Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

We all know it’s just tit-for-tat. The little creep’s still filthy with Donal after he got behind Wincey at the public meeting in June.

Poor old Paula! With her luck, she’ll end up sleeping in’t stables (I know it’s three days afore Christmas, but…).

Will fill you in on all the gory details over a large (very large) bucket of cheap plonk when you get back…

XX

H

‘Tiddlers’

The High Street

Burley Cross

19th December, 2006

Hi Prue, darling –

Seb here. You asked me to keep you up to speed on this year’s BC Auction of Promises, and I must confess — to my eternal shame — that in spite of all my good intentions, I’ve been actively avoiding getting in touch because I’m so deeply, deeply mortified by the horrible way things have been panning out… (In fact this is how bad it’s got, Prue: on Tuesday I spent the entire afternoon sponging down my kitchen blinds — each, individual wooden slat, front and back — with a warm water and vinegar solution, having convinced myself that they were ever so slightly ‘claggy’ to the touch. On Wednesday I lime-washed a perfectly nice chest of drawers. On Thursday I spent hours removing the lime-wash. On Friday I dragged my poor, dear, long-suffering Chloe — who turned fifteen last week — over to the Pet Parlour in Guiseley to get her teeth de-scaled, only to be told by the receptionist — the moment we arrived, and in tones of some astonishment — that she’d just recently had it done, in late August, no less!)

In short, I’m basically at the end of my tether, Prue. I mean call me naive, or stupid (or both, if the fancy takes you) but I can honestly say that I had no idea when I agreed to take on this precious ‘baby’ of yours that it would be quite so needy, or so demanding — or so badly behaved, for that matter. (The late nights! The early mornings! The ruined meals! And I’ve virtually lost count of the number of times the little tyke’s puked down my shirt!)

All levity aside, Prue, it’s been an absolute nightmare — a living hell. And I’m not sure if it’s just because I’m relatively new in town, or whether you have some special kind of influence over people here (cue music for The Stepford Wives — original version. Bags I’m the gorgeous Katharine Ross…), but since you left for Olonzac the whole thing has quite literally ‘gone to pot’.

It’s no exaggeration (well, not much of one) when I say that BC, as it currently stands, is A Village At War. Threats have been made, Prue. Oaths have been forsworn. Dignities have been violated. Boundaries have been drawn, then flagrantly crossed, then painstakingly re-drawn (principally by muggins, here), then flagrantly crossed again.

I have been obliged (in my role as AOP ‘caretaker’) to transform myself, overnight, into BC’s answer to Kofi Annan (and believe me, the traditional, garishly patterned African tribal tunic is so not my style!). I have put myself on the line, Prue — not just once, or twice, but dozens of times. Yet for all of that, none of the parties involved seems even remotely inclined to either relent or give quarter.

People are just being so selfish, so vile and pig-headed, that it actually almost beggars belief! I mean this is a charitable endeavour , Prue! I must’ve said it till I’m blue in the face! ‘This is for charity, people! For all those skinny, shoeless little kiddies in the Sudan, remember?!’ But nobody’s listening! I feel like I’m basically just banging my head against a brick wall (or a beautifully reconstituted limestone one, in this particular instance).

What’s become increasingly — agonizingly — clear to me over the past month or so, Prue, is that I totally lack your natural air of command; your authoritarian edge (I suppose this must be one of the pay-offs for all those years spent nestled deep in the bosom of HM’s Prison Service… Well, that and the great pension allowance. And the dinky little baton. And the fabulous, fabulous uniform…).

Your name has a measure of gravitas in these parts, Prue — you are respected, admired, even feared — while I, by comparison, am just ‘that skinny, camp antiques dealer who likes to wear spats’ (I overheard Jez Baverstock describing me to Sally Trident with those exact words in the queue for the post office last week! I literally didn’t know where to put myself! Although, on reflection, I suppose I am quite svelte… and the spats are sort of my ‘trademark’ …).

To cut a long story short, Prue (or shorter, at any rate), I’ve grown so frustrated (not to say disillusioned) with this whole, torrid Promise Auction scenario that I took the liberty of getting Reverend Paul involved (I do hope you won’t be upset by this decision; while I’m relatively new in town, it’s still fairly apparent to me how fiercely different local ‘factions’ like to guard their own particular ‘patch’ — be it social, charitable or ideological — although I like to believe the reverend, as a representative of the Church, is above all that).

For the record, Paul’s been amazing, a Godsend (an absolute Godsend — an Angel of Mercy, in effect), and has doggedly employed his — not inconsiderable — skills in trying to smooth over some of the stickier disputes and get things back on track.

It’s early days, though, Prue, early, early days, and, to quote everybody’s favourite poet, Robert Frost: ‘I [still] have promises to keep, and [many — to help the thing scan] miles to go before I sleep…’ (I’m sure a smart cookie like you will realize that my real source of this poetic reference is actually the classic seventies psychological thriller, Telefon , starring Charles Bronson. I’m naturally type-casting Baxter Thorndyke in the Donald Pleasence serial-killer role…).

On a more positive note (and I think there is a positive note to be found here, although I’m not entirely sure what it sounds like — probably a B flat), the auction itself went off fairly well. As you strongly hinted before you left (and I must admit I thought you were being perhaps a tad paranoid at the time), the aforementioned Thorndyke did try to railroad the whole event by taking to the stage (uninvited) and making a very odd, impromptu (at least I think it was impromptu) fifteen-minute speech about manhole cover theft, which had the overall effect of really shaking some of the more elderly bidders up (I saw at least two of them head for the door, panicked. One of them — that half-Chinese woman from Menston who works part-time at the local shop — almost in tears).

There really is no getting around the fact that this unplanned intervention of Cllr Thorndyke’s somewhat soured the jolly mood. In the end, the only way we could bring a halt to his impassioned diatribe (the hall was booked till nine — The Burley Cross Players had it after that for early rehearsals of their Passion , which I must confess is going swimmingly. Meredith has finally found her Jesus! He’s from Hebden Bridge, a professional, and unbelievably dishy!) was by turning all the lights off and pretending we’d had a power cut (this was Helen’s idea; she said you’d been obliged to take this course of action before. It did seem quite an effective ruse — although the microphone still continuing to work was something of a giveaway, I suppose…).

Anyhow, by the time I finally stood up to deliver your little introduction (thanks for that, it really did take the pressure off) the party atmosphere we’d all worked so hard to create — with the free rum punch, the Waitrose party finger-food and the balloons — had been somewhat undermined (although your joke about the BC Bell Ringers trying to get into the Guinness Book of Records went down a storm; you’ll have to explain it to me properly when you get back).