Burley Cross Postbox Theft (44 page)

Poor Paula! So keen to make amends, so full of sincerity and optimism, that you don’t have the heart… you don’t have the luxury… Which is it, exactly? Does it really even matter?

The next afternoon, at lunchtime, you receive a piece of most unwelcome news. Paula’s been in a car crash – on her way to Ilkley, or to Bradley, or to Kildwick – with the blue glass decanter. The van is a write-off. The decanter is smashed. And
she doesn’t even know yet that she’s to be made homeless, at Christmas! Five kiddies in tow! You sit in the empty dining rooms, your head in your hands.

It’s then that you receive a visit from Rhona Brooks. She has your scarf and your gloves with her (which you’d left at the church). And she looks so out of place in here, so ill at ease, with her stooping gait, her long, grey, almost nunnish dress, the prominent cross at her neck, those huge, calloused hands. But even so. ‘You seem upset,’ she murmurs, and she pulls out a chair.

So you tell her about Paula Coombes. You tell her about the clock. You tell her about the vase, the bill, the crash. And then, before you know quite what you’re doing, everything else just starts tumbling out. About the insurance, and the numbers, and the articles in the paper, and how broke you are, and last – but no means least – about the charity cash.

‘It’s all such a mess,’ you say, ‘such a terrible mess!’

And you think Rhona will hate you, that she’ll judge you (the way Reverend Horwood judged Duke); a part of you actually wants her to, a part of you actually needs her to. But she doesn’t. She just sits there, quietly, and she listens, her giant hands knitted together, gently, upon her lap. And when she’s done listening, she stands up, and she leans forward, and she squeezes your shoulder, and she nods, then she leaves, muttering something about needing to ‘finish off a hedge, over at the Manor’.

When she’s gone, you wonder if you only dreamed it. And the day draws, inexorably, onwards. Deliveries. A broken oven in the kitchens. The chef threatening to hand in his notice if he doesn’t get a kitchen assistant to help with the chores. Then the cleaner’s a no-show. And the phone keeps on ringing: salesmen, creditors. A coach party arrives, but nobody requires hot meals. One of the toilets gets blocked…

You begin to rail against the world again. How could you not? And it’s the evening already and the barman’s cut his
finger on a broken bottle – they’re bandaging it up in the kitchen, so you’re back behind the bar. And Sebastian (just on his way over to post a letter to Prue), pops in for a quick chat about the Auction of Promises. Mrs Goff is there, too, propping up the bar, her face full of sympathy. ‘Numbers not up yet, Wincey?’ she asks, scanning the half-empty saloon.

You’re finding it difficult to talk. Your throat keeps contracting. Your eyes keep filling with tears. You’re so tired – so exhausted. Then Sebastian mentions the money again. The fifth time, is this? The sixth time? And you don’t know what to say, what to do… So you go and grab your cheque book and you write out three cheques – one, two, three of them, signing with a flourish (entirely for Brenda Goff’s benefit): one for the Auction of Promises, a second for the clock repairs, a third for the donkey sanctuary. You address the three envelopes, leaning on the bar. You apply three stamps.

‘Pop these in the post for me, Seb,’ you say, ‘there’s a good lad.’

An hour later, though, and your stomach is in knots. You know there’s no cash to cover the cheques in your account – you’ve already fallen behind on the mortgage. What to do? What to do?

So you throw on your coat and head out. It’s almost nine. You have a small can of lighter fluid in your hand – or a bottle of red wine vinegar. You must destroy those cheques – at
any
cost – or everything will be lost.

But when you reach the postbox you can’t bring yourself to do it, can you? You just stand there, staring at the damn thing, grinding your teeth with frustration, with rage, with grief, with disappointment. And in a moment of pure, unadulterated pique, you kick out your foot. You land a blow on the box. One, small blow. Then the door pops off.

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: