Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

I’m still running the kennels single-handed. No sign of that extra help Donal promised after the Guy Fawkes Night hullabaloo (would’ve called it a ‘debacle’, but can’t see my way to spelling it right… And we still haven’t seen hide nor hair of that bloody Setter — tho’ Arthur Wolf swore black is blue he saw the damn thing at Raven’s Peak atop Kex Gill last week).

We’re fully booked over New Year. Six months back I would’ve been made up about it — happy as Larry — but now? I dunno. I’m still not…

Sorry, Prue, love. Donal just hauled me down to the small paddock (Phew! Still short of breath, in fact!). Had to wrangle the ram as Donal teased about a million fly eggs out of the wool. The deeper he worked his way in, the worse things got. They’d hatched! An earlier infestation, Donal reckons. We finished up shearing the whole back end. It was far worse than we’d initially conceived of — they’d chewed through to the backbone, pretty much. Poor blighter was in agony! I just dashed back home to ring the veterinary (no mobile reception) …

Sorry, Prue — different pen — the veterinary turned up just as I was settling down. He said as how he thought we could save the poor blighter, but in the end it was too late (£94 too late! Merry Christmas to you, too, Veterinary Crawford!). Donal shot him first thing (the ram — tho’ if the veterinary’d hung around a minute longer than it’d took the ink to dry on his blasted cheque…).

He’s been ashen all morning (it was Pye, the first Romney ram he ever got. Donal doted on the tusty old codger).

Even Gayle clocked how riled her dad were (through that thick stew of heartbreak!) and took him his mug of tea out at ten — a timely rapprochement! (Looked up the spelling in the dictionary! Double-checked debacle! Nowt’s too much trouble for you, Prue, love!)

I found mine (tea) nicely stewed on the kitchen table once I’d mucked out the stables — her job, coincidentally (Oh aye — and she was literally falling over herself to thank me, after… uh… Not) .

You won’t believe it: she’s only back to worrying at her bloody fringe again! Looks like a Trappist monk! Ryan still isn’t returning her texts (that was some row, eh?), but — like I keep telling her — he’s on a walking holiday in Wales with the Scouts, so what’s she expect? (I just thank God I’m not a teenager no more, Prue. All those new-fangled ways to feel rejected! ‘He di’n’t email, Mam! He di’n’t phone, Mam! He di’n’t text!’ It’s enough to send you do-bloody-lally!)

You’ll doubtless be delighted to hear as Billy’s in rare health. Still three bricks shy of a load, of course. Lawrie says he spent best part of an hour chasing his own tail in the yard yesterday, then collapsed — where he stood — and slept for three hours, solid. Wouldn’t move a muscle — not even when Donal sounded the horn on the tractor!

I’m only glad you didn’t risk taking him to Olonzac (what with the Gala virus running so rampant up in the hills there). He’s having a whale of a time here! Loves charging about the place — tho’ he’s crouched over my boots, shivering (fit to bust!) as I write this (I had to hose him down after he rolled in a cowpat. He’s fine . He’s been sat by the kitchen range. The other Borders are all green with envy! Tarry and Rusty’ve had their noses pressed to the door throughout).

He just scoffed down all the cats’ food while someone dropped off a Labrador — beautiful chocolate-brown bitch, five months old, name of Tess — and left their bowls in all four corners of the room.

How’s your sister faring? Two broken arms, three kids, five months pregnant and a B&B to take care of? And there was me thinking as I was hard done by! You must be run ragged, poor sod! Bet you can’t wait to get back home! Talking of which — I went down to The Old Cavalry Yard and dug out that recipe you was hankering after (Stewed Pork and Puy Lentils? Was that it?) and your rosary (enclosed). Then there’s the seven cards I found on your doormat — and something you won’t so much like the look of: a lengthy epistle about the Promise Auction from the reverend’s good friend, Mr Sebastian St John (don’t fret — I double-checked the deadlock on your door so as to be sure that BC’s answer to David Dickinson couldn’t wriggle his way in there and start pricing up the cutlery!).

Anyway, that’s all my news for now — Oh, Lor! Apart from this month’s Book Group! How’d that slip my mind?! Life of Pi! Total catastrophe! Hadn’t had so much as a chance to look at the damn thing, but didn’t dare confess it — being as it’s my third book in a row I haven’t read (folk’ll start thinking I’m only in it for Sally Trident’s legendary Cheese and Olive Scone Bake! Your lower digestive tract must be in uproar having missed out on it all these long weeks!).

As luck would have it, nobody else could make head or tail of the book (so I passed off my ignorance as confusion: ‘But why’d they call the tiger Richard? Where’s the sense in that?!’). Discussion was just getting started, when, next thing we know, Tom Augustine and Robin Goff start going at it hammer and tongs! (Don’t have the first clue why the two of ’em turned up, quite frankly — I much prefer it when it’s only us girls.) Clash of the Titans, it was! Tom Augustine jumps to his feet and sends a plate of bourbons flying. Robin’s all up in his face, ranting and raving (poor Brenda didn’t know where to put herself!).

I wouldn’t mind, but the row wasn’t even about the book! It was some pointless little dispute about ‘the proper definition of a Farmers’ Market’(!). Robin says as the produce has to come straight from the farm. Tom says summat to the contrary. The argument goes on for bloody hours, all manner of accusations flying hither and thither, the two of ’em crashing and butting like a pair of rutting stags!

Nobody else can get a word in (nor wants to, either!). Of course neither of ’em bothers asking me my thoughts on the matter (I’m just a farmer’s wife after all…). Jill Harpington’s down on the floor, meanwhile, gathering up the bourbons, trying to minimize the damage to her new cream Axminster (we’re all in our stockinged feet — Tom, for the record, has a large hole in his sock) when her contact lens falls out. ‘Don’t move!’ she’s wailing. ‘Don’t move!’

Next thing we know, Tammy Thorndyke stands up, throws her book on’t floor and commences mewling like a newborn! Sally Trident starts having a panic attack. ‘Jesus wept!’ she keeps panting (her glasses all steamy). ‘Jesus wept!’

I’ll tell you this for nowt, Prue: I don’t know what the heck they’ve chose to read next month, but I’ve already booked my front-row seat! Wouldn’t miss it for the world (am even thinking of taking young Lawrie along — you know how much he enjoys watching the WWF on the box)!

Donal nearly rolled off his chair laughing when I told him about it — first time he’d cracked a smile in weeks! I was only sorry you wasn’t there yourself…

Come home soon, kid!

Merry Christmas,

God Bless,

XXX

Helen

PS. If what follows looks ominous, at least thank your lucky stars you don’t have to tell Paula Coombes and her mob that the prefab in Lower Field’s just been designated ‘unfit for human habitation’ by the local council. I saw Thorndyke sniffing around it — during one of his infernal ‘rambles’ — not a fortnight since (muttered something to me, in passing, about ‘the strange angle of the chimney’) and now this! I could happily swing for him!