Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

Just prior to the appointment you park your car, make sure the coast is clear, then carry a black refuse-bag with the letters hidden inside it into the back alley. You remove three letters from the bunch and scatter them around inside Mhairi’s small, neat yard. Then you go and get your hair done.

Halfway through (as is now customary), you sneak into the back kitchen for a quick fag, opening the back door (to air the room — as you generally always do). You place a further letter (which you’d hidden inside your pocket), on to the back step (to draw her on), then you return to the salon where you enjoy a fascinating conversation with a Miss Squires (charming woman, very affable, who you’d spoken to, on the phone, a couple of weeks before).

Just as you’d hoped, a few minutes later, Mhairi nips out back for a quick fag herself, and is astonished to discover…

But you’re well on your way home by then.

And the best part of it? You’ve won yourself some time — some valuable time! Because you didn’t remove those unbankable cheques. Nope. You cunningly left them behind. And they’ll become a part of the body of evidence, now. It’ll be days, weeks, months, even, before you get them back.

You feel like a weight has lifted from your shoulders. In fact you feel so light, so airy, that when Paula Coombes drops by to apologize about the fact that she can’t pay for the clock repairs, you tell her it’s just fine. And when she confides in you about the prefab, you tell her… How extraordinary! You find yourself telling her to move into the pub. There are three empty bedrooms upstairs. And the older boy can work in the kitchens, in lieu of rent (after his measles have cleared up). And Paula can work behind the bar. She has a barmaid’s temperament, you say, with a grin, a kind of crazy optimism — the kind you had yourself once, as a girl, the kind that makes people want to sit down, have a chat, and enjoy a drink.

Later that afternoon, the barman comes upstairs to find you (you’re sitting at Duke’s desk, in his study, doing the VAT). He passes you a heavy envelope (his finger swaddled in white — the bandage coming loose at the tip). You open it up. Your jaw drops. Three and a half thousand pounds, in used bank notes, and a short message, written on a piece of curiously heavy and porous paper: ‘For charity,’ it says.

Fin .

The end.

How did I do?

All right?

There are a few things I don’t know, obviously: did you keep the money? Did you manage to unblock that toilet successfully? Did the barman need a stitch? Did the VAT add up properly?

There are many things I don’t know, in fact, but there are some things I do. I know that Paula Coombes has been a Godsend. I know that business is slowly picking up. I know that Jared has finally found his joy in life (his passion — his true vocation) and that he’s training to become a chef. I know Madeline’s got a new fiddle, and that sometimes, in the early evening, she climbs up on to the bar and she plays it for a while (to tumultuous applause), then she throws it down, rolls up her sleeve and armpit farts, for an encore.

I know it brings a large tear to your eye, Wincey, every time she does.

And I know you’ll never forgive yourself for what happened to poor Rita — that you were the first person (aside from Peter, and from me) to visit her in hospital. I know you talked Peter around. I know you force-fed him on casseroles. I know you were incredibly kind, and generous with your time, same as you always are.

And other things — other things I know? Let’s see… I know that pubs are on their way out (hundreds are closing every week), that they’re merely a sad reminder of things past (the way we once were, The Good Old Days), just like ‘community spirit’ is, and communities themselves, and churches, and local bobbies, and pickled walnuts, and brass bands at fetes, and tall hedgerows, and handwritten letters, and home-cooked meals, and sparrows, and boredom, and books, and gob-stoppers, and ladybirds, and innocence…

Yes. All for the high jump. All for the chop. All nearly eclipsed, now (may they rest in peace), by a much bigger, brighter future, in twenty-four-hour digital HD.

Oh, and one last thing; one last thing I know (perhaps the most important thing of all, as far as you’re concerned): I know how to keep schtum. I know when to keep it zipped. I know how to hold my tongue…

And I am holding it, Wincey. And I will continue to hold it — for your sake. For mine. For all our sakes.

Fear not.

Discretion, as they say, is my watchword.

Happy Easter,

God bless you,

PC Roger Topping

PS I quite like the new postbox, as it happens.

17/03/07

17.00 hrs

Dear Mrs Hope,

I won’t be in tomorrow morning. A couple of little jobs for you:

1 We need to ring Mrs Lockwood about Sam Lockwood’s missing crutch.

2 I see we’re almost out of Toilet Duck.

3 There’s a pile of letters on my desk, and a list of addresses printed on to a sheet of paper next to them. The letters need to be resealed/re-packaged/readdressed, as specified (whichever method you think preferable), and then returned to the sender as soon as possible. Two exceptions. The letter addressed to a Dr Bonner, please forward it to Nick Endive. And the letter addressed to Nina Springhill: deliver it to her, personally, at her mother’s. You’re neighbours, aren’t you? (Nina’s still staying there, I believe, getting some r&r after her unfortunate miscarriage, prior to her imminent move down to Bristol. Or Taunton, is it? Either way… Yes. Thanks.)

4 The ants have returned! It occurs to me that I might have dropped a half-empty (or half-full — depending on how you like to look at it) bag of Revels down the back of the filing cabinet. I fear that’s probably what’s attracting them. Should we take some kind of decisive action do you think? Or just wait for them to polish the Revels off and then gradually lose interest? I can’t quite decide…

5 Have a lovely weekend.

6 I’m sorry about the bullet points (or the numbers), they just keep coming up on the screen whenever I start a new line, no matter how hard I try to…

7 Ridiculous! Quite ridiculous!

8 What a clumsy oaf I am!

9

10 Have a lovely weekend.

11

12 Did I say that already?

13 Sorry. Getting a bit flustered…

14

15 I’m off on a jaunt to the L.S. Lowry museum in Salford on Saturday. Never been before. Hired a Zafira (people carrier). I’m actually quite excited…

16 Wish me well!

17 Bye for now.

18

19 Oh yes. Congratulate Lucy on those wonderful accountancy exam results.

20 And best regards to Colin. Hope his tooth is feeling a little better.

21

22 Roger

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28 Dammit.

29

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31 Dammit!

32

33 What’s wrong with this stupid thing?!

34

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36 Why’s it always so much easier just doing this stuff by hand?

37 Eh?

1 Are you one of the Cirencester-based Withycombes? If so, then I was extremely privileged to serve with the Royal Air Force in Burma (1961–63) alongside your late maternal grandfather, Major Cyril Withycombe (although — on further reflection — Cyril may well have been a Withycoombe).

2 Hurrah!

3 Sic.

4 Transparency is definitely not one of Mrs Parry’s main characteristics.

5 I’ll make no bones about it, dear: phallic .

6 Norma Spoot works part-time at the local butcher’s, and told me — in between hysterical gales of laughter — of how she overheard Mrs Parry boasting (while she was having a chicken deboned last Tuesday) that her jewellery ‘sells like hot cakes’ on the internet.