Constable Through the Meadow (23 page)

‘I never,’ he said. ‘She gave me them.’

I lectured Simon against ever stealing sweets and congratulated Joseph on his community spirit, albeit couched in terms he would understand, and packed them off home. I wondered if he knew what was meant by the word ‘arrest’ – perhaps he thought it involved nothing more than a telling off by a
policeman
? In that case, I had done as he had expected and honour had been satisfied. Two days later, Joseph returned with another arrested child. This time it was a girl who’d torn another girl’s dress in a fight.

‘Thhe’th very naughty,’ Joseph told me. ‘Thhe’th tore Fiona’th dreth fighting when Mith Clement said not to.’

I gave Fiona a lecture about damaging the belongings of her friends, and she cried a little. I told Joseph to take her home. Now I had a problem, because he turned up with other ‘arrested’ children and probably thought he was doing a good job as a very special constable. I didn’t want to hurt the child by telling him off, for that might destroy all his new-found
confidence
and the good work that had been achieved in removing his fears of policemen.

So, in an attempt to solve this little dilemma, I decided that the easiest way was to be ‘out’ whenever he arrived with one of his arrests. I explained the situation to Mary and so during the following few weeks, whenever we heard his knock at the office door around teatime, she answered it. For a short time
afterwards
, she was confronted by Joseph and his many prisoners. One some five or six occasions that followed, she explained that PC Rhea was out on patrol and suggested that Joseph and his prisoner return later. This had the desired effect. Joseph ceased his one-man vigilante campaign, but he always spoke to me when he saw me. In fact, he matured into a fine young man and became a detective chief inspector in the London Metropolitan Police with his own lovely children. And he always pops in to see me when he’s in the area – but now he doesn’t bring his prisoners for me to deal with!

A farmer’s eight-year-old son caused something of a flap one Christmas Eve, but it was a short-lived panic. I learned that the little boy, who was called Jonathan, had been suffering from teasing at school because he believed in Father Christmas when some of the others claimed he did not exist. Determined to settle the issue in his own mind, young Jonathan had not mentioned his doubts to anyone, not even to his parents, but after they had tucked him into bed that night, he had secretly gone out to seek Santa Claus.

I learned of his disappearance about ten o’clock on Christmas Eve when his father, Howard Sinclair, rang me. I hurried straight to the farm, which was only five minutes drive from my own home, and was ushered into the living-room. There, with the help of Jonathan’s older brother, Andrew, I learned of his worries.

Andrew told us that, at school, several of the lads in
Jonathan
’s class were boasting that they had discovered the truth about Father Christmas and Jonathan had championed those who still believed in him. Jonathan had said, before the
holidays
, that he would find out for sure whether Father Christmas really existed.

‘Did he say how he would do this?’ I asked Andrew, an alert eleven-year-old.

‘No, he never said. I thought he’d forgotten all about it, Mr Rhea, ’cos it was at school, before the holidays when he was on about it.’

At my instigation, we checked Jonathan’s clothes and found he had dressed in his warm clothes which comprised a pair of small jeans, warm jumper, Wellingtons, scarf, gloves, balaclava and overcoat.

‘Let’s search the farm buildings first,’ I suggested.

‘We’ve had a look around,’ said Howard.

But if a policeman learns anything, it is how to conduct a thorough search of houses and buildings, especially for people who are deliberately concealing themselves.

I was sure the lad was out of doors, because of the clothing he had taken, and so we began our hunt. I allowed the parents to go one way while I went elsewhere, then I would retrace their steps, searching for the tiniest and most unlikely of hiding
places. There was no snow yet, but it was crisp and frosty outside, so there’d be no footprints to provide any clues. After some twenty minutes of searching outbuildings, sheds and parked vehicles, I found myself in the hayloft. It was dry and cosy, with the scent of the hay filling my nostrils as my powerful torch picked out the stacked bales with hollows and passages between.

And then, as my torch beam moved across the surface of the bales, someone hissed for me to be silent.

‘Sssh!’ demanded the child’s voice. ‘You’ll frighten ’em off!’

‘Jonathan?’ he would not know my voice.

