Constable Through the Meadow (15 page)

Dora spent hours rushing around the village telling her friends, and then she went off to York to buy an entire new outfit, including one of those huge wide-brimmed hats that were her heart’s desire.

Then the formal instructions arrived by post.

And Dora’s world fell apart.

Horace had certainly submitted his name, but he had failed to understand that he had also to nominate his wife; he had failed to include her name, and so the invitation was for him and him alone. A maiden lady councillor from Whit by had also won an invitation – she had been issued with the one that should have gone to Councillor Horace Pitman’s lady.

Dora’s anger and disappointment was acute and she kept herself hidden from the public for some weeks after this bad news. Then on the day before the event, I saw Horace getting into one of his cars, and went across. He was dressed in the dark blazer he used for taxi-driving; he had on a dark tie and white shirt, and some crumpled trousers which he usually wore under his overalls. His boots were clean but very greasy and he carried a brown paper carrier-bag.

‘Going shopping, Horace?’ I asked

‘Nay, it’s for t’hotel tonight, Mr Rhea. I’m off to London. A clean collar and me razor and toothbrush. I need nowt else. I’m off to Buckingham Palace.’

And so he was; thus equipped, he got into his car and started the engine. I had no idea whether he intended to drive all the way to London or catch a train from York, but he sat there, smiling at me but saying nothing as he ran the engine of his car.

And then Dora came rushing out, looking like a dream. She
wore a beautiful new suit, a matching wide-brimmed hat and high-heeled shoes. She carried a small suitcase and a matching handbag.

‘Off to see the Queen, Dora?’ I asked.

‘I am not, and I’m glad I’m not, not with our Horace looking like that. You’d think he would have got some new clothes if he’s to shake Her Majesty by the hand … no, Mr Rhea, he’s not getting away with this! I’m going to London to see the sights, a play maybe, and then the shops. I wouldn’t be seen dead with our Horace dressed like that …’

And Horace engaged first gear and drove off with a big smile on his face. I wondered what Her Majesty would make of him. Upon their return, Dora never stopped talking about her trip. She’d had a marvellous time and had crammed a host of exciting events into her short visit to the city. As for Horace, I asked him what he thought of the Buckingham Palace Garden Party.

‘Not much,’ he said. T’food was nowt but a load o’ ket.’

A translation of that dialect word would, I doubt, not please those who arranged the teas.

One of the recurring duties of the sympathetic police officer involves dealing with people in distress; there are times when that distress is self-inflicted either by accident or design, and there are times it is inflicted upon us by other people or by a single event or even a series of unfortunate occurrences.
Officialdom
, bureaucracy and red tape can also inflict distress in their own inimitable manner, the latter being revealed when puzzled pensioners receive threatening letters from
computerised
accounts departments when their rates or other bills have been paid.

Minor examples of distress might include those who lock themselves out of their homes or whose motor cars run out of petrol, or who are locked out of their homes by others during arguments or stupidity, or whose cars run out of petrol because their teenage son has surreptitiously done a trip to Scotland and back. Other people can inflict distress upon us, by simple things like persistent telephone calls or playing football in our front garden, or by greed such as burglary or through dangerous actions like reckless driving, playing about with firearms or indeed anything else. The possibilities of trouble are endless and it seems we are continually at risk either through our own behaviour or from the actions of others.

In the course of police work, therefore, the constable often comes across examples of this kind and seeks to comfort the
victims where possible. A kind word and some assurance that the world isn’t going to end is generally sufficient, albeit tempered with advice on how to cope with the unexpected and harrowing predicament.

In dealing with jobs of this kind, however, it becomes evident that of all the root causes of man’s predilection for disaster, that which causes most problems is man’s love for woman. Through their vast experience of people, police officers know that men get themselves into some of the most curious situations in their undying efforts to prove their love to the lady of their dreams. Constables know that love is one of the most powerful of urges, so strong that at times it removes every scrap of common sense from the skulls of those whom it infects. A poet who remains anonymous once said that ‘Love is a passion which has caused the change of empires’ – in short, men do the daftest things when they are in love, and I have mentioned some of their misadventures in previous ‘Constable’ books.

But because this symptom provides a never-ending series of dramas, sagas, mishaps, problems and (to be honest) a few chuckles in the process, every constable has witnessed and can recount stirring tales of love. They would fill a volume, so I thought I would place on record a few more tales of the love-lorn countryman.

One example occurred during the depths of winter. While I was the village bobby at Aidensfield, one of my less pleasant duties as Christmas approached was to man road-checks at various lonely points. This meant stopping all cars to check them and their boots for stolen chickens, turkeys, drinks and other festive fare. We were also seeking those who stole holly from gardens and Christmas trees from our acres of local forests. It was a task that country constables had undertaken for years and the only time I found any game in a car was when I halted and searched a Rolls-Royce which, it transpired, had a boot full of pheasants. His Lordship was not too pleased; he was delivering them to his tenants.

