Constable Around the Village (13 page)

“’Tis good to understand the ways of the Lord, Nicholas,” he smiled as he strode towards the imposing entrance.

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes to three. The bishop was due in five minutes.

Mr Hamilton came along the path ready to meet him and we stood together, looking anxiously along the High Street.

“Will he be on time?” I asked.

“I’m sure he will, he’s been to a morning service south of York, and he lunched in the city with the archbishop. He’ll be on time.”

“The last bishop never visited Elsinby?” I put to him as we waited.

“No,” he said. “All those occasions when a bishop was needed, like confirmations, were held in Aidensfield, so we never got a visit. But this chap’s changed all that, he’s visiting every church in his diocese.”

At five minutes to three I heard an approaching vehicle.

A large, luxury coach materialised around the corner and I was horrified to see Sergeant Blaketon’s huge figure
standing
near the front door. The bus halted right before us with a squeal of brakes and Sergeant Blaketon, in full uniform, clambered down. It had parked right in the bishop’s place.

“Afternoon, Vicar, afternoon, Rhea,” he beamed at us.

“Mr Hamilton, this is Sergeant Blaketon from Ashfordly, my section station. Sergeant, the Reverend Simon Hamilton, the vicar of Elsinby.”

They shook hands, and Blaketon said, “I heard you needed a congregation, Vicar, so I’ve got a bus-load of Methodists with me, all from Ashfordly.”

“A congregation, Sergeant?”

“Yes, young Rhea let it drop that you couldn’t fill the church, so I thought it would be a nice gesture of working Christianity if I brought along a few of my friends, just to fill the gaps, in a manner of speaking.”

“Er, it’s very kind of you, Sergeant, but I think you’ll find my church is full. But go in, please—it might be standing room only.”

“Come along, you lot,” bawled Sergeant Blaketon in a good-humoured way. “Fill up that church like good Anglicans.”

And as they descended from their coach I saw the
oncoming
procession with its Austin Princess at the lead. The bishop was here.

“Sarge!” I cried. “That bus is on the bishop’s
parking-place
.”

“We won’t be a minute, lad.”

“But he’s here, coming up the village now!”

There was a moment of confusion, as Sergeant Blaketon tried to get the driver to move before everyone was out, but he failed. The slow-moving stream of Methodists held up the coach and the result was that the bishop’s car had to park a few yards away. I was upset but the bishop didn’t seem to mind.

He and his attendants dismounted and I saw he was a little, jovial man with a round happy face and dancing eyes.

“Full house, eh?” he beamed, looking at the coach. “Am I early?”

“No, Your Grace,” smiled Mr Hamilton. “When they get inside, I will take you in.”

“Let us not hurry those good people,” the bishop said, looking at me. “And this is your local policeman?”

“P.C. Rhea, from Ashfordly, Your Grace.” I extended my hand and he shook it warmly with a firm grip.

“It’s nice of you to help us out,” smiled the bishop as he watched the last of Blaketon’s faithful enter the church. The bus moved away and the bishop’s chauffeur slid into his correct position. Everything was just as it should be.

“Are you going in?” asked the bishop of me.

“I am, Your Grace,” and I went ahead, leaving the bishop and the vicar to enter last. As I edged my way into the packed church, I could see people everywhere. The place was packed and Sergeant Blaketon’s Methodists were standing in the aisles down the side and at the rear. It was a wonderful sight.

Sergeant Blaketon saw me enter and I was compelled to stand close to him. “Rhea,” he whispered hoarsely, “This place is full of bloody papists.”

“Is it, Sergeant?” I smiled as the organ struck up with the first hymn.

As the bishop walked down the aisle, the Anglicans, Catholics and Methodists burst into a rousing hymn of welcome, each faith trying to outsing the other. The harmonious Methodists sang with their usual blend of religious fervour and elegance and perhaps theirs was the better music. But it was a joyful welcome and everyone settled down for the start of this memorable service.

It was a splendid occasion by any standards. The singing was good enough to lift the ancient roof of this church, and everyone joined in with the utmost enthusiasm. The Catholics almost forgot to add the tailpiece at the end of the “Our Father”, but Father O’Malley’s stentorian tones led them into that final act of homage. By four o’clock it was all over, and the congregation reckoned the bishop’s address had been first rate. He had talked wholeheartedly of
harmony
between Christians and I wondered if he knew how apt his words were on this occasion.

During the tea afterwards, everyone mingled and ate happily, and I was pleased to see local Catholics chatting with local Methodists interspaced with Anglicans. The
bishop in his purple mingled too and I saw him chatting earnestly with several of the catholics of St Francis. But it all went very, very well indeed. Mr Hamilton beamed benevolently upon everyone.

His Grace was scheduled to leave at five fifteen and I positioned myself near his car to ensure a smooth departure. He was five or ten minutes late leaving and I saluted him as he came through the door. There he paused a moment, and said, “You know, Officer, the Pope would have been proud of that turn-out, eh?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” I smiled as he departed. As the car swept along the village High Street, I turned to find Sergeant Blaketon standing at my elbow.

