Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

May I just start off by saying that I am so sorry (so very, very sorry — words just can’t express) for my unwitting role in the dreadful events of the fateful night of December 12th.

Given your persistent refusal to accept all my visits and phone calls since that momentous date, I can only imagine that you’re still absolutely furious with me — and heaven knows, you’re certainly in good company!

The Crawfords remain utterly implacable, I’m afraid, even to the extent that Veterinary Crawford claimed he was ‘far too busy’ to come out and see my ailing love-bird, Tyrone, on Tuesday last, obliging me to depend on the services of his genial assistant, Mr McGraw (who is the first to admit that he has no special expertise in avian health issues!).

Then I saw Wincey — who nobody could deny has a heart forged from pure twenty-four-carat gold — dart and hide behind a parked car to avoid bumping into me outside the PO. To add insult to injury, I was actually being gently ticked off by Sebastian St John — this year’s AOP Events Manager (more of which, anon) — at the time!

Wharfedale’s dog warden, Trevor Horsmith (his beautiful, silver Clio was destroyed in the riot — I believe it was the one you purportedly ‘torched’), can barely find it in himself to exchange so much as a civil ‘hello’ …

And they’re just the tip of a rather large iceberg, Mr Jennings! In all candour, I’m starting to feel a little like a pariah in my own home (although please don’t think — not even for a minute — that I’m looking for sympathy here. Good heavens, no! Not a bit of it! I wouldn’t dare to! Because I’m perfectly well aware that by comparison to you I’ve got off very lightly — or at least relatively unscathed…).

I suppose all I’m really trying to say (if I can somehow manage to get my teeth in straight!) is that I do hope you don’t think that you’re suffering this awful trial of yours entirely alone. I am here for you (every inch of the way), as is the Gentle Nazarene (‘He is never far from us and is always close at hand. If he cannot remain within he goes no further than the door…’ Meister Eckhart).

Always remember, as St Paul says, ‘Virtue is perfected in weakness’ (2 Cor. 12: 9), and that all things finally must work to the good — ‘Yes, even sins!’ (St Augustine).

That said, Mr Jennings, I must confess that my poor heart sinks (it dives — it quite literally plummets!) every time I think of you, stuck in some tiny, overcrowded cell, on remand, in Leeds, knowing that I must bear at least some partial responsibility for the tragic turn of events that prompted you to end up there.

Oh, it must be such an unbearably grim and lonely time of year to be incarcerated (not that there’s ever a good time, I’m sure!). I do hope you’re managing to keep your chin up.

At least know that you are never far from my thoughts. I’ve been into our local church — St Peter’s — and have lit a candle for you every day since I first learned of your awful plight. I suppose you might almost say that I’ve been mounting a small vigil there on your behalf.

And if it isn’t too self-indulgent of me to mention it, I have also been reciting a special prayer — morning and night — which I found in an ancient little book of Meditations and Prayers for Particular Occasions which my grandmother (who was a devout, Catholic lady) gave me as a child. The prayer in question is ‘A Prayer Before Going on A Journey’ (because this is how I have chosen to perceive your cruel incarceration, Mr Jennings, as a journey, of sorts).

If you can stand it, I would like to take the opportunity to copy it down here for you, in the feeble hope that it might give you some kind of sustenance in your hour of need (you will see that I have taken the liberty of inserting your name into its fabric — to give it a more personal and authentic feel. I do hope you won’t consider this too much of an impertinence).

O Almighty God, who fillest all things with thy presence, and art a God afar off as well as near at hand, Thou didst send thy angel to bless Jacob in his journey, and didst lead the children of Israel through the Red Sea, making it a wall on the right hand and on the left; be pleased to let thy angel go out before Mr Jennings and guide him in his journey, preserving him from dangers of robbers, from violence of enemies, and sudden and sad accidents, from falls and errors. And prosper his journey to thy glory, and to all innocent purposes; and preserve him from all sin, that he may return in peace and holiness, with thy favour and thy blessing and may serve Thee in thankfulness and obedience all the days of his pilgrimage; and at last bring him to thy country, to the celestial Jerusalem, there to dwell in thy house, and to sing praises to thee forever. Amen .

(Jeremy Taylor)

You may — or may not — be aware of the fact that I spoke (at some length) to your barrister, Mr Tracey, yesterday. It was he who actually suggested that I write to you, not only to assuage my guilt, beg your forgiveness and wish you well for your court appearance on January 3rd, but principally to explain, in the plainest possible detail, why it was that I behaved as I did on that horrible night of December 12th. He hoped that by dint of this enterprise, I might finally provide you with the best chance of understanding how it was that the Cruel Fates connived to bring this sorry situation into being.

To start at the very beginning, Mr Jennings, I should tell you that I am a seventy-two-year-old widow, a practising Christian and a grandmother of three beautiful girls (Sophie, Zoe and Victoria, who live in Ontario with my only son, Patrick, and his wife, Renee).

I have chronic arthritis in both of my knees (which tends to flare up more severely in winter, and means I am sometimes obliged to walk with the aid of a stick).

As a consequence of this (the arthritis, which can be quite disabling, although I’m not complaining here, Claw, since God has blessed me — and quite copiously — in countless other ways: I have excellent eyesight, for example, which I thank him daily for), I have developed a keen interest in tapestry and sewing, and am fairly well known in Burley Cross for my handmade patchwork quilts (sorry to rabbit on about myself like this, but these boring details are pertinent to the story and aren’t simply the senile witterings of a lonely old crone, I can assure you!).

Over the past couple of years I have been very happy to participate in the Burley Cross Auction of Promises, an annual event where citizens of the town auction off their humble services in the hope of raising money for charity (this year I believe it was to support a wonderful school for deaf children in the Sudan).

For the past three years (like I say) I have auctioned the promise of one of my patchwork quilts. The quilts come in all shapes and sizes and can take anything from a month to six months to produce. This year the proposed quilt was purchased by Catrin and Alan Crawford (Burley Cross’s resident vet and his wife) for the princely sum of £109!

Obviously every quilt I make is unique. The overall look and feel of the thing depends on a whole variety of factors, the colour, shape and texture of the individual patches being but three (square or honeycomb, plain or patterned, cotton or satin, the choices run on and on, virtually ad infinitum!) .

When (as in this instance) the quilt has been specially commissioned, I generally like to have a good chat with the person (or persons) I am making the quilt for, well in advance of commencing work, so that their preferences are clearly established (some people are perfectly allergic to bright colours, for example!). I suppose you could call this highly informal process ‘a consultation’, of sorts.