Burley Cross Postbox Theft (32 page)

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).

‘Green! Green! Oh, I
love
green!’ she kept saying. ‘Isn’t green the best? Isn’t it just fantastic? Don’t you think green must be God’s favourite colour? I mean if God didn’t love green then why would he have made the grass green?
Huh?
And plants! And trees! And leaves! Leaves are always green –
always! –
aren’t they, Laura?’

‘Absolutely,’ I concurred (fool that I am!). ‘Except in the autumn, of course, when our Dear Lord gently transforms them into a magnificent kaleidoscope of red and orange and yellow and burned ochre…’ (I now hold that my curious urge to wax lyrical about the change of the seasons was at least partially engendered by a perilous combination of nervousness and alcohol.)

These words had barely left my lips, before Lydia May began to glower at me, ominously. ‘Don’t talk about autumn, you
fool!’
she hissed, glancing nervously over her shoulder (although there was only the wall behind her). ‘Autumn’s strictly prohibited! It’s on my miss list!’

‘Sorry?’ I stuttered, lifting a tentative hand to wipe a fleck of her spit from my chin. ‘Your…?’

‘My
miss
list,’ she reiterated. ‘Miss! Mis-take! Mis-chance! Misconduct! Mis-demeanour! My
miss
list! You
mustn’t
say it, Laura! It’s one of the bad words. It’s one of the words that makes me
very
angry. In fact I
am
angry, right now, simply because you’ve said it – simply because you brought it up! And
having to
explain
it to you like this – and saying it myself,
rehearsing
it, again and again: Autumn! Autumn!
Autumn! –
makes me angrier still! It makes me
seethe!
It makes me
boil!’

She paused for a moment (to draw breath), peering down, somewhat forlornly, at the fabric on the bench. ‘Not like green,’ she sighed, inspecting it, fondly, ‘green is on my hit list, but
autumn?
Urgh!’

She jabbed at the bench, savagely, with her knuckles.

‘Then let’s talk about green!’ I rapidly interjected. ‘Please!

Let’s do that! Let’s just talk about how truly wonderful green is!’

‘Really?’

She instantly perked up.

‘Yes! Of course!’ I enthused. ‘Because green is wonderful! It’s marvellous! I mean when I think of all the green things in the world and how amazing they all are, like… like apples! And pears! And… and…’

Lydia May winced, dramatically, as another dart hit the wall behind her.

‘And… and certain types of grape! Wonderful grapes! Seedless grapes, from the Cape! And kiwi-fruits, which are brownish on the outside but bright green on the inside with hundreds and thousands of tiny, crunchy, little black pips…’

‘Yeah, I guess,’ Lydia May conceded (not quite so enthusiastically as I had hoped, perhaps). ‘But can’t we think of any
other
kinds of green stuff, Laura? More
interesting
kinds of green stuff, maybe?’

(She winced, once again, as yet another dart hit the wall.)

‘Other
kinds of green stuff?’ I echoed, astonished. ‘But… but why, when there’s so much more exciting
fruit
to consider, like… like limes, for example?’

‘But I’m
tired
of fruit, already!’ Lydia May grumbled. ‘It’s so safe, so dull, so… so
pedestrian!’

‘Well, how about lettuce, then?!’ I exclaimed. ‘And cucumber! And courgettes! And marrows! All wonderful, healthy, green vegetables! How about some of those?!’

Lydia May shuddered as another dart hit the wall, and a roar of approval – followed by a ringing, ‘One hundred and eighty!’ – all but drowned out my words.

‘Then there’s always cabbage,’ I doggedly continued, ‘and broccoli, and sprouts—’

‘What I suppose I’m
really
trying to get at, here,’ Lydia May promptly interjected, ‘is the stuff that isn’t just vegetable in origin. More
interesting
stuff… like… I dunno… ’

‘Like the green baize on a snooker table!’ I smiled, confident of engaging her enthusiasm again. ‘Or… or your beautiful
scarf
, for example.’

