Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

Anyhow, that’s me about done and dusted. I just wanted you to catch up with all my news, and to tell you how much I’ve appreciated your kindness and your honesty. It really was such a great relief to speak to someone who wasn’t directly involved in the situation. I’d been feeling so lonely and I didn’t even know it!

We’re planning the move for early/mid Feb, so I can work out my notice at the PO. Hopefully I won’t be showing too much by then — I’m keen to keep my pregnancy under wraps until we go (with any luck).

Before I finish up, remember how you asked me towards the end of our session if I would think of my favourite memory — my most beautiful memory — and tell you about it? But I couldn’t actually think of one?

Well, you’ll be relieved to know that I’ve thought of plenty of them since (loads of them!), but the one my mind keeps coming back to is of when I was seventeen and I was at this party (it was just some boring party in Ilkley, a birthday party for this boy I knew from school) and everybody was completely drunk (I was sober for some reason — can’t remember why, exactly). Then Nick turns up, out of the blue. He’d just won this scholarship to America (I was totally devastated that he was leaving, so much so that I’d started dating this guy I met on the school bus — who I didn’t really fancy at all — simply to try and put a brave face on the whole situation).

Anyway, Nick turns up just as some idiot is accidentally tipping cider down my top. I was soaked! (I don’t remember what I was wearing, but it was definitely something new.) Nick was horrified. He got me to take it off, hand washed it in the kitchen sink and stuck it in the tumble dryer. He gave me his jumper to wear as it dried. Then we went outside and sat in the garden together. He was ranting on about how much he hated Chris Evans, and making me roar with laughter.

We were sitting on the bottom step at the far end of the patio. This kid’s house was halfway up the hill (the moor) and had an amazing view into the valley below. All the lights were twinkling. There was this powerful smell of lavender (two huge plants stood on either side of us, and we kept nudging them with our elbows as we talked, releasing this wonderful, heady scent into the atmosphere).

It was so beautiful! And I would have kissed him, right there and then, but he was dating my best friend at the time, so I just gazed up at him — really, kind of, melting inside. I honestly thought he was the most wonderful boy I had ever met.

I still think that. And while I know nothing can come of it now, just having seen him again, after all this time (taking into account all the pain it’s caused me and everything), a part of me is still incredibly glad — that non-disillusioned part, that non-resigned part — because I can hold the memory of him in my heart forever, and cherish it, and finally believe in something — something honest, something unchanging, something constant. Real love. True love. (Okay, I’m done! Stop retching! You can put away the sick-bag!)

Well, I think that’s probably quite enough of me rambling on about myself for a while… I doubt I’ll see you again before the move etc., so thanks (so much) for everything you’ve done for me. You’ve really made a big difference.

Hope you have a great 2007!

All the best,

Nina (Springhill)

PS Here’s something a little strange that just happened (I thought you might appreciate it, being a shrink and everything). While I was working in the PO this afternoon, one of our customers (a man called Baxter Thorndyke) accidentally left his wallet behind on the counter. During my tea break I volunteered to take it around to his house. Oonagh (the postmistress) said she was happy to do it after work, but I was like, no, no, I really need to get some air (which was kind of weird, really, in retrospect).

Anyway, I walked over to his house (it’s this big place called The Old Hall), and when I got there (it’s about half past three in the afternoon — freezing cold), the front door is wide open! I knocked a few times (no answer) and considered just leaving the wallet on the hallway table, but then became convinced that a passing stranger might come in and steal it (unlikely, really, and I could’ve just closed the door after me, anyway).

As I stood there (unable to make up my mind — classic case of Pregnancy Brain!) I could hear music in a distant room — up a small flight of stairs (awful, South American pan-pipey stuff), so I headed towards it, barely noticing my surroundings, almost like I was in a dream or something.

Eventually I found myself walking into this large room, this huge bedroom (thick, shag-pile carpets, four-poster bed, embossed velvet counterpane, oriental wall-hangings etc.), and there, in the middle of this room, at the heart of it, was a massive, free-standing bath (you know the kind of thing: gold taps, lion’s claw feet…).

The bath was steaming hot and full of bubbles. The room reeked (it stank!) of this really strong, really awful scent (orange blossom, I think, which made me want to vomit). But best of all, sitting in the bath, completely starkers, wearing this crown made out of ivy leaves (like something you might see at a really tacky toga party) and holding a glass of what looked like champagne, was Mr Thorndyke!

I just stood there for a second, my mouth hanging open, barely knowing what to say. Then he smiled and said (in this really creepy voice), ‘Ah, Pretty Post Office Girl, COME TO ME!’ and toasted me with his glass!

He held out his other hand. I gazed at it for a few seconds, totally astonished, before realizing that he probably just wanted me to give him his wallet back!

I said, ‘Your wallet. Of course…’ (all, kind of, mechanically) and passed it to him. Then I curtseyed (I curtseyed! I’ve never curtseyed in my life!), turned on my heel and sprinted off!

I’ve felt all tingly and light-headed and woozy ever since… So there you go! More crazy adventures from the weird and wacky world of Burley Cross! Make of it what you will!

XN

Fewston Grange

Hardisty Hill

Blubberhouses

21/12/06

Mr Brogan,

Yet more incidents to report. I went down there yesterday morning early (must’ve been around 8 a.m. — sun’d hardly rose) and found that confounded bloody woman (Tilly Brooks) accompanied by that confounded bloody duck (repulsive thing it is — face like a piece of broiled tongue), swimming around — trespassing — in my Private Fishing Lake again.

I’ve given her fair warning, Mr Brogan (a fact you yourself can testify to), and I’ve had a gut-ful of her sass an’ all. There are others (as you well know), but this one’s the worst. This one’s what I call ‘the ringleader’. It’s an arrogance she has — although I wouldn’t say as it was an arrogance, as such… Can’t think of the right word just off the top of my head (it’s not my job to be thinking up words all day! It’s my job to run this Private Fishing Lake in the most efficient and cost-effective way possible!).

Fact of the matter is: she’s old enough (and ugly enough) to know better.

I put up the extra signs (like you suggested — at considerable cost!). Hasn’t made so much as a scrap of difference! The gate is locked. The fence is secure. But she still persists in…

Heedless!

That’s the one!

She’s heedless! Worse than heedless! She’s cocky! Indifferent! Like I’m just some pesky little fly as she can’t be bothered going to the trouble of swatting off her shoulder! Does the woman think I’m down here all the hours policing this Private Fishing Lake because I want to be? Eh? Does she think I’m doing this simply for the benefits of my bloody health?!