‘Who’s that?’ he demanded.

‘The policeman, PC Rhea, we’re looking for you.’

‘I’m all right, leave me alone. I’m busy.’

My torch picked him out now. He was lying fully clothed on some bales of hay, peering through the loft window in the gable-end of the hayshed. The window was normally closed, having a small door to cover the gap, but now it was standing wide open. It gave him a perfect view of the farmhouse and at his side was a carpet brush and dustpan.

I knelt beside him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for Father Christmas,’ he said.

‘He never comes when children are awake and waiting for him,’ I said gently. ‘He will know you are here, so he’ll keep away till you go to sleep in bed. Why do you want to see him?’

‘To see if he’s real,’ he said simply.

‘Well, as I said, Jonathan, he won’t come while you are here, so you’d better come home. Your mum and dad are worried about you.’

‘Are you sure he won’t come?’ he asked me, standing up and collecting his brush and dustpan.

‘Yes,’ I said, pointing the way out with my torch. ‘But why have you got that brush and dustpan?’

‘For reindeer droppings,’ he said. ‘I know Father Christmas will come to that chimney over there,’ and he pointed at the house. ‘And I know his reindeer like our hay, ’cos mum and dad said so; we always leave this hayloft window open so them reindeer’ll come here for a feed. And I know how cows and horses make droppings, so I’ll pick ’em up and show ’em to my
pals. Then they’ll know Father Christmas is real, won’t they?’

‘If you can find some reindeer droppings, I’m sure you’ll convince them,’ I said, accepting the brush from him and taking his hand. ‘Come on, time for bed.’

‘I’ll never know, will I?’ he said slowly.

‘One day you will,’ I told him, as I led him back to the house.

If young Joseph Myers misunderstood the meaning of ‘arrest’, it was understandable that little Martin Stokes, a small-built ten-year-old, should misunderstand one of this nation’s
best-known
phrases. Most grown-ups know what is meant by ‘London’s streets are paved with gold’ but Martin’s vision of that big city was one of a glistening fairy-tale lane with golden footpaths and houses which contained everything a family could ever wish for, especially a dad.

Martin’s mother had no husband. Martin was the result of a brief encounter with a young man who had vanished
immediately
after the act which had created Martin, and so the little fellow was reared by his loving and caring mother who was called Rosemary. She provided her sole offspring with lots of affection and as much comfort as possible.

She worked in a local shop which provided the barest of necessities, but at least she did work and she did attempt to give Martin the best that was within her very limited means. When the village primary school announced it was organising a trip to London for some ten-and eleven-year-olds, therefore, Martin said he would like to go. The trip was a form of celebration of the conclusion of their primary school education because next term, they would begin a new life at either a Grammar School or a Secondary Modern. In spite of the expense, Rosemary wanted Martin to go to London and she raided her meagre savings for his fare. Happily, a local businessman had said he would match fifty per cent of the total cost if the parents would raise the rest themselves.

The outcome was that a dozen children found themselves embarking on the trip of a lifetime. None had ever been to London and so the teacher, Miss Clement, told them about it. She explained about the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, the Queen and Buckingham Palace, the Horse Guards, the River
Thames and all the traditional tourist sights. She showed them photographs too and a short film about London. And it was Miss Clement, in her lecture about the delights of our capital, who quoted from the poet George Colman (1762–1836), when she said,

At home that evening over his tea, Martin told his mum all about the golden streets of London but she tried to explain that they weren’t really made of gold. She told Martin that London was the town of opportunity, where people could become rich if they worked hard because there was a lot of money in London. It was there for everyone if they worked hard and took the opportunities to find it. Martin said he understood, and the night before the trip, she’d bathed him, got his best clothes ready and packed him an old army knapsack full of sandwiches and drinks.

‘Will I be rich if I go to London?’ he had asked her as she’d tucked him into bed.

‘Maybe when you are grown up,’ she’d said. ‘If you go to London and work.’ Poor Rosemary; money was so short for her that her worries about it must have made an impression upon her young son. He was always anxious to earn lots of money. ‘But if the streets are made of gold, there must be some for me?’ he’d said.

