Burley Cross Postbox Theft (31 page)

‘No.
No
. I mean…’

‘Geckos?’

‘No.
No
. I mean I don’t think that they’re…’ I swallowed, hard.

‘I don’t think that they’re reptiles
at all…
’

She gave this controversial statement a moment’s consideration.

‘Ah. I see,’ she finally mused, ‘so you think they’re
amphibians?
Is that it? You think that iguanas are actually amphibious?’

‘No. No. Good gracious, no!’ I exclaimed (I do like to think I’m quite knowledgeable in the field of Zoology, Mr Jennings!).

‘Iguanas aren’t amphibious. Amphibious creatures are born in water, and I certainly I don’t think iguanas—’

‘But
of course
they’re born in water!’ Lydia May snorted, waving a dismissive hand at me.

‘No. No. I think they’re actually hatched from—’

‘Frogspawn!’ she interjected.

‘Eh? What?’ I paused, confused. ‘Oh. Like a
frog
, you mean?’

‘Yes. Exactly! Like a frog.’

(Lydia May seemed very pleased with this notion.)

‘Well, to be perfectly honest with you,’ I still persisted, ‘what I was actually going to suggest was an egg. I think iguanas might possibly be hatched from—’

‘WHO
CARES HOW THEY’RE HATCHED?!’
Lydia May suddenly yelled.
‘God!
Why get so
uptight
about it?! Why get lost in all the
details
, for heaven’s sake?! The fact is that they are
here!
In this lounge! On this wall! In awful taupe!

FORNICATING!!’

A short silence followed.

‘Yes. Well.
Good…
’ I murmured, softly. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to take your word on that, eh, dear?’

I tried to look calm and obliging (perceiving this statement as a kind of tacit retreat).

‘My word?’ Lydia May parroted (obviously not seeing it in quite this way herself). ‘What’s
that
supposed to mean? “My word”?’

I opened my mouth to respond—

‘I’ll
tell
you what it means,’ Lydia May promptly interrupted me, ‘I’ll tell you
exactly
what it means! It’s just a weak and mealy-mouthed way of saying you don’t
believe
me! Isn’t it?
Isn’t
it?’

Lydia May stuck out her chin again, defiantly.

‘No! No!’ I insisted. ‘Not at all!’

‘Are you standing there and calling me a
liar
, Laura?!’

Lydia May’s wan cheeks had reddened, perceptibly.

‘No! No!’ I exclaimed, shocked.

‘Or deluded? Are you calling me
deluded?’
Lydia May clenched her fists and took a couple of threatening steps towards me. ‘Is
that
it?!’

‘No! Absolutely not! Not at
all
. I’m just… I’m simply…’

I began to flounder. My throat contracted. The CD I was holding accidentally slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor. Then, before I knew it, Mr Jennings, Lydia May was advancing on me, at speed! In just a matter of seconds she was almost upon me (her fists still clenched, her arm swinging out), and as I uttered a strangled cry and flung myself, flinching, against the shelves (preparing for the very worst!), she snaked down, grabbed hold of the CD, straightened up again and proffered it to me, gently, with an ingratiating smile (it was a movement of such extraordinary grace and beauty, Mr Jennings! A movement of such marvellous fluidity! And the instinct apparently a benign one! But the
smile
, Mr Jennings? The
smile?
Extremely cold! Immensely cruel! Horribly intimidating!).

She was standing very close to me, now, her warm breath on my ear.

‘Do I make you uncomfortable, Laura?’ she whispered, in insinuating tones, and then, before I could answer, ‘Does the
truth
make you uncomfortable, perhaps?’ Her voice hardened. ‘I mean some people
are
uncomfortable with the truth. It doesn’t sit well with them, eh? They seem to much prefer it if we all just gaily
pretend.’

‘Did… did Catrin happen to mention if she would be home any time soon?’ I all but squeaked, turning and enthusiastically dusting a couple of imaginary drops of sherry from the front of the storage unit (to try and mask this sudden – and clumsy! – change of subject).

‘Catrin?’ Lydia May frowned.

‘Yes. Yes. Catrin. On the phone …’

‘The phone?’

‘Yes. A little earlier, remember? When she rang…’

‘Oh.
Oh…
’ Lydia May took a sudden, quick step back again, her tone now studiedly cool and off-hand. ‘Yes. Of course. When
Catrin
rang…’

‘Did she leave any kind of… of
message
at all?’ I persisted.