The timing of those road-blocks varied, but they were usually of two hours’ duration, perhaps starting at 8pm, 9pm, 10pm, 11pm or even midnight, and on each occasion we selected a different check-point. Word generally got around the local pubs
that the police were checking cars at Bank Top or The Beacon or Four Lane Ends which probably meant the poachers took alternative routes. But we did get results – we found cars with no insurance, drivers with no licences, cars not taxed, cars with dirty number plates and cars in a dangerous condition. We caught drunken drivers, car thieves and burglars and, once in a while, we caught a Christmas poacher with a boot full of illicitly acquired game or liquor, or a hard-up dad who had risked digging up a Norway spruce from the local Forestry
Commission
plantation.

We referred to these duties as turkey patrols, although I’ve never known an arrest for having a boot full of turkeys. On one occasion, however, I caught a youth riding a bike without lights. It happened like this.

It was a pitch-black night with no moon and I was manning a road-check at Elsinby Plantation. It was about 8.30pm and I was alone for it was a very minor road which ran right through the centre of the conifer plantation which comprised Norway spruce, Scots pines and larches. We’d had reports of
Christmas-tree
thefts and so I was out to catch a thief.

Almost numb with cold, I suddenly heard the distinctive swish-swish of bicycle tyres and as I peered into the pitch blackness, I could not see any lights. And then the noise came closer and I could hear the sound of breathing as the rider pedalled up the slight gradient. And so I shone my torch upon him.

He cried with alarm, for my sudden action had terrified him. In the light of my torch, I saw it was young Ian Spellar from Elsinby and he stopped when he realised it was me.

‘Oh, Mr Rhea, hello.’ He was slightly out of breath.

‘Now, Ian, what’s all this then? Riding without lights, eh? You could get yourself killed on a night like this, you know. Car drivers can’t see you; you realise you’re putting drivers in an impossible situation?’

‘Aye, sorry, Mr Rhea. I won’t do it again.’

‘Where are you going anyway? It’s a bit off the beaten track up here!’

I shone my light on his bike and upon his back to see if he had anything which might carry a small tree or any other Yuletide
trophy, but he wasn’t equipped for transporting anything save himself. I knew he wasn’t stealing.

‘I’m not pinching things, Mr Rhea, honest. I’m off to see my girlfriend.’

‘And who’s she?’ was my next question.

‘Linda Thornhill,’ he said. I knew where she lived and this was on the route to her parents’ isolated farm.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Off you go, but be careful. And next time, get some batteries in those lights, and get them switched on, OK? Or I’ll book you!’

‘Yes, Mr Rhea. Sorry Mr Rhea.’

‘And be careful – remember you can’t be seen!’

Knowing few cars used this quiet track, I allowed him to continue to see his love, although the lad might be a danger to other road users. Maybe I should not have relented, but I decided in his favour. Ian was a pleasant youth. Just turned eighteen, he worked in a local timber yard and was a
hard-working
lad from a decent working-class background. I’d had to tell him off once or twice about drinking under age but he never got into serious trouble. Under-age drinking and riding a bike without lights was the extent of his lawlessness.

Then, only a week later, I was manning another check-point in that vicinity, this time at Flatts End, when I heard the same swish-swish of bicycle tyres. I shone my torch upon the
oncoming
rider and again it was Ian.

‘Same rider, Mr Rhea!’ he said, halting at my side.

‘Same constable, Ian!’

‘Same excuse!’ he countered.

‘Same warning!’ I said. ‘Now what about those lights?’

‘I never got round to putting them on, Mr Rhea, sorry,’ and he bent over his lights, back and front, and switched them on. After telling him once again of the dangers, I let him go.

‘It’ll be a summons next time, Ian!’ I shouted after him as his red rear light disappeared into the gloom.

It puzzled me that he should be riding in such darkness without lights when both his lamps were in good
working-order
. It didn’t make sense. Then some ten days later, one Saturday night, I was manning yet another check-point, this time at Swathgill Head, and once more, I heard the panting
sound of someone pedalling heavily, and the accompanying swish-swish of bicycle tyres. I groaned. I would now have to be harder with this youth.

I switched on my torch and waved him to a halt. I was right; it was Ian Spellar.

‘Same cyclist, Mr Rhea,’ he said, this time not so chirpily.

‘Same constable,’ I retorted, sternly.

‘Same excuse,’ he said, wondering what my reaction would be as he switched on both lights.

‘Same threat, Ian!’ I sounded angry. ‘Now look, this is getting beyond a joke. This is your final warning, right? Next time, you go to court, I can’t have you putting yourself and car-drivers at risk …’

‘If I hear a car coming, I stop and put ’em on,’ he said. ‘I’d never let ’em run me down, Mr Rhea, I’m not as daft as that.’

