Burley Cross Postbox Theft (26 page)

But he seemed so determined to go ahead with it – got so, well, aggressive about it. I seriously expected him to thrash me, hands down. But then, when he didn’t, when his wrist started to buckle, I half thought about reducing the pressure on my side, just subtly (to try and give him a break, help him get his breath back. I dunno). But there was this strange look in his eye, Nina – a furious look – kind of like: I might be in this chair, I might’ve lost my legs, I might’ve lost my job, but I still have my self-respect, my dignity (you patronizing little dip-shit). So
I didn’t. I mean I tried not to. I just… well. You were there. You saw what happened.

I’m getting way off the subject – the actual point of this letter, the reason for writing to you – which is that I basically just wanted to say – to tell you – to try and… Oh
balls
. How to put this without…?

It’s just… I just wish… Okay.
Okay
. Here it is: I just wish you hadn’t said that thing you said to me on the walk back to your car after the tour of Fylingdales the other week. That’s all (nothing earth-shattering). It’s been playing on my mind ever since (what you said). I’m not sure why, but it’s really knocked me for six.

And I didn’t know how the hell I was meant to react at the time. I must’ve looked like such a gormless fool! Or perhaps I just looked blank. Completely blank. Unresponsive. I was blank. I was in shock! And Glenn was just behind us (talking to the sergeant). I was worried he might overhear what you were saying. Not that there was anything wrong in it – not remotely. I mean I knew you were just joking when you said it – you weren’t taking it too seriously or anything – you were just referring to something in the past, making light of something you felt a long time ago – aeons ago – when we were both still at school.

I’m not saying it was
wrong
of you to hit me with something like that (sorry, I seem to be repeating myself), please don’t think that – not even for a minute – because it really was one of the most wonderful things anyone has ever said to me (ever). I shall go to my grave happy knowing that you said it. Knowing that you felt it.

(Wow. That looks so dodgy written down – beyond dodgy. It looks
hideous…
)

I suppose what I’m struggling to say, Nina (in my own clumsy, feeble-minded way), is that I simply didn’t know what I was expected to
do
about it at the time. I didn’t know how I was meant to respond. I was just dumbstruck. I felt so inadequate – completely out of my comfort zone. I nearly burst
into tears (I can’t believe I just wrote that. Oh, God. Just take me out and shoot me).

Because I swear I always thought my feelings for you were completely one-sided. I
do
have feelings for you – of course I do! – I mean I did, at school. But then you were the girl everybody had a crush on. I don’t think there was a single boy at St Bart’s who wasn’t head over heels in love with you. You’re so beautiful – so ridiculously beautiful. And kind. And sweet. And funny. And modest. And you always smell so lovely, like… like… (keep on typing, Nick)… like, I dunno, like a newly strung bale of fresh hay. (Fresh
hay?!)

I mean why the hell wouldn’t everybody be just crazy about you?

(A bale of fresh hay?!)

I actually only started dating Linda Prichard (please don’t tell Linda this, whatever you do) in Year Five because she was your second best friend (cruel, I know, but I was a fifteen-year-old boy, and a total dildo). I thought if I dated Linda then you might actually notice me. I just wanted to be around you. I just wanted to get to know you.

(Well, I suppose it’s got to be better than
soiled
hay…)

What a dick I was! I don’t even know how you tolerated me (let alone harboured fond feelings for me, on the sly). I was so smug! So bumptious! So ludicrously opinionated! And I was criminally bad at sports. With that acne! That ridiculous haircut! The
hat!
The Jamiroquai obsession! Those awful, low-slung, shit-brown hessian-style trousers and the turquoise, llama-wool jumper with all the heavy stitching and the hood! God. No wonder you were always ripping the piss out of the way I looked! What was that nickname you coined for me? ‘The Funky Swot’?!

You were so much more clued into things than I was – even then – so much more grown up, so much more hardcore. You were mad about the Prodigy way before anyone else had the first clue who they were.

Remember how I won those four tickets in a quiz on a local radio show to go and see them, live, in Leeds? And you were desperate to come along, but then your mum said no at the last minute – just as you were heading through the door – because there was no one left at home to babysit your sister?