‘No, darling, I’ve told you. The streets aren’t made of gold, not really. They’re stone like our streets, but there is lots of money in London, there’s lots of it about and people can find ways of getting a lot, earning a lot, if they live and work there.’

He hadn’t quite understood it all, but had fallen into a fitful sleep, dreaming of the fabulous town he would visit tomorrow. Next morning at six, a small coach left Aidensfield for York Station where the train departed just before seven o’clock, thus allowing them a day in London under the guidance of the teachers and one or two volunteer helpers. They were all so
eager to see the sights and to bring back lots of souvenirs. All had little bags containing their sandwiches and drinks, and I knew these would be full of trinkets and leaflets upon their return.

I was aware of the trip – a village bobby should know everything that is happening on his patch – but as none of my own children were old enough to join it, I was not really involved. The trip was an unqualified, if exhausting, success and my professional involvement came the following morning.

I received a phone call from Rosemary Stokes asking if I could call at the shop where she was working as she had a matter to discuss with me. Not knowing what this matter could be, I drove along to Maddleskirk where I found her behind the counter of the post-office-cum-grocery store. She was alone, the proprietor having gone into York to buy his weekly stock of groceries, and the morning was quiet.

‘Hello, Rosemary,’ I greeted her. ‘What’s bothering you?’

‘Would you like a coffee, Mr Rhea? I’ve got the kettle on?’ This was a good start!

I let her make the coffee without asking more questions and she settled on a stool behind the counter as I settled on another at the customers’ side. If a customer entered, she would deal with him or her, and I would enjoy my drink.

‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you like this,’ she
apologised
. ‘But I am very worried about Martin.’

‘Why, what’s he done? He went to London yesterday, didn’t he? He has come back, hasn’t he?’ I suddenly had an awful thought that he might not have returned.

‘Oh, yes, he’s back. He’s asleep, he went straight to bed last night when he got back, Mr Rhea, he was utterly worn out. I’ve never seen him so tired,’ and she bent to withdraw something from under the counter. It was a small khaki-coloured knapsack of the type soldiers used to carry for their rations and it was evidentally very heavy. As she passed it over to me, I heard the rattle of coins.

‘Look inside,’ she invited.

Resisting its weight as I accepted it, I pulled open the stout press-studs and saw it was half full of coins. Threepenny bits, sixpences, shillings, florins, half-crowns, pennies and
ha’pennies. There was a small fortune.

‘Somebody’s been saving fast!’ I laughed. ‘Who’s is all this?’

‘I don’t know,’ and she looked sorrowful. ‘Martin brought it back from London. He said he’d found it all. I didn’t give him that money, Mr Rhea, nothing like that. I don’t know where it’s come from. I do hope he hasn’t been stealing. I thought I’d better hand it in.’

I fingered through it; there were no £1 notes or ten-shilling notes, merely a large amount of cash. I didn’t count it and learned Rosemary hadn’t done so either, but there would be several pounds.

‘Did you quiz him closely about it?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, he was too tired, he just fell into bed, exhausted and besides, I didn’t like to upset him after his day out. I do know it’s not his money and as he said he’d found it, I thought I’d better hand it in. I wondered if anybody had said anything to you about it.’

‘No, they haven’t,’ I told her. ‘I’m not surprised he was tired, carrying this around! I’ll have to ask him about it.’ I was worried in case he had taken it off the other children, although I doubted it. Martin was an honest little fellow, I was sure.

‘He’s in bed, at home, Mr Rhea, my mother’s looking after him today, he’s got the day off school. I didn’t wake him to ask about it this morning. Should I come with you?’

‘Your mother’s there, so I’ll be fine. I’ll take the money to remind him!’ I said, and so I returned to Aidensfield to have a chat with Martin.

Mrs Stokes, senior, Rosemary’s mother, opened the door and was aware of the reason for my visit. She took me into her house, for Rosemary still lived at home, and said Martin was now out of bed and in the front room, playing with his souvenirs of
yesterday
in London. I went in. He was a happy boy, with a mop of curly blond hair and bright blue eyes, and showed no
apprehension
at my arrival.