‘But they’re man-made, Laura,’ she sighed, ‘and I want to talk about things that are really green, things that are
truly
green…’

‘Oh…’

I was momentarily floored, Mr Jennings, and my mind began desperately groping around for yet more green things with which to tantalize her. Then suddenly, out of the blue, the word ‘frog’ sprang into my head (if you’ll pardon the pun!), but I hesitated to pronounce it, out loud, for some reason (I can’t begin to explain
why
, Mr J – perhaps there was something in her strangely pale and languid expression that gave me temporary pause… I don’t know… a kind of smouldering expectation, an evil torpor, a dangerous quiescence, like she was just
toying
with me, at some level, like I was merely a tiny, insignificant little fly unwittingly tangled up in her voluminous web).

It dawned on me, in that same instant (and forgive me for contradicting myself here, Claw, because this is an explanation, of sorts) that perhaps ‘frog’ might lead us back, ineluctably, to ‘iguana’ (also green! Could that actually be just a coincidence? Or was it – God forbid! – a trap?!), and I definitely didn’t want to risk returning to
that
thorny old ground again!

In order to avoid this terrible eventuality I tried to think creatively – tangentially, you might almost say…

‘Well, here’s an idea,’ I suggested, with a blazing smile. ‘How
about we focus our minds for a while on all the wonderful
words
for green that there are in the world, like… like
emerald
green, for example?’ Lydia May was instantly engaged.

‘Emerald green,’ she echoed, impressed. ‘Yes! I
like
that! I like it
very
much! Let’s think of another one, quick!’ She gazed at me, expectantly.

‘Olive green!’ I promptly followed up. ‘Yes! Good! Another one!’ she squealed, clapping her hands together, delighted.

My mind briefly went blank again, Mr Jennings (although, in retrospect, I should have just gone with ‘lime green’ or ‘pear green’ or ‘apple green’ – they’re all the most obvious ones, I suppose – but I fear a part of me was worried that Lydia May might consider these some kind of a ‘cop-out’).

Truth to tell, Mr J, I actually looked up ‘greenness’ in my Thesaurus when I finally got home that night, and was honestly shocked by how few green words there really are out there.
Real
green words. I mean if you consider purple, for example, there are loads of them: I can think of lilac, violet, lavender, plum and amethyst just off the top of my head. Sage green isn’t a bad one (it just this second came to me!), and bottle green, of course…

‘Well, how about
you
think of one?’ I eventually suggested.

‘Why?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s in it for me?’

‘Pardon?’

I was shocked by her baldly acquisitive attitude.

‘I mean what do I
get
if I think of one?’ she demanded.

‘Get?! You get a wonderful sense of satisfaction, of course!’ I exclaimed.

‘Oh.’

She drained her second glass and then eyed my spare pint covetously.

‘A marvellous sense of… of
achievement,’
I expanded.

Lydia May just gazed at me, darkly, as yet more darts thudded into the wall
It was at this precise point, Mr Jennings, that a small ‘need’ (which had been nagging away at me for quite some time now), suddenly transformed itself into a powerful ‘urge’. (Fastidiousness prevents me from discussing this issue in too much further detail, but suffice to say that by some strange process of osmosis, a quarter of my pint had miraculously chanced to ‘evaporate’ and I was consequently experiencing nature’s call.)

‘Very well,’ I eventually compromised, ‘I’m willing to strike you a deal. I’m going to dash off to the lavatory for a couple of minutes, and while I’m gone I’d like you to sit here, on your own, and try your best to come up with another word for green. If, when I return, you’ve come up with something especially good, I’ll give you a very,
very
beautiful gift – a prize, of sorts – which I currently have hidden away in my bag.’ (A lovely bookmark, Mr Jennings – plastic-coated – which I acquired on a wonderful trip to Wordsworth’s house in June. It had an abridged version of ‘I
Wandered Lonely As a Cloud’
printed in pretty gold lettering on to a calming, daffodil-yellow background.)

‘Okay,’ Lydia May instantly obliged me. She then gazed up at the ceiling, frowning, as if deep in thought.

I clambered (heavily!) to my feet, grabbed my stick, and set off for the Ladies’ lavatories. And yes,
yes –
I know
exactly
what you’re thinking, Mr Jennings: that it was utterly foolhardy, even downright irresponsible, to leave Lydia May entirely to her own devices again at that sensitive juncture! And you’re right, of course (100 per cent!), but a call of nature is a call of nature, is it not?