I didn’t win them, Nina – I
bought
them. I just pretended I won them to try and come up with a legitimate-seeming excuse to meet up with you after school. Then, when you couldn’t go, I had to take Linda and Peter Hannon (your ex) and his idiot friend Spanky. Spanky got out of his head on cough syrup and spent most of the night spewing up (ruined my best trainers, the idiot!). Worse still, I then had to sit through a bloody
Prodigy
gig! Surrounded by Prodigy fans! It was a nightmare! Like having my ears drilled!

I wouldn’t even mind, but the next day (and I was still leaking blood from all my main orifices, coincidentally) you secretly confided that the Prodigy thing was only really a pose (to impress some older boy you fancied on the school bus). You were actually obsessed by Peter Andre! So I threw away my glo-sticks and started working on my six-pack (okay, I didn’t get very far with that…).

I was absolutely besotted by you, Nina. I thought it was completely obvious! I mean I tried to mask it with sarcasm, sometimes, but I thought you’d have to be stupid not to realize (not that you
were
stupid – you’re very intelligent. Extremely intelligent).

The only inkling I ever had that you might find me even vaguely interesting (romantically) was at Jason Flight’s seventeenth birthday party when some pissed-up jerk chucked cider over your top – the black, silky one with the silver squiggles on it – and I lent you my jumper to wear (I treasured that jumper for years afterwards. I never washed it. I actually still have it. I even took it over to America with me).

We went and sat in the garden and had that really odd (but funny) conversation about how much you hated Chris Evans.

Then you said you were ‘starving’ and I bet you a fiver you couldn’t eat a whole banana in one mouthful. And you very nearly did it! But the minute you’d crammed the whole thing in and started to chew, you got wildly over-excited (sensing victory, I presume), set off your gag reflex and regurgitated half-chewed banana all over the kitchen tiles (much to the obvious delight of Jason’s Jack Russell, Olly, who devoured the whole lot in thirty seconds flat!).

Then Linda turned up. She’d just started working Saturdays at that posh salon in Leeds and the stylist had cut her hair (for a competition or something) into this weird, space-age bob. We were both laughing at it behind her back all night (every time I caught your eye you’d collapse into hysterical giggles).

You’d just started dating Michael Watson, I think. He’d gone away skiing that week with his parents. When I thought about it afterwards I convinced myself that you were only being friendly because you were bored. I didn’t let myself believe it was anything more – I’d already won the American scholarship at that stage. I left for Houston about a fortnight later. And that was the end of that.

I remember how you signed my leaving card with a cartoon of a frog holding a heart. I spent hours analysing what that damn frog might represent (I never worked it out!).

It was ridiculous that you thought I was ‘too clever’ for you back then. When you said that the other day I was dumbstruck (too clever?! Are you insane?!
Seriously?!)
.

You’re one of the brightest girls I’ve ever met. I always thought you could’ve done so much better (academically) with the right kind of input from your parents (you invariably solved those difficult physics problems in around about half the amount of time I took! I’d glance up from the textbook and you’d be gazing out of the window, bored, or filing your nails, or scribbling something in a black marker pen on to your school bag). Because you came from such a large family I think you missed out on some of the opportunities (and encouragement –
the extra tutoring and stuff) that I simply took for granted.

But that’s all water under the bridge now, anyway. You’re with Glenn. I’m with Yasmin.

(And Yasmin’s great. She’s a truly lovely girl. Very natural. Very uncomplicated. Very genuine. Speaks four languages: English, Arabic, French, some German, a smattering of Italian. A talented biochemist. A wonderful cook. Way too good for me, really.)

Glenn’s a great guy, too. I mean he’s a hero, a bona fide hero! He carries himself with such confidence, such swagger. His stories are amazing (terrifying!). Is there any corner of the globe he
hasn’t
received a medal in?!

He’s had so much life experience. Squadron leader at twenty-two (wasn’t he saying that the other day)? Twenty-two’s so incredibly young to be given such a huge amount of responsibility. I’d imagine it’s pretty much unheard of in the military (quite remarkable, come to think of it).

I honestly – sincerely – couldn’t be any happier for you, Nina.

