Burley Cross Postbox Theft (11 page)

‘H
ANG ON A SECOND…!’ WILLIAM BLINKED – ‘THE GUARD!’ HE TRIED TO REFOCUS, STRUGGLING TO PULL HIMSELF OUT OF HIS SUDDEN REVERIE. ‘I CAN’T PLAY INTO HIS HANDS,’ HE THOUGHT, TURNING TO FACE THE WALL, ‘HE WANTS TO MAKE ME LOSE MY COOL. HE WANTS TO GET THE OPPORTUNITY TO CANCEL MY PAROLE SO THAT I END UP ROTTING TO DEATH IN THIS MISERABLE SHIT-HOLE.’

H
E THOUGHT BACK ON THE TREATMENT HE HAD RECEIVED AT THEIR BEHEST OVER THE SEVEN YEARS HE HAD BEEN INCARCERATED. THEY HAD TRIED TO DESTROY HIM WITH THEIR RACIST JIBES (‘YOU STUPID, WHITE MAGGOT!’ ‘WHITE DONKEY!’ ‘YOU DAMN UGLY WHITE ASS!’) AND HUMILIATING RITUALS: THE MOULD-ENCRUSTED DAILY PORTION OF ‘RICE AN’ BEANS’, THE DEGRADATION OF THE SLOP BUCKET
.

H
OW THE HELL HAD HE SURVIVED IT? MORE TO THE POINT – HOW ON GOD’S EARTH HAD HE EVER ENDED UP IN THIS STINKING SEWER IN THE FIRST PLACE?!

O
H YES…’ WILLIAM SMILED, CLOSING HIS EYES FOR A MOMENT, ‘POLLY!’

H
E BRIEFLY REMEMBERED THE SWEET, BLACK-HAIRED GIRL HE HAD LOVED SO DEARLY AS A BOY. HER BROTHER WAS RUPERT, A ‘SCHOOL FRIEND’ (A NOTORIOUS REPROBATE AND SEXUAL PREDATOR WHO GAVE NEW MEANING TO THE PHRASE ‘KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE AND YOUR ENEMIES CLOSER’). HE HAD INVITED WILLIAM TO SPEND A FEW WEEKS RECOVERING FROM HIS A’LEVELS AT ‘DADDY’S PAD IN JAMAICA’
.

W
ILLIAM HAD INITIALLY TURNED HIM DOWN FLAT [I’M GOING TO GIVE REASONS FOR THIS HERE, POSSIBLY CONNECTED TO THE BREAK UP OF HIS PARENTS’ MARRIAGE] BUT CHANGED HIS MIND AND AGREED TO GO, AFTER ALL, IN THE EXPECTATION THAT POLLY MIGHT ALSO BE THERE
.

P
OLLY… NOW FULLY GROWN, HER DARK HAIR CASCADING DOWN TO HER TRIM WAIST, THE ODD, STRAY STRAND OF IT
SLITHERING INTO THE MUSKY CREVICE BETWEEN HER FULL, BROWN BREASTS WHICH WERE SPRINKLED IN PERSPIRATION, DUSTED WITH SUMMER FRECKLES… SHE WORE A YELLOW BIKINI [MORE DETAILS ABOUT HER BIKINI ETC TO FOLLOW], BUT SHE’D ONLY EVER REALLY HAD EYES FOR A LOCAL, BLOND DRUG DEALER CALLED TRISTAN – AN OXFORD GRADUATE – WITH HIS TAN, HIS MIRROR SHADES AND HIS READY ACCESS TO ‘PUFF AN’ WEED’
.

H
OW FOOLISH THEY HAD ALL BEEN!

C
RUSHED BY LONELINESS AND DISAPPOINTMENT, WILLIAM HAD ALLOWED RUPERT TO LEAD HIM, BLINDLY, UNWITTINGLY, SOMETIMES STAGGERING AS HE LOST HIS FOOTING, DOWN DARK, TROPICAL PATHS HE HAD NO NATURAL INCLINATION TO TRAVEL, AND THEN…

W
HAT?! WHO?! HOW THE…?!

H
E HAD ENDED UP HERE. IN THIS GOMORRAH. ON TRUMPED-UP CHARGES. SOME THOUGHT HE HAD BEEN FRAMED (RUPERT WAS THE TRUE VILLAIN OF THE PIECE, SURELY?) BUT HE DARED NOT THINK ABOUT THAT – WHAT GOOD COULD IT POSSIBLY DO HIM NOW?

S
WEET
P
OLLY HAD BEEN TO VISIT HIM BEFORE SHE FLED THE ISLAND, HER CHEEKS STAINED WITH TEARS. ‘THIS IS MY BROTHER’S FAULT…’ SHE’D WHISPERED, ‘IF ONLY YOU’D HAD ACCESS TO A PROPER LAWYER… IF ONLY I’D SAID SOME – THING. IF ONLY I’D BEEN BRAVE ENOUGH TO STAND UP IN COURT… OH WILLIAM, WE COULD HAVE BEEN SO GOOD TOGETHER!’