Aside from that, I was determined to locate Catrin now, come hell or high water. I had a fairly good idea that she wasn’t in the pub (I had a partial view of the car park and the front entrance from where I was sitting). My only sensible course of action, I felt, would be to try and persuade some charitable individual to let me use their mobile (I don’t own one myself,
more’s the pity) in order to phone her from the pub and find out what the delay was all about (better still, to try and locate Wincey, and convince her to perform this small service for me).

I visited the lavatories, Mr Jennings (really beautifully done out, they are, in subtle shades of grey and ivory), then returned to the bar in the hope of locating an obliging local whose phone I might use, but even as I did so, I became aware of some kind of a ‘commotion’ in the saloon bar (the regular ‘thud’ of the darts had been temporarily interrupted, and the caller was instructing the crowd to ‘please remain calm’).

I have subsequently been informed of the extraordinary sequence of events that apparently played out during my short
sojourn
in the lavatories (all – or most – of which you yourself were a direct witness of, Claw).

Can I just say that when I saw that Lydia May was gone from our corner table (and that every remaining scrap of alcohol had been consumed – totalling one and three-quarter pints!) I turned and literally
sprinted
to the saloon bar to try and protect my young charge from any of the potentially hazardous scenarios that instantly crowded into my overheated mind
(none
of which, may I add, were anywhere near as bad as what later transpired!).

I use the phrase ‘my young charge’ advisedly, Mr Jennings, because I’m sure it’s clear by now that I considered Lydia May to be my sole responsibility (in so far as one
can
be ‘responsible’ for such a wild and wilful creature!). It was in this spirit that I entered the saloon, full in the knowledge – in other words – that I was ‘standing in’ for Catrin (Lydia May’s temporary – but official – carer).

Imagine my horror then, Mr J, when my old eyes (and forgive me for playing the age card again at this point; as I believe I said before, I have perfect vision, so this is cheeky of me, to say the least!) were greeted by the unwelcome sight of my young ward, Lydia May (I say ‘young’, but I fear this is an emotional description rather than an actual one; I’ve since been
informed that she is actually thirty-eight years of age!), in the midst of a bellowing throng, having her breasts manhandled (her breasts!) by an imposing, bearded, somewhat ferocious-seeming, silver-haired fellow in full biker apparel (this ‘imposing fellow’, it later transpired, was no less an individual than you yourself, Mr Jennings!).

I didn’t know (indeed, how
could
I have known?) that this incident wasn’t simply a cruel and random attack, but the culmination of a series of immensely provocative (nay, wrong-headed) acts on the part of Lydia May herself (i.e. acts that might almost be said to have
demanded
the kind of response they ultimately garnered – not that manhandling a young woman’s breasts is
ever
justifiable, Mr J! Perish the thought!).

These aforementioned ‘acts’, e.g. staggering on to the ‘oche’ and parading around, annoyingly, in front of the dartboard (thereby interrupting play at a critical juncture), ‘mooning’ the caller (when he politely asked her to desist), pushing over Mutley’s table (festooning his wife and your oldest daughter with drinks/bar snacks), and, finally, stealing your highly prized, reserve flights (as I understand the feathers on the dart are called) from the top pocket of your leather jacket (where you usually have them displayed during crucial matches as a kind of lucky ‘talisman’, I’ve been told) cannot and should not be supported under
any
circumstances.

Although – in Lydia May’s defence – they were
green
flights, Mr Jennings! Fluorescent green! That’s why Lydia May persisted in yelling, ‘Fluorescent green! Fluorescent green!’ throughout the subsequent brawl; the foolish girl was
still
hoping to win her prize, I imagine (and as a matter of fact I posted the bookmark to her, a couple of days later. I do, of course, realize that ‘fluorescent’ isn’t really a type of green, as such, but I had to give her top marks for tenacity, Claw, if nothing else, and a deal
is
a deal, after all).

Like I say, Mr J, I knew
none
of these pertinent details at the time. If I’d had even so much as an inkling that your precious
flights had been cunningly shoved inside her bra (for safekeeping), how different things might have been! (It seems that Lydia May
always
stores precious objects inside her bra. When we were strip-searched at the police station an hour or so later, they found not only your flights, but a £50 note, a crumpled picture of Gordon Brown, a small plastic model of Father Abraham from The Smurfs and half a ‘bumper’ packet of Maynard’s Fruit Gums all stuffed in there.)