Constable Through the Meadow (24 page)

‘Hello, Martin,’ I squatted on the carpet at his side. ‘What have we got here?’

‘Things from London,’ he told me proudly. ‘Pictures, books, flags; look, that’s where the Queen lives and that’s Big Ben … there’s boats on the river and that’s the Tower where the
two princes were killed …’

I let him tell me all about his journey and it was clear it had made a tremendous impression upon him. At this stage, I knew nothing of his vision of golden pavements, but when I presented the knapsack full of coins, he said, ‘I got them from London, Mr Rhea.’

‘Did you?’ I expressed surprise. ‘Where from?’

‘The streets,’ he said. ‘Everybody said the streets were paved with gold, well, they weren’t, they were stone like ours, and it was mum who said there was money on the streets for
everybody
who could find it, so I found all that, Mr Rhea. I looked for it, and brought it home.’

‘You mean you found all this, Martin?’ I ran my fingers through the coins.

‘Yes, Mr Rhea. On the pavements. I told mum that.’

‘Was all this money lying on the pavements?’ I asked,
surprised
at the amount. Finding the occasional coin was not unusual, but to find all these …

‘Yes, it was,’ he said. ‘People were throwing money down and other people were picking it up.’

‘Whereabouts was this happening, Martin?’

‘Oh, all over. Everywhere we went.’

‘And who was picking it up?’

‘Sometimes nobody, it was just left there. But those men playing music and drawing things on the pavements, they were keeping some. And sometimes, people threw it in boxes and hats and things on the pavements. I saw a lot of money thrown away like that, Mr Rhea, so I thought I’d have some.’

‘You helped yourself from the boxes and hats, then?’

‘Not really, ’cos I thought it must be somebody’s, but I did pick some up from the pavements when it was just lying there. There was lots lying about, Mr Rhea.’

‘I’m sure there was!’ I had now guessed the source of his cash flow!

And so, by asking more questions, I came to realise that Martin, through the legend that the streets of London are paved with gold, had honestly thought money was being thrown on to the pavements to be collected by poor people like himself. And so, during that trip, he had picked up pounds’ worth of coins
from the feet of pavement artists, buskers and newspaper vendors and no one had noticed.

Martin’s grandmother overheard this and was shocked.

‘Martin!’ she shouted at him. ‘That’s stealing …’

‘He wasn’t to realise that,’ I said. ‘But Martin, this money did belong to those people playing the music and doing the
drawings
. That’s how they earn their money.’

I don’t think he fully understood, but his grandmother asked, ‘You’re not going to take him to court, surely?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t, not for this! But I couldn’t take official action anyway, not without a complaint from those buskers and pavement artists! And I hardly think I’ll get one from them!’

‘What do we do with the money, then?’ asked Mrs Stokes.

‘I’ll leave Rosemary to decide,’ I said. ‘She might give some to a charity, but I’m sure if those artists and buskers knew the struggle she was having, they wouldn’t mind it going into Martin’s Post Office Savings Account. He can always pay some back next time he’s in London.’

I left, not wishing to know more about Martin’s money-making but hoped he would learn that, even in London, cash was not there for the taking. It had to be earned.

On another occasion, anxiety was caused after Miss Alice Calvert retired as Headmistress of Ashfordly Primary School. Because she had served there during her entire teaching career, a matter of some forty years, her retirement created a lot of interest in the town and surrounding area, and resulted in wide local press coverage. There were presentations to her, one from her pupils past and present, and another from the governors and parents. Then, on the last day of her career, there was a social evening in the school with speeches and yet more gifts for Miss Calvert from her small staff and numerous associates, both within the teaching profession and from the townspeople.

She announced that next year she would be taking a long holiday to tour Europe by car, and she hoped to take an extended break to visit her sister and her family in Australia. She hoped to enrol at night-school to study pottery and
promised
that her retirement would enable her to undertake all
those things she’d been unable to do while working.

Alice Calvert was of very distinctive appearance. Now sixty years old, she was a very tall and heavily built lady with a habit of wearing long, colourful and flowing dresses which concealed any hint of her feminine shape. Some of the crueller senior boys would call her Bell-Tent Alice, and few people really knew whether she was slim on top with big hips, or big on top with narrow hips. Almost invariably, she wore flat-heeled shoes or sandals and lots of bangles.