‘A message?’ Lydia May paused for a moment, thoughtfully.

‘Hmmn
. A message… Well, yes, yes, I suppose she did, as it happens…’

She gazed at me, enigmatically.

‘And… and what was it, exactly?’ I eventually prompted (since no explanation was forthcoming).

‘The message?’

‘Yes.’

‘Catrin’s message?’

‘Yes.’

‘You actually want me to
tell
you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’

Lydia May thought deeply for a moment.

‘Well, the message –
Catrin’s
message – was that she wanted us all to… to…’ Lydia May paused again, frowning, then her face suddenly lit up with a luminous smile, ‘to go for a drink!
All
of us – you, me, her – down at the local pub!’

‘Sorry?’

(This wasn’t remotely the kind of message I’d been anticipating, Mr Jennings.)

‘Yes. Yes! In fact Catrin was very strict about it, Laura. She wanted us to leave straight away – immediately! – she virtually
insisted.’
Lydia May was gradually picking up speed. ‘She’ll probably be waiting for us by now, all in a rage! What time is it?’

I peered down at my watch: ‘A quarter after seven.’ ‘Oh dear!’ she tutted. ‘How dreadful! We’re a whole ten minutes late, already!’

‘Really? Ten minutes…?’ I gazed at my watch again. ‘The pub? The Old Oak, you say?’

‘Yes. The Old Oak. I’m afraid so,’ Lydia May sighed, unwinding her scarf with a look of studied indifference, then carefully rewinding it again.

I adjusted my cardigan (which had fallen from one shoulder in all the previous excitement), then dabbed away at it,
ineffectually, with the cloth (to try and win myself a bit of breathing space).

‘But are you sure that’s an especially good idea?’ I eventually queried, glancing up again, nervously.

‘No!’ Lydia May exclaimed (her tone extremely heartfelt). ‘No! I’m
not
sure it’s an especially good idea! I personally think it’s an
awful
idea, a
terrible
idea, but it’s what Catrin
wants
, I’m afraid. She as good as
demanded
it. She’s set her dear little
heart
on it. And anyway – if I can be perfectly honest with you, Laura – the thought of hanging around here, for so much as even a
second
longer, with that… that thing, that
monstrosity…
’

She pointed, grimacing, at the painting of the iguanas (I mean the fruit), emitted a strange, haunting ‘bleat’, then bolted for the door. What else could I really do under the circumstances, Mr Jennings, but quickly retrieve my stick (and my bag, and my book of samples) and clumsily stagger after her?

So there you have it, Claw: an exhaustive account of exactly how it was that we ended up in the local hostelry that night (and the
real
reason why I purportedly ‘reeked’ of sherry when we initially arrived there!).

Of course I had no idea at the time – not an inkling – that the earlier phone call hadn’t been from Catrin at all, but from the secure institution where Lydia May Eardley is usually resident, apologizing for delivering her to the Crawfords’ home a week early (she’d been given special dispensation to attend an engagement party – the one Catrin was collecting that designer dress for) and instructing her – in no uncertain terms, I’m told – to stay put.

I had no idea
at all
about any of these things, Mr Jennings. If I had, I would have behaved quite differently, I can assure you, but as it was, I felt compelled to follow Catrin’s strict ‘instructions’ and to accompany Lydia May Eardley to The Old Oak.

I can see no real point in detailing the series of disturbing events that transpired during our short walk to the pub together, Mr J. Suffice to say that in that brief, 200-yard journey Lydia May climbed a tree, urinated against a wall (standing up! Extraordinary! I could barely believe my own eyes!) and tried to steal a scooter (although she only actually succeeded in knocking the thing over. On to my foot. You will probably have noticed my exaggerated limp when we initially encountered each other).

I also think it’s important to state, at this pertinent juncture, that I didn’t (as I believe has been suggested by local gossip-mongers), ‘ply Lydia May with alcohol’ when we first arrived at The Old Oak. Quite the contrary, in fact! I didn’t order
any
drinks at all (intent, as I surely was, on staying there for as short a time as possible!).

What actually happened when we arrived at the pub was that I instinctively guided Lydia May to the new dining rooms (which were empty that night – as they are most evenings – although the fare there is generally excellent, if a little steep for local budgets), having noted that some kind of function – i.e. your darts comp. – was under way in the saloon bar. I sat her down at a table, gave her a menu to peruse (as a form of distraction) then went off, on my own, to try and locate the elusive Catrin.