Although, having said that, I
did
think he was a little tough on you during the tour the other week. I know he’s in constant pain, and that he’s still only just coming to terms with his injuries (how long’s it been now? Eighteen months? That’s hardly any time at all, really, is it?), but even so, I thought he was a little tough on you (sorry, I’m repeating myself, again).

And I don’t like to nit-pick (that’s not my style, as you know – I’m a fairly easy-going kind of character), but if I’m going to be completely frank with you, Nina, I wasn’t entirely happy with the way he kept calling you ‘a blonde’ all the time. And accusing you of being clumsy. And snapping at you. You’re not remotely ‘blonde’
or
clumsy (you’re the polar opposite of that!).

You were so gentle with him, and so patient, I thought you were just amazing. I thought you were an angel. For the first time I could really see why you decided to take that nursing degree. You’re such a natural! It’s a real shame you felt you had to abandon it halfway through.

I mean don’t get me wrong, he was obviously just joking
some of the time (or at least he tried to pass off some of the crueller put-downs as mere casual banter – that’s soldiers for you), but I must confess that I didn’t find what he was saying even remotely funny. I could see how much he was upsetting you. I saw your eyes fill with tears at least twice. And your hand was shaking when I gave you those headphones to put on.

I hated seeing how much he was getting to you, the way he was bullying you. It was so relentless, so unnecessary. It tore me up inside. And to see you backing down so readily – not standing up for yourself, not defending yourself at all – just letting him get away with it, time after time.
God!
It made my blood boil!

Just because I didn’t say anything doesn’t mean I hadn’t noticed. I
had
noticed, but I didn’t feel it was my place to intervene. I didn’t think you’d thank me for it if I did. You seemed so diminished by it. You seemed so nervous around him, so flustered.

That’s not the Nina Springhill I know! I kept thinking. That’s not the funny, silly, mouthy, independent Nina I know.

I keep wondering where she’s got to – the old Nina. What happened to her? Sometimes I still see a tiny glimpse of her; like that time we bumped into each other outside the bank in Ilkley (remember?) and you tore a strip out of me for wearing trainers with my suit. And at the Auction of Promises, when you secured the promise against Brian Brewster and then jumped into the air, whooping – in front of the entire hall – and did a funny little victory dance! (That completely cracked me up!)

And when we were walking to the car, of course, and we had the aforementioned ‘chat’… (But let’s not get back into all of that.)

The bottom line (and I hate talking ‘bottom lines’ – it always sounds so unbelievably twatty) is that I’m simply not sure if you’re getting enough support, Nina. I mean financially, emotionally, physically… I know Glenn will’ve had a certain
amount of help himself (from the Royal Air Force), but how about you? Has anyone offered you counselling? Do you have someone you can talk to about things? Someone discreet you can confide in who might have a special insight into the peculiar kinds of pressures you’re under?

I’m not volunteering myself for this job (of course not! That would be completely inappropriate of me!), I’m just very, very concerned that you shouldn’t feel lonely or isolated. And if you did happen to need someone to chat to, confidentially (but very informally), without any pressure, then I’d be extremely happy to lend an ear. I’d be honoured, in fact.

We could just go for a walk on the moor together (blow off some cobwebs! Not talk about anything, in particular, just pass a bit of time together). Or we could go out for a bike ride. Or a swim! How about that? You used to love swimming! And nobody would need to know, Nina. I could be very discreet. I’m perfectly well aware of how delicate your situation is.

Perhaps – if you’re nervous someone might see us together and gossip – we could meet up in Bradford and just go out for a coffee (do you still like custard Danishes? Can you still eat three in one sitting?). Or we could go and see a film. Any film. You could chose. We could pretend to bump into each other – randomly – at the cinema, like it was just a happy accident.

We could even…

Oh, God, Nina, who on earth do I think I’m kidding, here? This is impossible! It’s absurd! I’m so crazy about you! I’m just mad about you! It’s so painfully obvious (isn’t it?
Isn’t
it?!). I’d almost given up hope, and then – without any warning – the Promise Auction, the tour, the snatched conversation, that lingering look you gave me…

I’m just so confused now, so freaked out. I hardly know what to do with myself. And every day it gets worse. Just knowing that you’re sitting at that stupid counter, not fifty yards away, but that you are, to all intents and purposes, completely unapproachable. I don’t even dare text you, just in case…