Constable Through the Meadow (12 page)

‘I had to ask,’ I said, ‘because it’s the sort of question that you
might get asked by her relations if you implement my little scheme.’

‘Short of banning her, Mr Rhea, I’ve done everything to make it harder for her to steal. So what is your plan?’

‘Her relations, nephews, nieces, cousins and so on, how many of them are your customers?’

‘Most of them who live hereabouts,’ he said, opening a drawer behind the counter. ‘I’ll check for you.’

He lifted out several small red notebooks, each with a
customer
’s name on the front, and sorted through them. He put several to one side, and then counted them.

‘Seven,’ he said. ‘Seven have monthly accounts with me, these are their books.’

‘And are there others without accounts?’ I asked.

‘Just one,’ he said. ‘Mrs Ruth Newall, Mabel’s elder sister. She pays cash for everything. Why do you ask?’

I side-stepped that question for the moment by asking, ‘And are they fond of their Aunt or Cousin Mabel? They’d not want her to get into trouble with us, the police?’

‘Oh, they love her, Mr Rhea, they’re a lovely family, so close.’

‘Good, so this is what I suggest. I suggest that every time Miss Carr steals something, you add its cost to one of those relations’ accounts. In other words, you make the family pay for her sins through a form of communal responsibility.’

‘They’d know they hadn’t bought the goods in question, Mr Rhea, and query it. It’s almost dishonest …’

‘But that’s the idea, Mr Wilson, to encourage them to query their account. Then you tell them why, you tell them it’s for a bottle of liqueur that Miss Mabel, er, took, without paying. You tell them quite clearly what she’s doing, Mr Wilson.’

‘I think they’d be very upset.’

‘Yes, but that’s where you score because you say that she’s been stealing for many months, that you’ve done all in your power to stop her, and short of taking her to the magistrates’ court, this is your only redress. I’m sure they’ll appreciate your actions in not prosecuting her – after all, she is giving them presents and money … besides, that bottle of liqueur, for
example, might well be sitting on one of their own shelves right now …’

‘Yes, I suspect it is, Mr Rhea.’

‘The idea is that the responsibility is placed upon her family; it lifts the burden from you and it means you are not losing money or sleep because of her actions.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ was all he said.

It was several weeks later when he called me into his cottage behind the shop.

‘Mr Rhea,’ he said over a coffee. ‘That system you suggested for Mabel Carr. I thought I’d let you know that it is working very well.’

‘Is it? Then I’m delighted!’

‘I must admit I was uncertain at first, and indeed I ignored it, but then she got away with a full bottle of brandy. I put it on Mrs George Haddon’s bill – George is a nephew, and I explained why. It seems Mabel had given him the bottle anyway! But he called a family conference and they invited me up to the Haddons’ house to explain things to the whole family, without Mabel’s knowledge, of course.’

‘That’s an excellent move, so they took it well?’

‘Yes, very well, they were sorry that she had placed me in such a position, but they fully understood. And they agreed to my actions. They were pleased I had told them.’

‘And they will be trying to persuade her to stop shop-lifting?’ I smiled.

‘Er, no,’ he said. ‘They do not want to upset her, so we will all allow her to continue, and they will pay for everything she steals. They feel it is a symptom of her time of life, you see, and that she will overcome it eventually. So they’re keeping my actions secret from her.’

‘And does this please you, Mr Wilson?’ I asked.

‘Yes, it does, Mr Rhea, and thank you.’

In the days that followed, I wondered whether the actions of Mabel Carr now amounted to the crime of theft and felt this could produce a marvellous challenge for a defence lawyer if such a conspiracy ever reached court. But it never did. Mabel’s huge complement of relations continued to pay for her
indiscretions 
and I heard no more about it.

Years later, though, I did learn by sheer chance from one of her sisters that, throughout her youthful and indeed middle-aged years, Mabel Carr had conducted a very one-sided love affair with Mr Wilson. And not once had he shown the slightest romantic interest in her – I don’t think he ever knew of, or suspected, her yearnings and devotion.