Of course it was naive of me (in the extreme!) to imagine that Lydia May would stay put for any lengthy period of time once I’d abandoned her to her own devices, but I could hardly have conceived of the fact that she would head off to the bar
the very instant my back was turned
and order four pints of ‘snake-bite’ from the barman there.

It later transpired, Mr J, that ‘snake-bite’ is not generally sold in The Old Oak. This lethal combination of cider, lager and a dash of blackcurrant cordial (so beloved of ‘ravers’ and ‘Goths’ in the 1980s, I’ve since been told) is considered ‘too dangerous’ to be served in most responsible hostelries. As luck would have
it, though, Wincey had a temporary barman working that night who was unfamiliar with the rules of the house, and consequently had no reason to think that it would be a problem to serve this toxic brew.

I had barely popped my head into the snug, Mr Jennings (then turned around to quickly scan the window seats adjacent to the front entrance), when I espied Lydia May at the bar with four pints of revolting, purplish-brown liquid set out in front of her. I immediately dashed over there (well, as immediately as it was possible for me to dash given the slight injury I had sustained after the accident with the scooter; it later turned out that I had cracked two small bones in my foot!) and tried to intervene, but it was too late. The barman was already engaged in a heated argument with Lydia May about payment for the beverages (Lydia May wasn’t carrying any money with her! He was threatening to throw her out!).

The barman was absolutely irate (I’m not sure what Lydia May had said to him, just prior to my arrival, but I later heard her snidely referring to him as ‘bunny boy’. You may recall the gentleman in question had unusually protrusive ears). He was so angry, in fact, that I instantly felt compelled to take the edge off the argument by simply settling the bill myself (£10.80, no less!). I told Lydia May to go and sit down, quietly, while I fished around in my bag for my purse.

Lydia May did as she was asked (a rare occurrence, indeed, Mr Jennings – although she plainly balked at my use of the word ‘quietly’!), grabbing all four glasses in one go (I don’t know if you noticed during your brief encounter with her what an extraordinarily long reach she has – I’m sure she’d be quite a wonder on the keyboard!) and heading for a corner table.

It was at this moment, I fear, that the die was truly cast for the horrors that were soon to unfold, because on her way to that table, Lydia May bumped into one of your party (on a quick visit to the Gentlemen’s toilets) and her drinks were almost upended during the collision.

The individual responsible (if he was, indeed, responsible: I believe it was your dear friend – and comrade in arms – ‘Mutley’) apologized politely, but having duly noted that no drink had actually been spilt, reasoned (and quite rightly!), that no real damage had been done.

I think it would only be fair to say that Lydia May was
not
of this opinion, Mr Jennings! By the time I came to join her at the table (and she was already halfway through her first pint at this point – and wearing a small foam moustache, into the bargain!) the poor girl had worked herself up into a rare old bate about the incident. This was, after all, the
second
near-mishap relating to alcohol of the evening (I say ‘near-mishap’, although the first was an
actual
mishap, and my fault entirely).

It wasn’t just the little incident with Mutley that set her off, however. A secondary factor was the thudding of the darts against the wall directly adjacent to which we sat. It seems (I have since been informed) that Lydia May has extremely sensitive ears. Loud and sudden noises (except for the ones she makes herself – and she
does
make such noises, Mr Jennings, and at very regular intervals!) are apparently extremely distressing to her.

The regular thud of the darts was accompanied by spontaneous cheers of support (from the teams and a small, but enthusiastic, cadre of fans), and the loud and often colourful tally of the caller.

None of these appeared to improve Lydia May’s irritable mood. To counter her frustrations she ‘took refuge’ in her glass (as so many are wont to do, Mr J!), and I don’t think it was much more than three minutes flat before the first one had been completely drained – to the very last drop!

I should probably mention that I had taken the precaution (on sitting down at the table) of moving two of the glasses to my side (determined, as I was, to maintain the – frankly, quite laughable – pretence that these had been ordered by Lydia May for my own enjoyment). Every so often I would appear to take
a sip from one (although I was only really just touching the revolting concoction to my lips). Even so, Mr Jennings, I quickly began to feel the ‘snake bite’s’ lethal impact (remember, I had already partaken of the earlier sherry, and am completely unused to alcohol in
any
form).