Her face, however, was beautiful. Embraced by a mop of pure white hair, it was round and cheerful with rosy cheeks and a constant smile. Miss Calvert radiated happiness and love and I, for one, often wondered why she had never married. She loved children and was completely happy in her work.
Retirement
, and the subsequent parting from the children, would not be an easy adjustment to make. But Alice Calvert could cope and would make the necessary adaptations without grumbling or self-pity.

She lived in Aidensfield, where she had a neat little bungalow not far from the church. I would see her pottering around the place at weekends, for she kept an immaculate garden full of flowers and shrubs, somehow guiding her massive bulk between the plants without causing damage. The bungalow was called Honeymead and during her long school holidays, she would ask me to keep an eye on the house whenever she was away. She was always careful to lock it against intruders. I was pleased that, during her frequent absences, she did notify me and so allow me to keep a careful watch on her property. I knew that during her longer absences overseas or indeed any other travelling she undertook in Britain, she would keep me informed when the bungalow was empty. I knew she would worry about the effect of her recent publicity, and whether this would attract undesirables who would snoop around her premises. In an attempt to offset this concern, I assured her that my colleagues and I would pay regular visits when on duty.

Knowing this background, it was with more than a little concern that at four o’clock on the morning following her farewell party, I received an urgent telephone call from her. It took a long time to arouse me but by the time I reached my cold
office downstairs, I was fully awake.

‘Mr Rhea,’ she hissed into the phone. ‘There’s a man
outside
… he’s been trying to break into my bungalow … What shall I do?’

‘Is he still there?’ I asked, speaking in a hoarse whisper.

‘Yes and it’s funny, I think he’s gone to sleep outside, on the patio …’

‘Asleep? Right, don’t make a sound. I’m coming straight away. Look out for me …’

Pausing only to call Divisional Headquarters with an urgent request for the Police Dog Section and any other handy mobiles to be available at the bungalow in case the villain ran away or there was trouble, I dressed and hurried out. I did not take the mini-van, because a stealthy approach seemed vitally
important
. Instead, I used a pedal cycle I’d just acquired and, after riding without lights for half a mile in the semi-darkness of that summer morning, I arrived at Honeymead within minutes. Parking my bike several doors away. I radioed Divisional Headquarters to announce my arrival at Honeymead and to inform them I was about to search for, and hopefully arrest, the
reported
intruder.

Calls of this kind were made as a form of security so that if I failed to respond to radio calls in the ensuing drama, assistance would be sent. I knew the dogs and maybe other crews were already
en
route
,
and that gave me some comfort. I could wait for them, but I would hate to lose this prisoner; he might be frightened off at the approach of their vehicles, and so I made my move. My heart was pounding and I made sure I had my handcuffs and truncheon, my only defence against attack.

As I crept up to her back door in the near-darkness, I thought it odd that her burglar had gone to sleep, but I knew that sillier things had happened. Burglars often went to sleep inside a deserted house or even cooked meals there. Maybe this was just a drunk who’d read about her in the papers? The bungalow was in complete darkness, but in the approaching light of morning, she had seen my arrival. She unlocked her back door and opened it silently to admit me.

‘Thank goodness you’ve come, Mr Rhea!’

I did not make the mistake of switching on my torch but
could see she was enveloped in a huge flowing dressing-gown and had a heavy poker in her hand. If he’d got in here, he would have had a shock and a few bruises into the bargain.

‘Where is he? Is he still here?’ I whispered.

‘On the patio, fast asleep. Maybe he’s drunk.’

‘Can I get there by going through the house?’

‘No, he’s lying against the french windows. You’ll have to go round the side and through the garden.’

‘Right,’ I whispered and began my move. I knew the way, I’d been around her bungalow many previous times.

‘What shall I do?’ she asked.

‘Stay here. Keep an eye on me from inside; it’s not too dark. If I get attacked or anything, dial 999 and tell the police what’s going on.’

