Burley Cross Postbox Theft (6 page)

Once I’d made these quick calculations I steeled myself, drew a deep breath, grabbed the lid, lifted it high and peered querulously inside. Imagine my great surprise when I found
not a single trace of excrement within!
The bin was all but empty! I say again: the bin – TP’s bin – was all but empty!! I quickly pulled on a pair of disposable gloves
⁸¹
and then gingerly withdrew the bin’s other contents, piece by piece (just so as to be absolutely certain of my facts). I removed two large, empty Johnnie Walker bottles,
⁸²
four family-size Marks and Spencer coleslaw containers, three packets of mint and one packet of hazelnut-flavoured Cadbury’s Snaps biscuit wrappers, and the stinking remnants of two boil-in-the-bag fish dinners (Iceland) and one, ready-made, prawn biryani meal (from Tesco’s excellent Finest range).

I stared blankly into that bin for several minutes, utterly confounded, struggling to make any sense of what I’d discovered. It then slowly dawned on me that TP might actually have
two
bins – one of which was specifically to be used for the storing of excrement. Bearing this in mind, I set about searching the untended grounds of her property
⁸³
with a fine-tooth comb,
⁸⁴
even going so far as to climb on to an
upturned bucket and peer, trepidatiously, into the tiny concrete compound to the rear, where TP’s four German shepherds barked and raced around – like a group of hairy, overweight banshees – frantic with what seemed to be a poignant combination of terror and excitement.
⁸⁵

No matter how hard I hunted, a second bin could not be found. I eventually abandoned my search on realizing how late it had grown;
⁸⁶
Shoshana would definitely be worried, I thought, and if I tarried any longer I could be in serious danger of missing
Countdown
.
⁸⁷
I left Hursley End, depressed and confused, only turning – with a helpless half-shrug – to peer back over towards the property once I’d reached the relative safety of the road beyond. It was then, in a blinding flash, that I had what I now refer to – somewhat vaingloriously, I’ll admit – as my ‘Moment of Epiphany’.
⁸⁸

As I looked back at TP’s property from a greater distance, I was able – with the benefit of perspective – to observe that recent renovation works to the bungalow had resulted in the temporary removal of large sections of the external fascia,
⁸⁹
so that all that now remained of the property’s original structure was the roof, the window frames and a series of basic, internal walls and supports, many of which had been copiously wrapped in thick layers of protective plastic (to safeguard the
property against the worst of the weather, I suppose). By dint of this expedient, I suddenly realized with a sharp gasp, TP’s home had lately been transformed (voluntarily or otherwise) into a giant simulacrum of a
monstrous, semi-transparent poo-bag!
⁹⁰

As this – admittedly strange and somewhat hysterical – thought caught a hold of me, a second thought,
⁹¹
running almost in tandem with it, quickly overtook my mind: if no evidence of excrement could be found in TP’s garden – not even faeces from her
own four dogs –
then where on God’s earth might it actually be…?

What?!

I suddenly froze.

‘MARY, MOTHER OF JESUS
!’ I bellowed, then quickly covered my mouth with my hand.
⁹²
But wasn’t it
obvious?!
Hadn’t the simple answer to this most perplexing of questions been staring me in the face
all along?!

The moor!

Our beautiful, unbesmirched, virgin moor!

TP had
not –
as she’d always emphatically maintained – been piously and dutifully collecting/bagging excrement left by other, irresponsible dog owners, during those long, dark, nightly hikes of hers. Oh no! Quite the opposite, in fact! TP had actually been carefully bagging prodigious quantities of HER OWN FOUR DOGS’ EXCREMENT and then CHEERFULLY FESTOONING THE LOCAL FOOTPATHS WITH IT!!!

‘Good
Lord
!’ I can almost hear you howl, your smooth, firm cheeks flushed pink with rage and indignation. ‘But… but
why?’