A
ND THEN, SEEING THE IMMEDIATE, AGONIZED RESPONSE IN HIS BLOODSHOT, GREEN EYES, ‘PLEASE! NO! OH GOD! FORGIVE ME!’

‘I
F ONLY…’ WILLIAM THOUGHT, SMILING, AS THEY DRAGGED HER, SOBBING, FROM HIS CELL, ‘IF ONLY… IF ONLY…

(end)

The Winter Barn
(off Old Woman’s Lane)
Burley Cross
Wharfedale

21/12/06

Ivo,

I just sent you a text – in fact I just sent you an email (I sent you a text
about
the email) – because I’d just tried to phone you to make sure you downloaded it –
and printed it –
tonight (all of it, mind? There’s about ten pages. I want them printed and then put into the Threadbare file,
pronto –
please,
please
, pretty-please).

When you didn’t answer your phone I left a voice-mail (just ignore it – it was a gratuitous outpouring of hysterical waffle – although, knowing you, you’ll ignore it anyway. You never seem to get around to listening to my messages. Why
is
that, exactly?).

Oh, God, God, I’m in such a crazy rush! I just want to be sure to catch the six o’clock post (does the post even
go
at six?). If I don’t manage to catch it then the samples – there’s only two of them, they’re minuscule – won’t reach you until the day after tomorrow and that would be a serious,
serious
pain in the arse (why am I telling you this? What good will it do?
Balls!
I’ll
definitely
miss it at this rate! In fact…
Great
. I have missed it. I’m screwed.
You’re
screwed. Carol-Ann’s going to throw the most monumental strop. Brace yourself).

Hang on a minute… It’s just this second dawned on me that it’s Bengt’s Birthday Bash tonight and you’ll probably get pissed as a fart and throw a sickie tomorrow, anyway. I only…

No. No. NO! I don’t
believe
this! I don’t… My bottom’s
soaked
! It’s…
aaargh!
Remember how I told you about that
tiny little hole in my bike seat which sucks up water into the foam padding when it rains so that the next time you sit on it…

NOOOO!! I just… I can’t believe I’ve gone and done it again! Tilly, the woman in Threadbare Cottage, told me – she
warned
me on Friday – to put a plastic bag over it (the seat, Ivo, not my head – although I’m seriously starting to wish I had).

Damn! My beautiful
chair’s
all wet! It’s that wonderful, padded, red-fabric office chair I got in the Conran Shop sale last year! You told me it was all wrong for The Winter Barn! You
told
me! You said, ‘Jo-Jo, that thing’s
completely
at odds with your country aesthetic.’ But would I bloody listen? Would I hell! Well, you were right
(again
, you smug Teutonic swine)! It’s looked stupid here from the very outset (I was too proud to admit it). And now there’s this huge… Damn, damn,
damn!

Okay.
Okay
. I need to calm down. I’m having a little panic attack. It’s just all been so unbearably …
urgh …
stressful! I’m on HOLIDAY for Christ’s sake! I just don’t seem able to… that small switch in my head you’re constantly referring to… I just don’t…

DEUTERONOMY!

NEHEMIAH!

ZEPHANIAH!

LAMENTATIONS!

EZEKIEL!!!

YES! YES! YES!

It’s come to me, in a flash, like a divine revelation! The
name
of the new collection! Scratch the stuff I said in the email (it was all just a pile of crap)! This is
perfect!
This is
fabulous!!!

‘LAMENTATIONS:
a modern exercise in old-fashioned restraint,’ The lifestyle collection in colour, textile and print by designer Jo-Jo JOnes with a little help from Ivo-wots-his-name

(Ha ha – serves you right, though).

‘LAMENTATIONS:
a tearful celebration of those good,

old-fashioned virtues of
thrift and temperance,’
[I’ve got goose bumps!]

The lifestyle collection in colour, textile and print by…

It’s
brilliant!
I
love
it! So timely! So new! So atmospheric! And so incredibly
appropriate
to the whole ‘Threadbare story-board’ I’ve been working on all these long, hard months…
you
know – all the bravery and the sadness and the heartbreak and the making-do.

(Yes, yes. I
understand perfectly well
that ‘Threadbare’ was always the best name for the collection – you’ve said it until you’re blue in the face! But it’s just too blatant! Call me a wimp, but I
do
happen to want to carry on living here, part-time, in Burley Cross after the collection comes out. Their cottage is literally around the corner! Thirty yards from my front door! It’d be like, ‘Hi, Tilly and Rhona. Yes. Yes. I totally ripped off your
entire
life’s work, but hey! Whatever…’)

‘LAMENTATIONS: a long, hard journey in
old-fashioned patterns and well-worn threads,’
[Oh, God, I
love
that! I’m
flying
now!]
from Jo-Jo JOnes, the designer who brought you…

Then, just
picture
it, Ivo: we’ll use all the other books as paint names, individual fabric names, wallpaper names etc. etc.

Effortless!

I mean, as I’m looking down the contents page, right now, I’m seeing fifteen, eighteen, twenty really, really
meaty
titles!

LEVITICUS!

OBADIAH!

HABAKKUK
!

(Habakkuk?
Hmmn
. Maybe not). Have I lost you?

