Burley Cross Postbox Theft (30 page)

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.

When I arrived at Skylarks (Fitzwilliam St) on the stroke of six, I was not a little surprised to discover no one home. I knew that Catrin had been planning a quick dash into Bradford after school to collect a dress for an engagement party at a boutique there, so presumed that she had simply been held up.

After a long fifteen minutes, Veterinary Crawford screeched to a halt in his battered, old Land-Rover, full of apologies. Catrin had phoned him on his mobile to say she was stuck in traffic. We went inside and waited for about ten or so minutes, then Veterinary Crawford offered me a sherry. I told him that I didn’t generally indulge in alcohol (except at Communion!), but that I certainly wouldn’t object to a nice, warming cup of tea!

Veterinary Crawford disappeared off into the kitchen, from whence an impressive volley of crashes and curses then emerged, before the – somewhat harassed – veterinary reappeared again, his cheeks all flushed, claiming that not only had he been unable to locate any tea bags, but that they also appeared to be completely out of milk!

After a few pointed enquiries (on my part) it soon became evident that the poor dear soul had never actually produced a cup of tea in his own kitchen before! Sensing his embarrassment, I quickly swallowed down my misgivings (I
am
generally teetotal) and suggested that we share a small glass of sherry together, after all. This we did, Mr Jennings, and very convivial it was, too.

Another twenty or so minutes passed in idle chit-chat, during which time Veterinary Crawford received an urgent call on his mobile saying how a cow had been hit a glancing blow by a car on the A65 (just past Ilkley, the same incident that was holding up Catrin, it later transpired!).

The veterinary tried to get his assistant (McGraw) on to it, but McGraw was engaged in his own little drama in Leathley (where a poor terrier had a large hide chew stuck in its throat). I naturally insisted that Veterinary Crawford should attend the call (who knows what that poor creature was suffering?), and, after much resistance, he relented, begging me to hold on a short while longer for Catrin, who had assured him that she wouldn’t be any time at all.

Well, I sat down and I waited, Mr Jennings, and after a few minutes I must’ve nodded off. I’m not sure how long I was asleep for (probably just a couple of seconds), but I was suddenly awoken from my light doze by a sharp knock at the door. I hurried to answer it, adjusting my hair (all right – my dentures! The bottom plate had briefly slipped forward!), somewhat startled and confused.

Imagine my surprise, then, when on opening the door I was greeted with the spectacle of two large (by large I mean tall – imposing – muscular) gentlemen, in uniform (the details of which I can’t entirely recall) standing either side of a small, pale-faced brunette with a pair of large, one almost might say ‘burning’, brown eyes. I remember wondering at the extraordinary length of her scarf. It was long, very long, green and white, and wound around her neck countless times (like a
woollen boa constrictor). It hung down in front of her, almost to the floor.

‘Mrs Crawford?’ the men asked. ‘Mrs Catrin Crawford?’ ‘Well, yes…’ I answered, meaning, of course, that it was Mrs Crawford’s
house
. ‘But I’m not—’ (I was intending to say, ‘I’m not she. I am not Mrs Crawford. I am simply waiting for Mrs Crawford in her delightful home.’ But I didn’t get the chance, obviously.)

‘This is just a formality,’ the girl interjected, irritably (and with
great
authority, if I say so myself), waving her hand around, airily, ‘just a formality. Come on, dear,
quick, quick
…’

She grabbed hold of the pen (which one of the two men was proffering me) and pushed it into my hand.

‘Crawford,’ she said. ‘Sign.’

The second man passed me a clipboard with an official-looking document attached to it and she pointed to the space at the bottom of the page, next to the word SIGNATURE. ‘Crawford,’ she repeated, prodding at it, forcefully, with her forefinger, ‘Catrin Crawford.’

Now obviously, with the benefit of hindsight, Mr Jennings, I realize that it was a mistake – a terrible mistake – for me to take that clipboard and to sign Catrin Crawford’s name on it. In truth, I can’t actually even
remember
signing it. I was still half asleep at the time. I’d had the sherry, remember, on top of a rather large quantity of painkillers. I was physically and mentally exhausted after an exceedingly long and trying day.

And I
know
it probably sounds rather like I’m just making excuses for myself, here, Mr Jennings (and I probably
am
, truth be told), but the girl who stood before me, Miss Lydia May Eardley (as it later transpired), had an extraordinary
presence
about her (one might almost call it a
surfeit
of character!). She exuded this strange atmosphere of… of calm implacability, as if she must – by necessity, by pure force of will – control any situation she might get herself in to.

I signed the name, Mr Jennings. Indeed I did. I
knowingly
and calculatedly committed perjury
(the legal consequences of which have yet to be fully thrashed out). Although may I just say, in my own humble defence, Claw, that my motives, I believe, were entirely good and honourable (I have a tacit agreement with
both
of my immediate neighbours on Lamb’s Green, for example, to automatically sign for deliveries on their behalf. It can so often be the case with modern delivery companies that if they fail to make a drop on their initial visit to your home, it can take literally
weeks
for them to arrange to come back).

As soon as the document was signed (I
know
it was wrong, Mr Jennings, but I sincerely believed I was helping Catrin out) Lydia May pushed past me (somewhat rudely) and disappeared into the house. The two men thanked me, cordially, then turned on their heels and left. I closed the door and limped back to the living room (I had forgotten my stick in the rush), fully intent on seeking an explanation of some kind from Lydia May about the unusual circumstances of her arrival.

