Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

‘But are you sure?’ I quickly interrupted her (terrified she might actually use that awful word for a second time). ‘Sure?’ she echoed, surprised.

‘Yes. I mean…’ I grabbed hold of a sherry-soaked CD and quickly began drying it off. ‘I mean are you absolutely certain?’

‘Certain?’ she repeated, her chin lifting, her two hands settling, combatively, on her hips. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘It’s just…’ I stuttered (struggling to hold my nerve in the face of her sullen glare), ‘it’s just that I’m not entirely sure if they are iguanas, exactly.’

‘Really?’

She turned to look at the painting again. ‘What? You think they might be monitor lizards?’

‘No. No . I mean…’

‘Geckos?’

‘No. No . I mean I don’t think that they’re…’ I swallowed, hard.

‘I don’t think that they’re reptiles at all… ’

She gave this controversial statement a moment’s consideration.

‘Ah. I see,’ she finally mused, ‘so you think they’re amphibians? Is that it? You think that iguanas are actually amphibious?’

‘No. No. Good gracious, no!’ I exclaimed (I do like to think I’m quite knowledgeable in the field of Zoology, Mr Jennings!).

‘Iguanas aren’t amphibious. Amphibious creatures are born in water, and I certainly I don’t think iguanas—’

‘But of course they’re born in water!’ Lydia May snorted, waving a dismissive hand at me.

‘No. No. I think they’re actually hatched from—’

‘Frogspawn!’ she interjected.

‘Eh? What?’ I paused, confused. ‘Oh. Like a frog , you mean?’

‘Yes. Exactly! Like a frog.’

(Lydia May seemed very pleased with this notion.)

‘Well, to be perfectly honest with you,’ I still persisted, ‘what I was actually going to suggest was an egg. I think iguanas might possibly be hatched from—’

‘WHO CARES HOW THEY’RE HATCHED?!’ Lydia May suddenly yelled. ‘God! Why get so uptight about it?! Why get lost in all the details , for heaven’s sake?! The fact is that they are here! In this lounge! On this wall! In awful taupe!

FORNICATING!!’

A short silence followed.

‘Yes. Well. Good… ’ I murmured, softly. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to take your word on that, eh, dear?’

I tried to look calm and obliging (perceiving this statement as a kind of tacit retreat).

‘My word?’ Lydia May parroted (obviously not seeing it in quite this way herself). ‘What’s that supposed to mean? “My word”?’

I opened my mouth to respond—

‘I’ll tell you what it means,’ Lydia May promptly interrupted me, ‘I’ll tell you exactly what it means! It’s just a weak and mealy-mouthed way of saying you don’t believe me! Isn’t it? Isn’t it?’

Lydia May stuck out her chin again, defiantly.

‘No! No!’ I insisted. ‘Not at all!’

‘Are you standing there and calling me a liar , Laura?!’

Lydia May’s wan cheeks had reddened, perceptibly.

‘No! No!’ I exclaimed, shocked.

‘Or deluded? Are you calling me deluded?’ Lydia May clenched her fists and took a couple of threatening steps towards me. ‘Is that it?!’

‘No! Absolutely not! Not at all . I’m just… I’m simply…’

I began to flounder. My throat contracted. The CD I was holding accidentally slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor. Then, before I knew it, Mr Jennings, Lydia May was advancing on me, at speed! In just a matter of seconds she was almost upon me (her fists still clenched, her arm swinging out), and as I uttered a strangled cry and flung myself, flinching, against the shelves (preparing for the very worst!), she snaked down, grabbed hold of the CD, straightened up again and proffered it to me, gently, with an ingratiating smile (it was a movement of such extraordinary grace and beauty, Mr Jennings! A movement of such marvellous fluidity! And the instinct apparently a benign one! But the smile , Mr Jennings? The smile? Extremely cold! Immensely cruel! Horribly intimidating!).

She was standing very close to me, now, her warm breath on my ear.

‘Do I make you uncomfortable, Laura?’ she whispered, in insinuating tones, and then, before I could answer, ‘Does the truth make you uncomfortable, perhaps?’ Her voice hardened. ‘I mean some people are uncomfortable with the truth. It doesn’t sit well with them, eh? They seem to much prefer it if we all just gaily pretend.’

‘Did… did Catrin happen to mention if she would be home any time soon?’ I all but squeaked, turning and enthusiastically dusting a couple of imaginary drops of sherry from the front of the storage unit (to try and mask this sudden — and clumsy! — change of subject).

‘Catrin?’ Lydia May frowned.

‘Yes. Yes. Catrin. On the phone …’

‘The phone?’

‘Yes. A little earlier, remember? When she rang…’

‘Oh. Oh… ’ Lydia May took a sudden, quick step back again, her tone now studiedly cool and off-hand. ‘Yes. Of course. When Catrin rang…’

‘Did she leave any kind of… of message at all?’ I persisted.

‘A message?’ Lydia May paused for a moment, thoughtfully.

‘Hmmn . A message… Well, yes, yes, I suppose she did, as it happens…’

She gazed at me, enigmatically.

‘And… and what was it, exactly?’ I eventually prompted (since no explanation was forthcoming).

‘The message?’

‘Yes.’

‘Catrin’s message?’

‘Yes.’

‘You actually want me to tell you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’

Lydia May thought deeply for a moment.

‘Well, the message — Catrin’s message — was that she wanted us all to… to…’ Lydia May paused again, frowning, then her face suddenly lit up with a luminous smile, ‘to go for a drink! All of us — you, me, her — down at the local pub!’

‘Sorry?’

(This wasn’t remotely the kind of message I’d been anticipating, Mr Jennings.)

‘Yes. Yes! In fact Catrin was very strict about it, Laura. She wanted us to leave straight away — immediately! — she virtually insisted.’ Lydia May was gradually picking up speed. ‘She’ll probably be waiting for us by now, all in a rage! What time is it?’

I peered down at my watch: ‘A quarter after seven.’ ‘Oh dear!’ she tutted. ‘How dreadful! We’re a whole ten minutes late, already!’

‘Really? Ten minutes…?’ I gazed at my watch again. ‘The pub? The Old Oak, you say?’

‘Yes. The Old Oak. I’m afraid so,’ Lydia May sighed, unwinding her scarf with a look of studied indifference, then carefully rewinding it again.

I adjusted my cardigan (which had fallen from one shoulder in all the previous excitement), then dabbed away at it, ineffectually, with the cloth (to try and win myself a bit of breathing space).

‘But are you sure that’s an especially good idea?’ I eventually queried, glancing up again, nervously.

‘No!’ Lydia May exclaimed (her tone extremely heartfelt). ‘No! I’m not sure it’s an especially good idea! I personally think it’s an awful idea, a terrible idea, but it’s what Catrin wants , I’m afraid. She as good as demanded it. She’s set her dear little heart on it. And anyway — if I can be perfectly honest with you, Laura — the thought of hanging around here, for so much as even a second longer, with that… that thing, that monstrosity… ’