Have I…?! It’s a
Bible
, stupid (you’re
always harping on about your deep, Lutheran roots, aren’t you?!)! I’m holding this incredibly,
incredibly
beautiful Bible in my hands (I’m going to photograph the cover this very second and send it direct to your BlackBerry! In fact, no, I’ll photograph it and send it later, otherwise you’ll just open the document and think I’ve gone loco. Actually, no, you won’t. You’ll understand perfectly. You always do).

I’m holding it in my hands (well, I’m not holding it in my hands – I couldn’t
write
if I were – it’s sitting on the table, directly in front of me, but I’m holding it in my hands, mentally, while rubbing a tremulous, slightly calloused thumb up and down its well-worn spine) and it’s got this stunning (stunning, stunning,
stunning)
Arts and Crafts-style design on the front cover: a mix of these three, thick, bottle-green stripes (of irregular width) interspersed with these two very,
very
red-end burgundy stripes, intercut with four, thin, cream lines, then this absolutely perfect black and cream Coptic-style cross in the middle – the four quarters each with alternating A&C-style graphics going grapes/olives/grapes/olives.

Classic, generous, open font, in cream (I think it might be Baskerville, or something very like… I
love
Baskerville. There’s something so… so
reliable
, so
trustworthy
about the spacing, somehow…).

You’ve just
got
to see it! I borrowed it from Rhona (it’s hers). She’s the older of the two sisters. Always dresses in grey or black. Very tall with sloping shoulders.
Radiates
disapproval. Hair drawn back into an unforgiving bun. Should have been a nun.
Screams
nun. Never smiles. (Why are religious people always so unapologetically bloody miserable? You’d think being religious was a reason to be cheerful! What’s the point of it all, otherwise?)

Well, it’s hers. I asked if I could borrow it last week (just spontaneously). I
seriously
thought she was going to refuse, but then she handed it over, made some muttered excuse about ‘digging over the raised leek bed’, and left the room (I don’t
think she likes me. I don’t think she likes anybody). By rights I should have returned it by now (but thank
God
I didn’t! Thank
God
I hung on to it!).

Of course it was at
that
point – perfect timing, you know me – I discovered the wet bottom thing…

I was astonished! I was horrified! I was like – Oh, my God, my bottom’s all wet!
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!?!

Tilly – the younger sister (she’s just so, so
gorgeous
, Ivo – you’d go perfectly wild for her if she was ten years younger. I’m
quite
in love with her myself, as a matter of fact. She’s got this wild mass of black curls highlighted with tiny wisps of silver. She’s thin as a pole with dark,
dark
blue eyes. Skin stretched over her cheekbones like strips of pale brown cow-hide. Dresses like some kind of crazed, pre-Maoist peasant refugee, or a young boy from a lost tribe of ancient Mongolian camel herdsmen; completely unintentional, mind – totally unpremeditated – clothes just
look
that way when she throws them on her. It’s effortless! Doesn’t have the first
clue
about how gorgeous she is. Product, make-up etc. an
absolute
anathema! Barely
glances
in a mirror… well, she told me… hang on… am I still…?)
Hello! –
well, she just gazes at my wet bottom, perfectly calmly (she’s so unstintingly practical) and says, ‘That’ll be your bike seat. There’s probably a small hole in it. It was raining earlier. Don’t worry. It happens to me all the time. Just tie a plastic bag over it… the
bike
seat, not… No. It’s fine. It’s an old cushion anyway. In fact it’s the special cushion we always used to try and give Glenys whenever she popped round, unannounced…’

At this point I leap into the air again, horrified (I’ve only just sat down) because Glenys was their revolting, senile old neighbour who died earlier this year. The fat, angry one – incontinent. Pelted Simpson with rotten apples from her garden when he barked at her cat that time. (The
cat!
Oh, my God! The cat – Chester,
her
old cat which they’ve adopted – is still
HUUUUGE! He’s on a diet, but he’s still massive. The sisters call him ‘Puffen-bomf’ [?!]. It’s like this little joke they have going on between them – most odd – and when I asked if either of them spoke German they just exchanged amused glances and shook their heads.

He has this weird, fatty deposit near his back-end, to the right of his tail, but kind of tucked underneath it, so his bottom puffs out on one side. Apparently it’s perfectly harmless, but once you’ve noticed it, it’s impossible to stop staring at it. It’s hypnotic! You would be
obsessed
by it, I swear! It’s like this lopsided bustle. Most humiliating for a feline, I’d have thought. Although he doesn’t seem to realize. I mean he’s so fat it’d be a miracle if he could even
see
that far back.)

Anyhow, it transpires I’ve been cheerfully sitting on the cushion they always used to put out for their incontinent neighbour! I’m appalled (I’m wearing my favourite pair of beige cargo pants from Joseph)! But then Tilly notices my expression (hard to miss it, quite frankly) and says, ‘Oh no! No! Please don’t be offended! It was covered in plastic! We’d covered
all
the cushions in plastic by the end, because you could never predict… I mean we were always very careful to protect her feelings – we just pretended it was one of my little idiosyncrasies, because I make all the cushions myself, by hand… And I’ve washed it since, anyway. About a dozen times…’