When I re-entered the room, however, I was somewhat astonished to discover the girl – large tumbler of sherry in hand – going through the Crawfords’ compact disc collection, looking for something to put on. Yet instead of simply reading the names of the discs as they sat in the rack, or removing each disc, individually, and inspecting it more closely, she was pulling them out, in fistfuls, and then hurling them down on to the carpet around her!

I immediately tried to encourage her to desist from this somewhat disruptive (one could even say violent!) behaviour, but she was talking all the while (ten to the dozen!) and asking a series of these infernal questions that one couldn’t really find an answer to, saying things like, ‘This is such a
taupe
house, don’t you think? Catrin’s so very
taupe
. Don’t you just
loathe
taupe, Laura?’

(She called me ‘Laura’ throughout the time we spent together.

It later transpired that Laura was the name of Veterinary Crawford’s dead mother.)

At last (at long last!) she happened across a compact disc that she didn’t mind the look of and shoved it into the CD player – Ravel’s
Boléro
, I think (yes. The
Boléro
. I’m
sure
of it, now), but it was almost impossible to tell
what
it was when it actually began to play because Lydia May had turned it up to such a deafening volume.

The rattle of the drum (is that how the thing starts?) during the opening refrain sounded not unlike a volley of gunshots. In fact I was so startled by this explosion of sudden harsh sound that I lurched to my feet, in alarm (I was crouched on the floor, trying to gather the wretched CDs together, some of which had slipped out of their plastic containers), and inadvertently knocked Lydia May’s sherry glass from her hand!

The sherry went everywhere, Mr Jennings: my cardigan, the CDs, the carpet (which isn’t taupe, for the record, but what I’d call a very modern and attractive ‘pale mushroom’ colour).

‘Oh, you clumsy old
fool!’
Lydia May exclaimed (once I’d finished grappling with the volume controls; I remember her words exactly, for some reason).
‘Now
look what you’ve gone and done!’

Well, I tried to keep my wits about me, Mr Jennings (even in the face of this abusive onslaught!), and hobbled into the kitchen to look for a cloth to clean up the mess with. I’d just located one (under the sink) when I thought I could hear a phone ringing in the other room. By the time I’d returned, however (cloth in hand), Lydia May had already finished her brief conversation and was hanging up the receiver.

‘Was that Catrin?’ I asked, slightly breathless. ‘Uh… yes,’ Lydia May answered, turning and inspecting an abstract watercolour on the wall behind her with a sudden – very intense – level of interest. ‘Yes. I do believe it was.’

‘Did she mention whether she would be home any time soon?’ I followed up.

Lydia May didn’t respond to my question at once. Instead, she continued to inspect the painting, very closely, until, ‘What the hell is this?’ she demanded, pointing to it.

‘An abstract,’ I answered promptly (and why not? The question seemed perfectly uncontentious).

‘A bowl of fruit, I believe.’ ‘A bowl of fruit?!’ Lydia May echoed, plainly astonished. ‘A bowl of
fruit?! Seriously?!’

She drew in still closer to the painting, until her nose was almost pressed up against the glass. ‘Is there a problem?’ I asked (somewhat querulous, now).

‘Fruit
, you say? Fruit? But what about…?’ She stepped back again, scratching her head, obviously deeply puzzled. ‘I mean how can you
possibly
ignore…?’

‘Ignore what?’

I stared at her, nervously.

‘Those!’

She pointed.

I gazed at the painting, blankly.

‘Those! Those!’
She continued to point. ‘The two, huge
iguanas
, stupid!’ she exclaimed (although she pronounced it ig-hu-anas). ‘The two of them, right there, just… just…’

She threw up her hands, horrified.

‘Iguanas?’ I murmured, hoping that if I gazed at the painting for long enough, the iguanas might just magically materialize (but I could see
no physical evidence
of the iguanas, Mr Jennings! All I saw was an apple, an orange, some grapes and possibly a pear).

‘Urgh!’ Lydia May grimaced, turning to face me, again, appalled. ‘Don’t you just find that perfectly
disgusting?!’
I didn’t answer her immediately. Instead I pretended to busy myself (to win a little time) with the sherry stain on the carpet.

‘I mean in a
public
space like this? A
lounge-cum-diner?
To hang a picture – a painting – on your wall, of two, huge, taupe reptiles sodomizing each other? Doesn’t that
revolt
you, Laura? Doesn’t that just make you
sick to your very stomach?!’

I stopped dabbing at the carpet for a moment and gazed up at her, dumbly.

‘I mean here we supposedly are, in this safe, taupe world,’ she continued blithely, ‘this safe,
respectable
, taupe world. Everything in its place… Everything “just so”… And then hanging there, in the
middle
of it,
right
in the middle of it, at the very
heart
of it, these vile and brazen reptiles, these two, huge,
deviant
reptiles, engaged in a
blatant
act of filthy, lusty, uninhibited—’

‘But are you sure?’ I quickly interrupted her (terrified she might actually use that awful word for a second time). ‘Sure?’ she echoed, surprised.

‘Yes. I mean…’ I grabbed hold of a sherry-soaked CD and quickly began drying it off. ‘I mean are you absolutely
certain?’

‘Certain?’
she repeated, her chin lifting, her two hands settling, combatively, on her hips. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘It’s just…’ I stuttered (struggling to hold my nerve in the face of her sullen glare), ‘it’s just that I’m not entirely sure if they
are
iguanas, exactly.’

‘Really?’

She turned to look at the painting again. ‘What? You think they might be monitor lizards?’