I’m afraid that this is a question which – for all of my age and experience – I cannot answer. I can only imagine that TP must derive some sick and perverse feeling of excitement/ gratification from performing this debased act. Perhaps it is an entirely
sexual
impulse, or maybe she has some deep yet inexplicable
grudge
against the people of Burley Cross which she is
‘acting out’
through this strange and depraved pastime. Or perhaps the good people of this village have unwittingly come to
‘represent’
something (or someone) to TP from her
tragic past
and she feels the uncontrollable urge to punish/ insult/degrade us all as a consequence of that. Or maybe – just maybe – a whole host of entirely
different
impulses are at play here. Shoshana had the fascinating idea that as a small child TP might’ve developed
‘issues’
during her
anal phase
⁹³
brought on by an overly strict and prohibitive
potty-training regimen
. She discussed this idea with a neighbour of ours who might properly be called an ‘expert’ in the field, and they explained to her – at some length – how as children we have an innocent, perfectly natural conception of our own faeces as a kind of ‘gift’
⁹⁴
which we generously share with our parents.

Shoshana wondered whether TP’s emotional/psychological development as a child was halted/blocked at this critical stage, leading to an unusual fixation with faeces in adult life, which, many decades later, still gives TP the childlike compulsion to ‘share’ this ‘precious’ substance with all of her friends and neighbours.
⁹⁵

Whatever the real reasons for TP’s extraordinary behaviour, the hard fact remains that she is currently posing a serious threat to the health and safety of the general public and must be stopped as a matter of some urgency. To this end I sent a lengthy email to Trevor Horsmith, insisting that he take some kind of positive action to deter TP from her foul and aberrant path.

Horsmith,
⁹⁶
while professing himself to be ‘very interested’ in my theories, calmly informed me that unless he was able to catch TP red-handed (transporting faeces from her home and depositing them on the moor) then he would be unable to take any kind of prohibitive action against her. Given that TP prefers to walk only after dark and Trevor Horsmith’s working hours finish promptly at five, the likelihood of this ever happening is – at best, I feel – extremely limited. Horsmith also went on to discourage me – and in no uncertain terms,
⁹⁷
either – from taking any kind of independent action myself, claiming that a matter this sensitive was – I quote – ‘always better left in the hands of qualified professionals’.
⁹⁸

So there you have it, Ms Withycombe: a detailed summary of the complex web of problems our small – but perfectly formed – village is currently struggling to grapple with. Call me a foolish old optimist (if you must!), but I have a strong presentiment that your input in this matter will prove most beneficial, and am keenly looking forward to bashing out some kind of joint plan of action with you at the start of the New Year.

Yours, in eager anticipation,

Jeremy – aka Jez – Baverstock

PS Merry Christmas! (I almost forgot!!)

PPS You will probably have noticed that I have taken the great liberty of enclosing a small, festive gift for your private enjoyment over the holiday season: an – as yet – unpublished book
⁹⁹
I once wrote about my nefarious activities as a reconnoitrer, black hat and mole inside the Royal Horticultural Society of Great Britain.
¹⁰⁰

XXJ

3, The Mead
Denby Lane
Fallow Hill
(nr Burley Cross)

20 December, 2006

Hold on to your hat, Jess…

And yell
HALLELUJAH
! Because
MEREDITH HAS
FOUND HER JESUS!
She’s finally
found
him! I wrung it out of her while we were stacking away the chairs, straight after you left. You were
completely
right! It was
exactly
as you said! She’d known for literally
weeks
and was just keeping the information back (out of caution? Mischief?
Spite?!)
. You said you didn’t trust her, Jess, and you were spot-on.
Spot-on!

SHE’S FOUND HIM, JESS! And we’re officially
THE FIRST TWO PEOPLE IN THE WHOLE WORLD TO KNOW ABOUT IT
! (Well, apart from her, obviously, and ratty little Sebastian – her loyal henchman – who was glowering at her,
furiously
, across the hall, as she told me! Oh. And probably the rev – they’re thick as thieves, those two.
But who cares? WHO CARES?!
We’ve dragged it out of them! We’ve
bludgeoned
it out of them!)

I don’t mind admitting that I’m feeling rather
proud
of myself right now, Jess – a tad
smug
, even. My cheeks are still flushed with victory as I sit at the kitchen table and scribble all this down (sorry about the paper – it’s from that expensive batch Duncan had printed up with the old address
directly
before we moved – but it was all I could lay my hands on at such short notice).