‘Why ride without lights when your lamps are in
working-order
?’ I asked. ‘There’s nothing wrong with them!’

He just shrugged his shoulders in reply, and I watched him ride off once again. Each time I’d seen him, he’d been on a different road, albeit within the same general area of the heights above Elsinby. Any of those roads would take him to Linda Thornhill’s remote home, but his attitude defeated me. It wasn’t defiance of the law, it was more a strange sort of lethargy. Now, however, I felt he had got the message. But I was wrong. Only a week later, I was again on the lane running through Elsinby Plantation when I became aware of an approaching cyclist without lights. My heart sank. I could distinguish the swishing of the tyres and the sound of a man breathing as he climbed the gradient, and so, once more, I shone my torch on Ian Spellar.

‘Same cyclist, Mr Rhea.’

‘Same constable, Ian.’

‘Same excuse,’ he recited what had become a kind of ritual response.

‘Same results, Ian.’

‘Same apologies, Mr Rhea.’

‘And this time, it’s the same summons, Ian. You’re clearly ignoring my warnings, so it’s a summons this time,’ and I took down his name, age, address and occupation, then reported him
for riding a cycle without obligatory lights.

‘I’m really sorry, Mr Rhea,’ and he switched on his front and rear lamps.

‘Look, Ian, this is serious, you’re risking an accident and putting too much faith in other drivers … they just cannot see you in darkness. Why are you doing this?’

He hung his head, embarrassed at my questioning, but his demeanour told me there was a reason for his odd behaviour. Even so, he did not reveal this to me. I must admit that I was against submitting a formal report against him; on paper, it seemed such a trivial matter and my superiors would probably think I’d become drunk with power. But Ian had to be taught a lesson, and so I did submit a report with an accompanying account of the reasons for my action.

And then, even before a decision had been made upon that report, I caught Ian once again.

‘Same constable, Ian,’ I shouted at him. ‘And it’ll be another summons for the same offence. What on earth are you playing at?’

‘Same cyclist, Mr Rhea.’ He sounded very subdued now. ‘And same excuse.’

‘You’re going to see your girlfriend again?’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I am, and well, Mr Rhea, I’m sorry, I really am. I know it’s wrong, but, well, it’s so important …’

‘Go on, Ian, I’m listening,’ I said.

‘Well, you know where the Thornhills live, down at Birch Bower Farm?’

‘I know it well,’ I paid a visit to this farm about once a month and it was an awful trek from the road. The farm lay at least a mile and a half from the road, and although the first quarter of the track leading to it was surfaced, the remainder was an unmade lane full of ruts and pot-holes and littered with partly buried rocks. It was a diabolical road and Ted Thornhill never seemed inclined to repair it. Everyone who used it grumbled.

‘Well, old Thornhill doesn’t like me courting his lass, Mr Rhea, so I go in secret. Linda can’t get out at night, you see, being only sixteen anyway, so I have to ride out there if I want to see her. She goes into her room to do her homework, you see, but she sneaks out at nine o’clock. Well, her dad might catch me
riding down that lane if I show lights, Mr Rhea, and ’cos I need to adjust my eyes to ride down when it’s pitch dark, I practise on these quiet roads, you see … I allus have lights on in the village, or on main roads, but not here where there’s nowt but trees.’

I believed him. I knew the value of working without light when operating at night because one’s eyes do become accustomed to the darkness.

‘So you’re practising that ride and using different roads to avoid me, eh?’ I put to him.

‘Yeh, well, when you first nabbed me I reckoned you’d often be on that road, seeing Christmas is coming up and there’s poachers about. So I went the other way round, then you were there an’ all, Mr Rhea …’

‘And I’ve no doubt you’ve been riding those roads other nights, Ian, when I’ve not been on duty?’

He laughed with a silly sort of giggle. ‘Aye, well, you have to, haven’t you? Just the quiet bits, mind, and that lane down to Birch Bower.’

‘I’m not interested in Birch Bower Farm Lane,’ I said. ‘That’s private property. I’m concerned with public roads.’

‘So will they take me to court, Mr Rhea?’

‘It depends on the Superintendent,’ I said, which was the truth. ‘He’ll read my report and decide what to do.’

‘Tell him I’m sorry, then. But mebbe he was a lad an’ all, at one time? Going courting.’

‘I’ll see what he says,’ was all I could promise.

The Superintendent met me at one of my rendezvous points a few days later and took the opportunity of asking me about my ‘no bike-lights’ report. I explained the situation and included Ian’s odd reason.

‘Christmas is coming up, PC Rhea,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Would you agree that a written caution is appropriate in this case?’

I smiled. ‘Yes, sir. I think it would be very appropriate.’

And so that was Ian’s punishment. Within a few days, he would receive a written caution from the Superintendent which would inform him that he would not be prosecuted on this occasion, but that the letter must be regarded as a warning. Any
future offences of this nature could result in a court appearance.