfed out because I queried the bar bill (and gave me no end of stick about it, too!).
20 Who have always been extremely genial landlords and have never sought to interfere with our ready access to the property – although they did kick up quite a stink two years ago when we built our conservatory or ‘sunroom’. Apparently the light reflects quite sharply off its glass roof and can be seen very clearly from the window of their dining room (an added complication is that this small but precious ‘space’ was added to the property with the intention of creating a safe/therapeutic environment for Shoshana to sunbathe, au naturel. The poor creature is prone to seasonal attacks of chronic eczema and constant exposure to gentle sunlight really
is the best possible cure).20 Who have always been extremely genial landlords and have never sought to interfere with our ready access to the property – although they did kick up quite a stink two years ago when we built our conservatory or ‘sunroom’. Apparently the light reflects quite sharply off its glass roof and can be seen very clearly from the window of their dining room (an added complication is that this small but precious ‘space’ was added to the property with the intention of creating a safe/therapeutic environment for Shoshana to sunbathe, au naturel. The poor creature is prone to seasonal attacks of chronic eczema and constant exposure to gentle sunlight really is the best possible cure).20 Who have always been extremely genial landlords and have never sought to interfere with our ready access to the property – although they did kick up quite a stink two years ago when we built our conservatory or ‘sunroom’. Apparently the light reflects quite sharply off its glass roof and can be seen very clearly from the window of their dining room (an added complication is that this small but precious ‘space’ was added to the property with the intention of creating a safe/therapeutic environment for Shoshana to sunbathe, au naturel. The poor creature is prone to seasonal attacks of chronic eczema and constant exposure to gentle sunlight really is the best possible cure).20 Who have always been extremely genial landlords and have never sought to interfere with our ready access to the property – although they did kick up quite a stink two years ago when we built our conservatory or ‘sunroom’. Apparently the light reflects quite sharply off its glass roof and can be seen very clearly from the window of their dining room (an added complication is that this small but precious ‘space’ was added to the property with the intention of creating a safe/therapeutic environment for Shoshana to sunbathe, au naturel. The poor creature is prone to seasonal attacks of chronic eczema and constant exposure to gentle sunlight really is the best possible cure).
Burley Cross Postbox Theft Page 34
