Burley Cross Postbox Theft (36 page)

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.

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…).

I’m pregnant, in other words.

Pregnant.

Me, Nina Springhill, up the duff.

A bun in the oven.

It’s official.

I finally plucked up the courage to tell Glenn last week and he just stared at me for about a minute (no expression) and then said, ‘Is it mine?’

I wish to high heaven it wasn’t, Dr B! Not that I mean I wish it wasn’t his. I just wish
it
wasn’t. I just wish
I
wasn’t.

A baby is pretty much the last thing on earth this situation needs right now – and I think even Glenn’s starting to gradually appreciate that fact (no matter how hard he worked at bullying me into it in the first place). Not that he’s actually
said
anything (Mr Monosyllabic?
Say
anything? Actually talk about his feelings? Are you kidding me?!), but he made me one of those flowers out of tissue paper (like the ones you learn to make at school) and left it on my pillow the other day. It was sweet.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. An abortion’s out of the question (obviously). I’m just going to have to make the best of things, I guess; quietly reconcile myself to my fate. Make a virtue out of necessity, as my mum always says. And why not? It’s the legendary ‘Springhill Way’, after all… That’s one of the only positive benefits of coming from a family of unholy
screw-ups: you always know how best to react when the shit really starts hitting the fan…

Hang tough, Nina!

Bite the bullet!

Take it on the chin!

Or, in my particular case: like it or lump it! (Like it
and
lump it…

Ha ha.)

This isn’t your problem, anyway (not that you needed me to tell you that!). And I’m fine, actually. I’m doing okay. A cloud of quiet resignation is settling all around me.

From the middle of this cloud (and it’s quite dreary in here, quite damp!) I just really wanted to write and say how sorry I am that I was so rude and off-hand with you when we met up the other month. Everything you said was true. Everything! It just took a while for it to sink in properly, that’s all.

I suppose I was still trapped in the stupid mindset that it was only Glenn who needed to talk his problems through, not me (I was just great! I was completely brilliant! Rock solid! Everything was just hunky-dory! Still is, in actual fact!). I honestly didn’t realize how caught up in the situation I’d become. And you were right when you suggested that our relationship was doomed from the start (I’m sorry I bawled you out when you said it. I was just shocked. You were telling me all these things that I already knew were true in my heart, but I just didn’t have the balls to face up to them at the time).

I’ve been so naive! Such a bloody idiot! I was just playing at being Florence Nightingale (like you said). It was all just a silly fantasy. I was just being… I don’t know… A stupid dick-head! Arrogant. Self-important. Holier than thou. I was so busy making this huge, grand gesture – this dramatic ‘statement’ – that I never bothered to sit down and think through what it all
meant
, what it would ultimately add up to, what the actual consequences would be… (‘Oh yes, I know he’s just lost his legs, I know he’s already married, I know things will be difficult, but he loves me, and I love him, and nothing else matters…’)

I was living in cloud-cuckoo land! I was caught up in all the drama. And I’ve paid a high price for it, Dr B. I threw everything away that I’d worked so hard (so
bloody
hard) for: my little flat, my friends, my new nursing career (which I loved) and all for what? For some childish schoolgirl crush? A crazy, half-formed gesture of self-sacrifice? (That’s a Catholic upbringing for you. I suppose it had to reveal itself, somehow, somewhere along the line!)

I honestly thought I was being so brave – so noble – when in fact all I was being was a big, immature kid. So
unprofessional!
Trying to worm myself right into the heart of this awful tragedy (Glenn’s awful tragedy – which had nothing remotely to do with me). Making myself the centre of it.

Unbelievable, really, when I actually come to think about it. I was like Erin sodding Brockovich (in the film. Although
she
actually achieves something worthwhile by the end, and all I’ve done is create a horrible mess – a terrible mess – and make everyone feel even worse about themselves. Well done, Nina!
Great
work, lass!).

It just kills me when I think back on it, now.

I mean I knew Glenn was married, and that the travel arrangements were difficult for his wife (especially with two young kids to look after and no proper family support to speak of), but I didn’t give a damn about it.
Seriously
. I was so ready to judge her. I was so busy being the perfect little nurse, bustling around the place in my neat starched blue uniform. So happy playing the part, in other words.

She didn’t stand a chance – not a chance. And Glenn’s… well, he’s just Glenn. He’s just… just the man he is – a bit of a bully, a bit controlling, a bit of a blow-hard, a bit of a ‘glass-half-full’ type of person (with legs
or
without them). He was vulnerable. He was flailing around. I was just an escape route. Something new. Something that
hadn’t
actually been destroyed by that land mine. Something positive (or so he thought) to emerge from the whole mess.

I’m not proud of what I did, Dr Bonner. I suppose my head was just turned. I was like some awful Angel of Mercy – a Love Vampire (here we go: that wonderful knack for self-dramatizing you talked so eloquently about!). But it wasn’t even love, was it? Just grandstanding.

And everybody told me it was a mistake (everybody – even Mum!), but would I listen? Would I hell! I’ve always been a pig-headed little cow.