Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

During this ‘consultation’, I often take along a few photographs of some of the quilts I have produced in the past (I have a whole scrapbook of the things, believe it or not!), then go though some colour swatches with them, and even (if it is deemed in any sense helpful) have a quick peek at the room/the bed/the chair for which the quilt is finally destined.

In the case of Catrin and Alan, this ‘consultation’ had been rather difficult to arrange because they both have quite demanding jobs (Catrin is the local school secretary, and she is also doing a part-time course in Reflexology, while Alan is obviously a vet, so his hours can be long and somewhat erratic).

Two initial attempts to meet up both went awry and on each occasion the fault was entirely mine (on the first, the gas boiler in my cottage suddenly started making an extraordinary screeching sound, and I felt compelled to call in a twenty-four-hour plumber. On the second, I made the unwelcome discovery of a wasps’ nest inside the trunk of an old hibiscus — a mere three yards from my front door. I was pruning the hibiscus when this happened, and inadvertently pushed my elbow right into the heart of it! I was stung at least thirty-seven times).

A third meeting was eventually scheduled for six o’clock on the evening of the 12th, and I knew that under no circumstances would it be acceptable to register yet another no-show.

As luck would have it, Mr Jennings, it had been a particularly long and stressful day, after I was awoken, at an ungodly hour, by the refuse disposal men, who were kind enough to inform me that a fox had somehow managed to upend my new green plastic composting bin (which had recently been delivered — free! — by the local council) and had spread the contents (kitchen scraps, in the main) all over my front lawn.

I then spent the following forty or so minutes painstakingly gathering up tiny fragments of egg shell, torn tea bags and little pieces of grated carrot by torchlight (an eccentric piece of behaviour, I’m the first to admit, but I was anxious that it might rain and the mess become permanently embedded in the grass).

This laborious process — and the cold weather — duly set off the arthritis in my knees and compelled me to take double my usual dosage of painkillers.

I was late to start my breakfast (always a mistake if you’re on heavy medication!) and was just bolting down a quick Shredded Wheat when Baxter Thorndyke appeared at my window, irate, because he’d driven his Range Rover over five bags of poo (dog poo) which had been placed (inexplicably), at regular intervals, along the edge of the grass verge in front of my cottage.

Without delving too deeply into the sordid ins and outs of the affair, Mr Jennings, the bags of poo had burst under the pressure of his vehicle’s wheels, festooning the under-carriage of his car with a stinking layer of excrement (why he’d felt the need to drive his huge 4×4 up on to my small grass verge in the first place still remains something of a mystery!).

I explained to Mr Thorndyke that the poo wasn’t my responsibility (I don’t own a dog — or even cat — only a lone, ailing love-bird), and that it had obviously been placed there, out of pure mischief, by some deeply troubled and unstable individual (but let’s not get in to all that right now, eh?).

It quickly transpired that Mr Thorndyke was on Lamb’s Green to photograph the local manhole covers (I have an especially beautiful one — apparently — in front of my property!). Even though I was in no way responsible for the filthy discharge, I did feel obliged to lend a hand in cleaning it from Mr Thorndyke’s car with the aid of my trusty pressure-hose.

I’d just returned inside (to towel myself off) when Janine Loose — my neighbour — phoned me, in a complete panic, because a Muscovy duck (which belongs to two sisters who live on The Calls — the road backing directly on to ours) had somehow connived to force its way into her kitchen. The duck (a large, rogue male) was perched, quite contentedly, in her kitchen sink, and was in no particular hurry to leave!

I rushed around there and tried to encourage the cheeky devil out. This took quite some doing since it had inadvertently pushed its foot through a scone cutter, which had, in turn, become tangled up with a fork.

I don’t mind telling you, Mr Jennings, that by the time I finally made it over to the Crawfords (having filled the previous three hours overseeing the hanging of a tapestry exhibition in the village hall — quite a trying process, physically and emotionally) I was an absolutely spent force.

When I arrived at Skylarks (Fitzwilliam St) on the stroke of six, I was not a little surprised to discover no one home. I knew that Catrin had been planning a quick dash into Bradford after school to collect a dress for an engagement party at a boutique there, so presumed that she had simply been held up.

After a long fifteen minutes, Veterinary Crawford screeched to a halt in his battered, old Land-Rover, full of apologies. Catrin had phoned him on his mobile to say she was stuck in traffic. We went inside and waited for about ten or so minutes, then Veterinary Crawford offered me a sherry. I told him that I didn’t generally indulge in alcohol (except at Communion!), but that I certainly wouldn’t object to a nice, warming cup of tea!

Veterinary Crawford disappeared off into the kitchen, from whence an impressive volley of crashes and curses then emerged, before the — somewhat harassed — veterinary reappeared again, his cheeks all flushed, claiming that not only had he been unable to locate any tea bags, but that they also appeared to be completely out of milk!

After a few pointed enquiries (on my part) it soon became evident that the poor dear soul had never actually produced a cup of tea in his own kitchen before! Sensing his embarrassment, I quickly swallowed down my misgivings (I am generally teetotal) and suggested that we share a small glass of sherry together, after all. This we did, Mr Jennings, and very convivial it was, too.

Another twenty or so minutes passed in idle chit-chat, during which time Veterinary Crawford received an urgent call on his mobile saying how a cow had been hit a glancing blow by a car on the A65 (just past Ilkley, the same incident that was holding up Catrin, it later transpired!).

The veterinary tried to get his assistant (McGraw) on to it, but McGraw was engaged in his own little drama in Leathley (where a poor terrier had a large hide chew stuck in its throat). I naturally insisted that Veterinary Crawford should attend the call (who knows what that poor creature was suffering?), and, after much resistance, he relented, begging me to hold on a short while longer for Catrin, who had assured him that she wouldn’t be any time at all.

Well, I sat down and I waited, Mr Jennings, and after a few minutes I must’ve nodded off. I’m not sure how long I was asleep for (probably just a couple of seconds), but I was suddenly awoken from my light doze by a sharp knock at the door. I hurried to answer it, adjusting my hair (all right — my dentures! The bottom plate had briefly slipped forward!), somewhat startled and confused.

Imagine my surprise, then, when on opening the door I was greeted with the spectacle of two large (by large I mean tall — imposing — muscular) gentlemen, in uniform (the details of which I can’t entirely recall) standing either side of a small, pale-faced brunette with a pair of large, one almost might say ‘burning’, brown eyes. I remember wondering at the extraordinary length of her scarf. It was long, very long, green and white, and wound around her neck countless times (like a woollen boa constrictor). It hung down in front of her, almost to the floor.

‘Mrs Crawford?’ the men asked. ‘Mrs Catrin Crawford?’ ‘Well, yes…’ I answered, meaning, of course, that it was Mrs Crawford’s house . ‘But I’m not—’ (I was intending to say, ‘I’m not she. I am not Mrs Crawford. I am simply waiting for Mrs Crawford in her delightful home.’ But I didn’t get the chance, obviously.)