Oh, Jess, if only you could’ve
been
there! You would’ve been AMAZED at what I put her through! Appalled! I was
completely and utterly
relentless!!
I was like an attack dog! A Rottweiler!! I kept following her around the hall and worrying at her and worrying at her until she simply couldn’t stand it any more and just blurted it out!

‘For heaven’s sake, Emily!’ she shrieked (both her cheeks the colour of boiled beetroot). ‘I’ve
found
a Jesus. He’s called Kieren Knowles, if you
must
know. He’s a professional actor and he lives in Hebden Bridge. Now just
leave me alone
, will you?!’

Hebden Bridge
, Jess! Of course I would’ve rung you on the spot and blabbed, but my dratted mobile’s out of commission (and Duncan – the old misery – has a strict moratorium on phone calls at home after ten).

You said you’d be heading off to your mother’s first thing, so I thought I should probably just jot down all the gory details and include them (while they’re still fresh!) along with the earring, which I wrapped up, very carefully, in a tiny piece of lilac tissue paper.

I
do
hope I scribbled down the address correctly. You were in such a rush – such a panic – that I honestly couldn’t tell if it was 27 Elmdon Lane, Marston Green, Birmingham, or 27 Elendon Lane, Marston Green, Birmingham (I’ve taken a lucky punt). Please, please,
please
don’t accidentally tip it out of the envelope and lose the damn thing all over again (you silly goose!).

I must confess that it was little short of a miracle that Peter found it (Peter Bramwell – the First Shepherd – tall, grey-haired chappie with the lazy eye who Lilian kept hectoring all night for cracking his knuckles. I
do
think Lilian was slightly out of line, there – and I could tell you did, too, by the way you kept sighing and rolling your eyes every time she opened her mouth – but I don’t know
why
he persists in doing it, I really don’t. It’s perfectly
maddening
. Is it any wonder Rita’s losing her marbles?! I mean wouldn’t
you
under the circumstances?!).

He said it was lying in the middle of the rubber karate mat,
directly in front of one of the needlework exhibits; not ‘Our Feathered Friends’, but ‘Burley Cross Entwined’, the large display detailing the complex – and somewhat tumultuous – relationship between Burley Cross and our French twin, Olonzac (it’s an awfully good title, don’t you think? In
-twine
-d/ en-twin-ed? Of course we have Shoshana Baverstock to thank for that; it’s nice to know she’s getting
something
constructive done as she lounges around, completely starkers, in that fancy ‘sunroom’ of hers all day long, eh?!).

The earring looks a bit wonky, now, I’m afraid. I’m not sure if Peter didn’t accidentally step on it before he picked it up. I’ve done my best to wrangle it back into position, and I don’t think I’ve done
too
bad a job…

As luck would have it, gold is one of the earth’s most malleable metals (or so Peter informed me as he passed it over. It seems he used to be a metallurgist!
Imagine?!
When he told me I said, ‘Oh! A
metallurgist!
Congratulations!’ – I was still dizzy with the Jesus news. He just scowled and barked, ‘It’s nothing you need to congratulate me for!’ then stalked off [?!]).

In fact – now I come to ponder on it – I remember passing you that apron to wear while you were standing and inspecting the exhibit before we handed out the teas (Sally Trident’s pit pony
did
look like a Stegosaurus! I told her
exactly
the same thing myself!). I can only imagine it popped out when you dragged it on over your head.

OH
MY GOD
, Jess! I
CAN’T BELIEVE
SHE’S FOUND HIM!! As soon as Duncan gets off the internet (he’s doing some last-minute research for his OU thesis on the primitive fabric dyes they used in the Bayeux tapestry) I’m going straight online to try and find his MySpace page! ‘Kieren Knowles: professional actor!’
I LITERALLY CAN’T WAIT
!!!!

And the look on Meredith’s
face
, Jess! It was a
classic!
An absolute
picture!
I just kept going on and on and
on
at her! I came at her from all angles. Will he be a blond Christ,
Meredith, or a brunette, because I
know
brunette Christs are all the vogue these days – and very P.C. – but I can’t help thinking a blond would be so incredibly
romantic
… What age will he be, Meredith? Jesus died at thirty-three, but will you be strict and insist on
absolute
numerical parity?