Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

Hush, my boy! Hush! What’s that I hear? Is it the trusty rattle of Mrs Spokes’s tea trolley?

Before it arrives, Rog, I should probably alert you to the fact that Timmy Dickson, our main suspect for the crime (this type of activity is right up his street, Rog — or should I say ‘right up his back alley’ , Rog? Arf! Arf !), has a perfect alibi. He was bedridden in hospital in Leeds that week, after his electronic tagging device rubbed up against the delicate flesh of his calf, generated a blister, and provoked a nasty case of cellulitis (transpires he’s allergic to penicillin, Rog, and blew up like a balloon when they pumped him full of the stuff!).

Fishing Saturday week, Rog? It’s been too long! How are your shifts? I’m free in the p.m. from one, if that’s any good to you. The following week I’m thinking of heading off to Royal Dornoch for a round or two (they say it has the same latitude as Moscow!) with Richard Usbourne (always useful to have a shrink handy on the links, eh, Rog? Although in your case, a pathologist might be more in order!).

I do think I’ve earned it, Rog, all things considered. PC Hill’s little problem put the kibosh on me joining Sandy on her annual pilgrimage to County Wicklow to lay flowers on her father’s grave (I was planning to join her for the first time this year — possibly taking the opportunity of popping in on Druid’s Glen, afterwards, on the sly!). Sandy’s still bearing quite a grudge after making the trip on her own.

When I mentioned that I might be heading off to Royal Dornoch over breakfast this morning (which, for the record, I made myself — there’s still quite an atmosphere of rancour in the house over the ‘stamps issue’), Sandy suggested that I might enjoy ‘taking a short trip up my own backside’, instead, then added, as a vague afterthought, ‘Although that might be a little difficult, Laurence. I’m not sure if you’ve actually returned from the last one yet.’

Ho ho!

The truths we speak in jest, eh, Rog?

All the best,

Sergeant Laurence Everill

PS To touch , Rog: tango, tangis, tangit, tangimus, tangitis, tangunt …

PPS Hmmn . A lovely warm slice of Treacle Spice Tray-bake and a steaming mug of tea! Yes. That’ll do nicely, thanks.

For the exclusive attn of

Ms Linda Withycombe –

Environmental Health Technician,

Wharfedale District Council

The Retreat

Saxonby Manor

Burley Cross

21.12.2006

Dear Ms Withycombe 1,

Here is the information as requested by yourself on Friday, December 19, during our brief conversation after the public meeting re ‘the proposal for the erection of at least [my itals] two new mobile phone masts in the vicinity of Wharfedale’. (I don’t think it would be needlessly optimistic of me to say that the ’nay’s definitely seemed to have the best of things that day 2— so let’s just hope those foolish mules 3at the phone company finally have the basic common sense to sit down and rethink what is patently a reckless, environmentally destructive and fundamentally ill-conceived strategy, eh?)

Might I just add (while we’re on the subject of the meeting itself) that I sincerely hope you did not take to heart any of the unhelpful — and in some cases extremely offensive — comments and observations made by the deranged and — quite frankly — tragic subject of this letter: Mrs Tirza Parry, widow 4(as she persists in signing herself in all of our correspondence; although on one occasion she signed herself Mrs Tirza Parry, wi n dow, by mistake, which certainly provided we long-suffering residents of The Retreat with no small measure of innocent amusement, I can tell you).

Because of her petite stature, advanced years and charmingly ‘bohemian’ appearance (I use the word bohemian not only in the sense of ‘unconventional’ — the white plastic cowboy boots, the heavy, sometimes rather coarse-seeming 5, pagan-style jewellery, clumsily moulded from what looks like unfired clay 6, the pop-socks, the paisley headscarves — but also with a tacit nod towards Mrs Parry’s famously ‘exotic’ roots, although, as a point of accuracy, I believe her parents were Turks or Greeks rather than Slovaks, Tirza being a derivation of ‘Theresa’, commonly celebrated as the Catholic saint of information which, under the circumstances, strikes me — and may well strike you — as remarkably ironic. NB I am just about to close this scandalously long bracket, and apologize, in advance, for the rambling — possibly even inconsequential — nature of this lengthy aside. Pressure of time — as I’m sure you’ll understand — prohibits me from rewriting/restructuring the previous paragraph, so it may well behove you to reread the first half of the original sentence in order to make sense of the second. Thanks) , Mrs Parry has it within her reach to create, if not a favourable, then at least a diverting first impression during fledgling social encounters (I remember falling prey to such an impression myself, and would by no means blame you if such had been your own). There is no denying the woman’s extraordinary dynamism (it’s only a shame, I suppose, that all this highly laudable energy and enthusiasm is being so horribly — one might almost say dangerously — misdirected in this particular instance).

I’ve often remarked on how wonderfully blue and piercing Tirza Parry’s eyes are; my dear wife, Shoshana, calls them ‘lavender eyes’, which I think describes them most excellently (although, as she has also remarked, and very tellingly, I think, a ‘blueing’ of the eyes can often signify the onset of Alzheimer’s, dementia and other sundry ailments related to the loss of memory/reason in old age. I mean nothing derogatory by this statement — none of us is getting any younger, after all! 7).

You will doubtless remember Shoshana (from the aforementioned meeting) as that fearless, flame-haired dominatrix (with the tightly bound arm — more of which, anon) who was acting as temporary secretary that day 8, Wallace Simms, who usually fills this role 9, having been bedridden by yet another severe bout of his recurrent sciatica.

It briefly occurs to me — by the by — that it may prove helpful at this point (especially in light of some of the wild accusations being thrown around by TP 10herself in the course of said meeting) if I provide you with a short précis of some of the complex, logistical issues currently being employed by that cunning creature as a pathetic smokescreen to obfuscate the real — the critical — subject at the dark heart of this letter. If you — like Mandy Williamson, your charming predecessor 11— are already fully convinced of my impartiality as a witness/ informant on this delicate — and rather distasteful — matter then feel free to skip the next section of this letter and rejoin the narrative in two pages’ time (I have taken the trouble to mark the exact spot with a tiny sticker of a Bolivian tree frog).

The Retreat (please see first document enclosed, labelled Doc. 1) is a charming — although rather Lilliputian — residence situated just inside the extensive grounds of Saxonby Manor (I have circled the residence, and its small garden, on the map provided with a fluorescent yellow marker).

My dear, late wife (Emily Baverstock, née Morrison) inherited said property over seventeen years ago from her great-aunt — the esteemed Lady Beatrix Morrison — who was then resident full-time at Saxonby (although she generally preferred to overwinter in the south of France, where she kept an immaculate, art deco-style penthouse flat in the heart of Biarritz).

When The Retreat was initially built (in the late 1920s) the property’s principal use was as a summer house/changing room (situated, as it was, directly adjacent to a fabulous, heated, Olympic-sized swimming pool — now long gone, alas). It was constructed with all mod cons (i.e. toilet, shower etc.; see second document — Doc. 2 — a photocopy of the original architectural plans) and although undisputedly bijou , The Retreat was always intended to be more than a mere ‘adjunct’. As early as 1933 they added a small kitchen and a bedroom to allow guests to stay there overnight in greater luxury, and it was eventually inhabited — full-time — by a displaced family (the Pringles, I believe 12) for the duration of WWII.