Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

She pointed, grimacing, at the painting of the iguanas (I mean the fruit), emitted a strange, haunting ‘bleat’, then bolted for the door. What else could I really do under the circumstances, Mr Jennings, but quickly retrieve my stick (and my bag, and my book of samples) and clumsily stagger after her?

So there you have it, Claw: an exhaustive account of exactly how it was that we ended up in the local hostelry that night (and the real reason why I purportedly ‘reeked’ of sherry when we initially arrived there!).

Of course I had no idea at the time — not an inkling — that the earlier phone call hadn’t been from Catrin at all, but from the secure institution where Lydia May Eardley is usually resident, apologizing for delivering her to the Crawfords’ home a week early (she’d been given special dispensation to attend an engagement party — the one Catrin was collecting that designer dress for) and instructing her — in no uncertain terms, I’m told — to stay put.

I had no idea at all about any of these things, Mr Jennings. If I had, I would have behaved quite differently, I can assure you, but as it was, I felt compelled to follow Catrin’s strict ‘instructions’ and to accompany Lydia May Eardley to The Old Oak.

I can see no real point in detailing the series of disturbing events that transpired during our short walk to the pub together, Mr J. Suffice to say that in that brief, 200-yard journey Lydia May climbed a tree, urinated against a wall (standing up! Extraordinary! I could barely believe my own eyes!) and tried to steal a scooter (although she only actually succeeded in knocking the thing over. On to my foot. You will probably have noticed my exaggerated limp when we initially encountered each other).

I also think it’s important to state, at this pertinent juncture, that I didn’t (as I believe has been suggested by local gossip-mongers), ‘ply Lydia May with alcohol’ when we first arrived at The Old Oak. Quite the contrary, in fact! I didn’t order any drinks at all (intent, as I surely was, on staying there for as short a time as possible!).

What actually happened when we arrived at the pub was that I instinctively guided Lydia May to the new dining rooms (which were empty that night — as they are most evenings — although the fare there is generally excellent, if a little steep for local budgets), having noted that some kind of function — i.e. your darts comp. — was under way in the saloon bar. I sat her down at a table, gave her a menu to peruse (as a form of distraction) then went off, on my own, to try and locate the elusive Catrin.

Of course it was naive of me (in the extreme!) to imagine that Lydia May would stay put for any lengthy period of time once I’d abandoned her to her own devices, but I could hardly have conceived of the fact that she would head off to the bar the very instant my back was turned and order four pints of ‘snake-bite’ from the barman there.

It later transpired, Mr J, that ‘snake-bite’ is not generally sold in The Old Oak. This lethal combination of cider, lager and a dash of blackcurrant cordial (so beloved of ‘ravers’ and ‘Goths’ in the 1980s, I’ve since been told) is considered ‘too dangerous’ to be served in most responsible hostelries. As luck would have it, though, Wincey had a temporary barman working that night who was unfamiliar with the rules of the house, and consequently had no reason to think that it would be a problem to serve this toxic brew.

I had barely popped my head into the snug, Mr Jennings (then turned around to quickly scan the window seats adjacent to the front entrance), when I espied Lydia May at the bar with four pints of revolting, purplish-brown liquid set out in front of her. I immediately dashed over there (well, as immediately as it was possible for me to dash given the slight injury I had sustained after the accident with the scooter; it later turned out that I had cracked two small bones in my foot!) and tried to intervene, but it was too late. The barman was already engaged in a heated argument with Lydia May about payment for the beverages (Lydia May wasn’t carrying any money with her! He was threatening to throw her out!).

The barman was absolutely irate (I’m not sure what Lydia May had said to him, just prior to my arrival, but I later heard her snidely referring to him as ‘bunny boy’. You may recall the gentleman in question had unusually protrusive ears). He was so angry, in fact, that I instantly felt compelled to take the edge off the argument by simply settling the bill myself (£10.80, no less!). I told Lydia May to go and sit down, quietly, while I fished around in my bag for my purse.

Lydia May did as she was asked (a rare occurrence, indeed, Mr Jennings — although she plainly balked at my use of the word ‘quietly’!), grabbing all four glasses in one go (I don’t know if you noticed during your brief encounter with her what an extraordinarily long reach she has — I’m sure she’d be quite a wonder on the keyboard!) and heading for a corner table.

It was at this moment, I fear, that the die was truly cast for the horrors that were soon to unfold, because on her way to that table, Lydia May bumped into one of your party (on a quick visit to the Gentlemen’s toilets) and her drinks were almost upended during the collision.

The individual responsible (if he was, indeed, responsible: I believe it was your dear friend — and comrade in arms — ‘Mutley’) apologized politely, but having duly noted that no drink had actually been spilt, reasoned (and quite rightly!), that no real damage had been done.

I think it would only be fair to say that Lydia May was not of this opinion, Mr Jennings! By the time I came to join her at the table (and she was already halfway through her first pint at this point — and wearing a small foam moustache, into the bargain!) the poor girl had worked herself up into a rare old bate about the incident. This was, after all, the second near-mishap relating to alcohol of the evening (I say ‘near-mishap’, although the first was an actual mishap, and my fault entirely).

It wasn’t just the little incident with Mutley that set her off, however. A secondary factor was the thudding of the darts against the wall directly adjacent to which we sat. It seems (I have since been informed) that Lydia May has extremely sensitive ears. Loud and sudden noises (except for the ones she makes herself — and she does make such noises, Mr Jennings, and at very regular intervals!) are apparently extremely distressing to her.

The regular thud of the darts was accompanied by spontaneous cheers of support (from the teams and a small, but enthusiastic, cadre of fans), and the loud and often colourful tally of the caller.

None of these appeared to improve Lydia May’s irritable mood. To counter her frustrations she ‘took refuge’ in her glass (as so many are wont to do, Mr J!), and I don’t think it was much more than three minutes flat before the first one had been completely drained — to the very last drop!

I should probably mention that I had taken the precaution (on sitting down at the table) of moving two of the glasses to my side (determined, as I was, to maintain the — frankly, quite laughable — pretence that these had been ordered by Lydia May for my own enjoyment). Every so often I would appear to take a sip from one (although I was only really just touching the revolting concoction to my lips). Even so, Mr Jennings, I quickly began to feel the ‘snake bite’s’ lethal impact (remember, I had already partaken of the earlier sherry, and am completely unused to alcohol in any form).

Lydia May, meanwhile, was determinedly attacking her second full pint, and loudly holding forth about how green was her ‘favourite colour in the whole world!’ (I don’t know if you noticed or not, but the corner benches in that part of the bar are upholstered in a fine, green velvet plush).