Maybe her shop-lifting was a last desperate attempt to attract his attention?

It was Shakespeare who said that a railing wife was worse than a smoky house, and Thomas Moore who wrote in his ‘Sovereign Woman’ that “Disguise our bondage as we will, ‘Tis woman, woman, who rules us still.” Those poets, and the anonymous gentleman who wrote the opening lines at the head of this chapter, must have had some personal knowledge of the awful effect that a nagging wife can have upon the happiness and peace of mind of a husband.

Down the ages, and in spite of modern scientific progress, it has been impossible to stop some women from nagging. One terrible attempt was made by the introduction of the brank; this was an iron framework which was placed upon a woman’s head and padlocked in position. At the front, it had a plate from which protruded a spiked or sharp edge, and this fitted into the mouth of the woman. If she moved her tongue, therefore, she injured herself; if she kept quiet, she was not hurt.

With this upon her head, the scold, as she was called, was paraded through the streets by one of the community officials. This object, known variously as the brank or scold’s bridle, was thought to have been first used in 1623 in Macclesfield, although there are hints that is was used in Scotland as early as 1574. In 1600, it is thought, the brank was used in Stirling to punish ‘the shrew.’

Around the country, some branks are preserved in our
museums, and a famous one is linked to the church at Walton-on-Thames. It was presented to the parish in 1632 by a man called Chester because he had lost one of his estates through the actions of a lying and gossiping woman. Mr Chester presented the brank with this accompanying verse:

‘Chester presents Walton with a bridle

To curb women’s tongues that talk too idle.’

It is difficult to ascertain when the brank was last used, although there is an account of one in the early part of last century. At Altrincham, a woman who caused great distress to her neighbours by her ceaseless and malicious gossip was
punished
by being paraded around the town wearing a brank. But she refused to walk with it on and would not agree to this punishment. As a result she was then placed in a wheelbarrow and wheeled around the principal streets and market place. History assures us that this had the desired effect of curbing her tongue.

Another device for dealing with scolds was the ducking-stool; this varied in detailed construction but was based on something akin to a long plank, rather like a see-saw, which had a chair or seat at one end. It was positioned with the chair over a pond or river, and so the scolding woman, after being tied into the chair, was lowered repeatedly into the water to cool her tongue. This punishment usually attracted a crowd of local folks who came along for the so-called fun.

One account dated 1700, written by a Frenchman upon a visit to England, says, ‘The way of punishing scolding women is pleasant enough,’ and he then describes the ducking-stool, after which he adds, ‘They plunge her into the water as often as the sentence directs, in order to cool her immoderate heat.’

Like the brank, the ducking-stool’s last known use occurred in the early years of last century, probably in 1809 at
Leominster
. The lady was called Jenny Pipes and the first thing she did upon release from the stool was to utter a string of foul oaths as she cursed the magistrates.

Of these two methods, contemporary reports said that the brank was better than the ducking-stool because ‘the stool not only endangered the health of the party, it also gave her tongue liberty ’twixt every dip.’

The nagging woman has been a topic of writers, poets and comedians for years, and remains so. I like the story of a man who called his wife Peg, when her real name was Josephine. Someone asked him why he called her Peg and he said, ‘Well, Peg is short for Pegasus; Pegasus was an immortal horse and an immortal horse is an everlasting nag.’

There is also a view that nature has given man the apparatus for snoring to compensate for the woman’s capacity for nagging. She nags him during the day, so he retaliates by snoring at night, for which she nags him during the day …. and so a type of noisy if uneasy balance is achieved.

But not all naggers are married to snorers and not all snorers are married to naggers, which means that many innocent people suffer from vitriolic and poisonous tongues while others must tolerate nights of oscillating and very tuneless olfactory muscles.