‘Be careful!’ she whispered. And so I left. I crept around the side of her house, trying not to make a sound, and then, as I reached the front, I could see the dark shape of the sleeping intruder. It was a bulky man and he was huddled on the patio, lying fast asleep against her french windows. In the dim light, I could see he was very casually dressed in jeans and a sweater, and that he carried a back-pack comprising a sleeping-bag and rucksack, and this was forming his pillow. His hair was tousled and I could just discern a thick brown beard …

Wondering how long it would take for my assistance to arrive, I halted to take a deep breath. Miss Calvert was nearby with her poker but in cases like this, there was no knowing how a suspect would react; he might have a gun or a knife, he might be armed with a knuckleduster or a club. I began to think it would be wiser to await the dogs, but I could not flinch from my task.

I approached the sleeping form.

‘Hey!’ I moved his foot with my boot. ‘You, hey, wake up … it’s the police …’

I stood back in case of a violent reaction.

‘Hmm?’ he stirred but did not arouse. I kicked his boot again, shouting at him and keeping my distance.

‘Police … wake up …’ and now I shone my torch full in his eyes. ‘Hey, come on, who are you? Stand up …’

In the reflected light of my torch, I could see Miss Calvert just
inside her french windows, wringing her hands and wondering what she should be doing. I just hoped she did not go away – that poker might be my salvation! But the fellow was now rising to his feet, sleepily and without any sign of antagonism. He made no effort to run off, but stood there, blinking at me and apparently quite docile.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded loudly, hoping to penetrate his weariness. ‘This is the police …’

‘Huh?’ He blinked against the light of my torch and covered his eyes. ‘Who?’

‘Police,’ I said. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘Oh God,’ he muttered and his deep voice emerged with a strong Australian accent. ‘Streuth, I’m shattered. I really am … is this Miss Calvert’s house? Alice Calvert’s house?’

‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘So who are you?’

‘G’day. I’m her nephew … from Adelaide … Derek’s the name … I knocked but she was asleep … I didn’t like to rouse her so I kipped here … she always left a key under the stone when I was little so I could get in, but it’s not there, Officer. Sorry, have I upset things?’

‘You’ve been travelling long?’

‘Couple of weeks or so,’ he said. ‘Flew a bit, caught ferries and hitched most of the way; I aimed to get here as a surprise, for her retirement party, do you know …’

‘Wait there,’ I said, and I knocked on her window. ‘It’s all right, Miss Calvert. You can put the light on and open this door.’

Even with my approval, she was nervous, but she obeyed. When the door was fully open, Derek said, ‘Aunt Alice!’ and threw his huge arms around her.

‘Derek! It is you, isn’t it? Derek!’

‘Yes, it’s me …’

I maintained a discreet distance during their dramatic reunion and then she invited me inside to have a cup of tea with her nephew. I learned it was seventeen years since she’d last seen him; he was then twelve and was now twenty-nine and approaching thirty. This had been his retirement surprise …

‘And you’re coming back to Australia,’ he said eventually, delving into his baggage. ‘I’ve a return ticket for you, starting
five weeks from now. For a whole month … you’re coming to stay with us …’

I felt I ought to leave this scene of domestic happiness, but at that moment, the bungalow was suddenly surrounded by cars, flashing blue lights and lots of police officers …

‘Oh crumbs!’ I said. ‘I forgot to cancel the cavalry!’

‘Bring them in for a drink,’ said Alice Calvert happily. ‘It’s a good job he wasn’t a burglar!’

‘It is,’ I laughed. ‘They’d have frightened him off!’

Half a dozen policemen and two dogs came into the house and filled the place with blue uniforms as I explained what had happened. They were delighted with the truth.

‘Look,’ said Alice, addressing us all in her school-ma’am voice, ‘I know you’re not supposed to drink on duty, but I do have a bottle of wine … perhaps a glass each, just to
celebrate
? My nephew has come rather a long way, half-way round the world, and he did miss my party …’

And so, in the early hours of that morning, seven policemen and two police dogs, aided by glasses of wine, slices of her farewell cake and cups of coffee, helped Miss Calvert to
celebrate
her nephew’s arrival. It was a lovely night’s work!