Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

I’m not… I don’t…

Of course you mustn’t breathe a word of this, Teddy! Please! Make no mention of it in your next letter. Or if you do, then encode it. Refer to it as… as The Wreck of HMS Julia (Shipwrecks; first series; 1985) . I’ll pretend that I’ve lost it (the stamp). You can say something casual like, ‘Have you found The Wreck of HMS Julia yet?’ or, ‘You were a damn fool to lose The Wreck of HMS Julia,’ or even, ‘I feel so sorry that you lost the… so dreadful for you… I’ve been there myself, many times, and I understand completely…’

Yes. Something comforting like that. Because Joanna likes to read our correspondence, on occasion, and we couldn’t — I mean if you accidentally let something slip, that would just be so… so horrendous . Unthinkable! I couldn’t possibly… Let’s keep this our little secret, shall we? A private exchange, between the two of us?

(I just needed someone to confide it, Teddy. Someone I can trust.)

They still haven’t found it, I’m afraid. They haven’t found HMS Julia (the dog). It’s been all the talk in the village. There’s a Lost Dog photograph on the notice board outside the shop. There’s been a small article run in the Wharfedale Gazette . And the best part of it? The crowning glory? The identity of the heartbroken owner? PC Peter Richardson!

A police officer!

What a fool I’ve been! What a fool he’s been (because there were photographs — already downloaded on to the computer from the camera; I had seen him parked up there before — and Baxter suddenly came across them, randomly, a couple of weeks ago, while going through the files… So I think he knows, now! I think he suspects!).

The circumstances of the dog’s loss are being called ‘suspicious’, but that’s currently about as far as it goes… Although it’s been sighted, at least twice, over the past six weeks: once, on Guy Fawkes’, up near Saint’s Kennels (the day after it first went missing), purportedly worrying a sheep. Another time, a couple of weeks later, by a local man out hiking near Piper’s Crag — or Herber’s Ghyll — I forget which…

Nothing since.

I keep thinking about that poor animal, Teddy; out there, all alone on the moor in the cold. It’s been six weeks! Sometimes I lie awake at night — as Joanna sleeps beside me — and I think about it ranging around up there: hungry, unbidden, almost feral. I can’t get it out of my mind! It haunts me! And when I do finally fall asleep, it fills my dreams: this handsome, burgundy animal, tormented by ravening appetites. This powerful, proud, red beast: untrussed, unfettered; uncowed; truly wild and utterly unconstrained.

But how will we ever bring it back into the fold, now, Teddy? That’s the thought that torments me the most! How can we possibly hope to civilize it again after such a sweet and tantalizing taste of liberty?

How?

Oh, God! That’s the door! Joanna’s home. I must finish up. I promised to pre-heat the oven for the lasagne. I swore I’d fill the coal scuttle… So much still to say, old friend. But enough for now, eh?

Enough.

Thank you for bearing with me. It means the world. Please, please don’t judge me too harshly…

Tom

PS Hope the asthma has improved. A Very Merry Christmas to Merrill and the kids. Do enjoy the stamps.

12 Rivock House

Jaytail Crescent

Ilkley

20th December, 2006

Dear Dr Bonner,

It’s good news, I’m afraid (or bad news, I’m happy to say.

You know what I mean…).

I’m pregnant, in other words.

Pregnant.

Me, Nina Springhill, up the duff.

A bun in the oven.

It’s official.

I finally plucked up the courage to tell Glenn last week and he just stared at me for about a minute (no expression) and then said, ‘Is it mine?’

I wish to high heaven it wasn’t, Dr B! Not that I mean I wish it wasn’t his. I just wish it wasn’t. I just wish I wasn’t.

A baby is pretty much the last thing on earth this situation needs right now — and I think even Glenn’s starting to gradually appreciate that fact (no matter how hard he worked at bullying me into it in the first place). Not that he’s actually said anything (Mr Monosyllabic? Say anything? Actually talk about his feelings? Are you kidding me?!), but he made me one of those flowers out of tissue paper (like the ones you learn to make at school) and left it on my pillow the other day. It was sweet.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. An abortion’s out of the question (obviously). I’m just going to have to make the best of things, I guess; quietly reconcile myself to my fate. Make a virtue out of necessity, as my mum always says. And why not? It’s the legendary ‘Springhill Way’, after all… That’s one of the only positive benefits of coming from a family of unholy screw-ups: you always know how best to react when the shit really starts hitting the fan…

Hang tough, Nina!

Bite the bullet!

Take it on the chin!

Or, in my particular case: like it or lump it! (Like it and lump it…

Ha ha.)

This isn’t your problem, anyway (not that you needed me to tell you that!). And I’m fine, actually. I’m doing okay. A cloud of quiet resignation is settling all around me.

From the middle of this cloud (and it’s quite dreary in here, quite damp!) I just really wanted to write and say how sorry I am that I was so rude and off-hand with you when we met up the other month. Everything you said was true. Everything! It just took a while for it to sink in properly, that’s all.

I suppose I was still trapped in the stupid mindset that it was only Glenn who needed to talk his problems through, not me (I was just great! I was completely brilliant! Rock solid! Everything was just hunky-dory! Still is, in actual fact!). I honestly didn’t realize how caught up in the situation I’d become. And you were right when you suggested that our relationship was doomed from the start (I’m sorry I bawled you out when you said it. I was just shocked. You were telling me all these things that I already knew were true in my heart, but I just didn’t have the balls to face up to them at the time).

I’ve been so naive! Such a bloody idiot! I was just playing at being Florence Nightingale (like you said). It was all just a silly fantasy. I was just being… I don’t know… A stupid dick-head! Arrogant. Self-important. Holier than thou. I was so busy making this huge, grand gesture — this dramatic ‘statement’ — that I never bothered to sit down and think through what it all meant , what it would ultimately add up to, what the actual consequences would be… (‘Oh yes, I know he’s just lost his legs, I know he’s already married, I know things will be difficult, but he loves me, and I love him, and nothing else matters…’)

I was living in cloud-cuckoo land! I was caught up in all the drama. And I’ve paid a high price for it, Dr B. I threw everything away that I’d worked so hard (so bloody hard) for: my little flat, my friends, my new nursing career (which I loved) and all for what? For some childish schoolgirl crush? A crazy, half-formed gesture of self-sacrifice? (That’s a Catholic upbringing for you. I suppose it had to reveal itself, somehow, somewhere along the line!)

I honestly thought I was being so brave — so noble — when in fact all I was being was a big, immature kid. So unprofessional! Trying to worm myself right into the heart of this awful tragedy (Glenn’s awful tragedy — which had nothing remotely to do with me). Making myself the centre of it.