One would hardly expect the village constable to become involved in marital battles of this kind, but in fact all police officers, whether rural or urban, do find themselves involved in what the police call ‘domestics’. These are breaches of the peace which generally occur among families; if the battles remain behind closed doors, we are not too concerned, but when warring women spill into the street armed with frying-pans, rolling-pins and sharp tongues, then we are sometimes called in to quell what could otherwise develop into a breach of the peace in a public place. As a rule, we try to avoid these because the moment the peace-making constable arrives, the sparring partners both turn upon the unfortunate constable. But at least that stops the quarrelling and perhaps personifies the
constable
’s unsung role in maintaining public tranquillity. He keeps the peace while being attacked from all sides.

It would not be possible in this book to list all the ‘domestics’ in which I became officially involved, but they did conform to this pattern and few terminated in court. They were usually settled by a stern talking-to or threats of having ‘binding-over’ orders levelled against the parties, for most were of a sudden and temporary nature.

But there were cases when nagging wives caused domestic upsets of a more permanent kind. One involved a man called
Joseph Pringle who had a wife called Roberta. They lived in a neat little bungalow in Aidensfield, just off the Elsinby Road, where it nestled cheerfully among trees with a fine view to the south. With no children, the Pringles were a quiet couple who rarely involved themselves in village matters. Mrs Pringle’s socialising was done in York.

I first became aware of Joseph when I noticed his car halting outside the Brewers Arms at Aidensfield around seven each weekday evening. He always popped in for a swift half of bitter on his way home from work, and sometimes I came across him when I was on official business in the pub. If I had any
confidential
enquiries to make of any landlord, I would pop in before the customers filled the bars. And so I became acquainted with Joseph Pringle.

Aged about forty with a balding head of greying hair, he was one of those insignificant men who are hardly noticed among a crowd of three. Of average height and average build, he wore average clothes and drove an average car at an average sort of speed. He lived in an average house on an average income, but, as I was to learn later, he suffered from a higher-than-average amount of nagging. He had married a true virago, a real warrior of a woman who constantly and cruelly nattered him during his every moment at home. She never gave him a moment’s peace; she nagged and nagged and nagged.

Roberta Pringle was a loud-mouthed, energetic and very forceful woman who played hell with everyone; good-looking in some ways, she was approaching forty and had a fine figure topped with an equally fine head of dark hair which framed a handsome, rather than pretty, face. Slightly taller than her husband, she was always very well dressed, but went about her daily routine playing hell with the postman, the dustman, the milkman, the paper-boys, the butcher, the grocer, the vicar, the policeman, her neighbours and anyone else with whom she had any dealings. And of course, when they were not available, she played hell with Joseph.

Because most of them learned, by experience, to keep out of her way, Joseph bore the heaviest burden. He was continuously told off because of the government, the rates, the parish council, the state of the nation, the cost of living, the sloppy
work of builders, plumbers, electricians, motor mechanics, doctors, dentists and nurses; she played hell about the roads, snowploughs, weather forecasters, British Rail, bus timetables, canteen ladies, rubbish bins, cafe proprietors, village shops, the post office, tinned beans, the telephone system, television, women’s fashions, men’s trousers, hotel beds, the water supply, long grass, bruised apples, cold Yorkshire puddings and fatty ham.

And she never stopped complaining and nagging, which meant that her range of subject-matter was never exhausted. Indeed, it expanded, with the meek Joseph having his ears lambasted during all his precious moments at home.

As a result, of course, he started to come home later, a ploy which enabled him to avoid some of her vitriol and which was part of the reason he paid his nightly visit to the Brewers Arms. It gave him peace from both work and wife.

Joseph owned and ran his own gentlemen’s outfitters in Eltering. It was a modest shop which sold fairly cheap clothes whose quality was not of the highest. He now faced competition from the major department stores in York and elsewhere for they stocked good clothes within the cheaper range, while those men with money patronised their own bespoke tailors. Joseph had no drive and ambition; he did not wish to become the owner of a chain of shops nor did he strive to change his own dwindling circumstances. He seemed content to let things drift
downwards
, and I began to learn of his shrinking fortune in the course of my patrolling.

Some hint of his problems arose when I popped into his shop to buy some black socks. He was on the telephone, and was saying words like, ‘Yes, dear. No dear. Yes, I will. No, I will not be late tonight. There isn’t much in the till today. Yes, I know the car needs attention, the brakes, yes. I’ll see what the garage says.’

When he saw me at the counter, he said, ‘I have a customer, dear. See you tonight,’ and he replaced the handset.

‘Women!’ he said, recognising me. ‘All they think about is money and status! Well, Mr Rhea, what can I get you?’

‘Two pairs of black socks please, Joseph,’ I said.

He obtained them and I paid, then he said, ‘There are times I
wish I had your job, Mr Rhea. A regular salary, interesting life, varied work and the means of travelling around the district. I’m stuck in here, day in and day out, it does get a bit monotonous.’

‘It’s funny, you know,’ I said. ‘Lots of policemen say they’d like their own business.’

‘It has some advantages, Mr Rhea, but times are not good for my trade. Multiple stores, cheaper mass-produced clothes, foreign imports – small shops are finding it hard, very hard to compete. I’d pack it in tomorrow if I could.’

‘You surprise me,’ I was honest when I said that.

He seemed anxious to talk so I did not rush away.

‘Roberta likes to live well, to dress well, to socialise and have a nice home. I can’t give her all she wants, Mr Rhea, it does worry me.’

‘Could you sell up and try another business?’

‘I would have trouble selling this shop, I feel. But you don’t need burdening with my worries! Thanks for listening, I needed someone to say that to. Not that you can help, but at least you did listen.’

‘I’ll listen whenever you want, Joseph.’ I tried to show a little understanding. ‘Maybe I will come across someone who wants a shop just like yours. As you say, I am out and about a lot.’

‘Thanks, I’ll buy you a half next time you’re in the Brewers Arms,’ he offered with a sad smile.

Further hints of Joseph Pringle’s problems came to me over the next few months. A businessman friend from York, for example, asked if I knew the Pringles of Aidensfield; my friend’s wife was a member of a York Ladies Luncheon Club where Roberta Pringle was also a member. It seemed she had told her fellow members that Joseph ran a men’s clothing manufacturing business with outlets all over the country. In fact, there was an internationally known manufacturer of men’s high-quality clothing at Eltering, but it was not Joseph’s
business
. Roberta’s skilful story-telling had led her friends to believe he was a very successful businessman and that those premises were his. I began to see that Roberta was living a life of fiction, a life of fantasy, a life of dangerous expense for poor old Joseph.

It explained why she socialised away from home, why she kept away from those who knew her well, why she dressed so expensively, why she was always nagging at the tired Joseph to improve his status and income. And, as eventually I learned, she was spending all his cash.

I met him on a walk one Sunday morning and he wanted to talk again. ‘You’ve not found anyone who might want my shop, Mr Rhea?’ was his opening gambit.

‘Sorry, Joseph.’ I had asked around, and had in fact come across a retiring police sergeant who was thinking of starting a shop in Eltering. Not a clothes shop, however, although he did express interest in the premises. But he never went ahead.

I promised Joseph I’d keep my ears and eyes open on his behalf.

‘I’m getting to the point where I can’t pay my bills,’ he said. ‘I can’t get credit to buy my stock …’

‘How about a sale?’ I suggested. ‘Why not sell off some older stock?’

‘I have,’ he said. ‘It’s Roberta, you see, she is a partner and she never stops buying clothes for herself. She does need them, you see, for her luncheon clubs and theatre outings and so on, and it’s not fair if I stop the only enjoyment she has in life. She has to be smart, she’s mixing with the right people, you see …’

It’s all right telling a man to be firm with a wife who is ruining him, but it’s a different thing persuading that same man to take positive action. I never knew why Joseph did not take a firmer stance for I’d heard that she demanded a new outfit every month so that she could keep up her social appearances … poor old Joseph. Much of his dilemma was due to his own fault and his weakness with his awful wife, but I could only
commiserate
with him. Tentatively, I asked whether Roberta might help in the shop, perhaps by selling other lines, baby clothes, for example, or ladies’ wear.