“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this, Rhea?” he growled.

“With what, Sergeant?”

“Packing that church with papists?”

“If I was an insurance agent, Sergeant, I would record it as an Act of God,” I said, turning back to find another cup of tea.

I never really knew whether Sergeant Blaketon disliked members of the Roman Catholic Church, or whether his remarks were deep-seated jokes understood only by
himself
. In truth, there were few occasions when religion entered my work as a village policeman, but I must confess that on one occasion the rigid faith of a little old lady completely thwarted me.

To put the story in perspective, it began with the death of a Mr Abraham Potter whose home was a lovely cottage in Aidensfield, just up the street from the pub. Awd Abe, as everyone affectionately called him, had been a lifelong Methodist of the strictest kind, never drinking liquor, never smoking, never swearing, never gambling and never
working
on Sundays. He led an exemplary life and was a true pillar of the chapel. There, he cleaned and gardened, painted and decorated and wrote the notices for Sunday in his beautiful copper-plate handwriting. Then he died.

My arrival at Aidensfield coincided with his death, so I
never met Awd Abe. From his reputation, I guessed his name would live on as an example of righteousness and Christian standards. His death meant that his little cottage would be sold and, within a few weeks, the “For Sale” signs appeared in the garden. His relatives had been traced and had agreed to sell the house, but no one had foreseen the conditions he’d imposed upon the sale.

I learned of these by pure chance, for I was patrolling the village street as the estate agents were erecting their “For Sale” boards. As village constables are wont to do, I stopped for a chat.

“Will it sell?” I asked, for rural properties at that time were not fetching very high prices. It was before the boom in country cottages.

“It would, if it wasn’t for Awd Abe,” said the man.

“He’s dead,” I remarked, wondering if he knew.

“Aye, we know, but he’s left a will saying what’s got to be done with this spot, if his nephews sell it.”

“Has he? What’s he said?” I was interested now.

“You knew him?” the man put to me.

I shook my head. “No, he died just before I was posted here.”

“Big chapel man, he was,” I was told. “Very straight sort of a chap. Lived by the Bible, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” Awd Abe’s reputation lived on.

“Well, he’s put conditions on the sale of this spot,” the man told me guardedly. “I reckon we’ll have a job selling it.”

“What sort of conditions?”

“Well,” he said. “First, it mustn’t be sold to or occupied by a Roman Catholic. And the person that buys it must not read Sunday papers, mustn’t play cards, mustn’t drink alcohol, mustn’t have children, mustn’t keep animals, mustn’t smoke, mustn’t gamble and mustn’t work on
Sundays
. And they must be regular attenders at chapel, not church.”

“He
will
have a job selling it here!” I laughed. “
Practically
every other family is Catholic and I imagine most folks nowadays read Sunday papers…. why the Sunday papers bit?”

“He didn’t believe in working on the Sabbath,” said the estate agent’s man. “Anything that had been created on the Sabbath must not enter his house. He didn’t even wash up on Sundays, he was that pernickety about his faith.”

“But the papers are printed on Saturdays,” I said.

“Aye, lots of folk told him that, and they told him about factories making furniture on Sunday, or canning food, farmers working, doctors and so on….”

“But he wouldn’t give?”

“Not him,” said the man. “And when we got this house to sell, well, we all laughed. I mean, who’s going to buy it? Who can truthfully agree to those conditions?”

“Search me!” I smiled and went on my way. Lots of the locals would have loved his cottage for it was pleasantly located and well-built, but Awd Abe’s conditions
immediately
placed it beyond the reach of local folks.

But it did sell.

Word must have spread far afield because a little old lady called Miss Sarah Prudom arrived to inspect the cottage. I didn’t see her arrival, but learned she came from the Doncaster area and was seeking a place in the country for retirement. She’d worked as a laundry manageress, I was told.

As things turned out, Miss Prudom perfectly fitted Awd Abe’s specification. Furthermore, she was an unmarried lady of spotless virtue, and we all felt Abe would have been proud of her. I wondered if they might have married, had they met in life, but perhaps such associations could lead to sins of the flesh. Anyway, Miss Prudom bought Awd Abe’s cottage.

One fine spring day, she moved in with her furniture and books and there is little doubt that her arrival in Aidensfield brought hope to the tiny chapel flock. Abe had gone but his place had been taken by an equally enthusiastic worker, as indeed she was. Miss Prudom soon busied herself about the chapel and fussed over the congregation, visiting them, talking to them, praising them and arranging prayer
meetings
from time to time.

As the weeks rolled by, it was quite evident that she fitted perfectly Awd Abe’s specifications. She was a lovely little
woman, both in charm and in appearance. Her trim figure graced the village as she went about her daily business, for she was always smartly dressed and wore rimless spectacles which seemed to shine beneath her grey hair.
Rose-coloured
cheeks and a ready smile completed her charming appearance and everyone liked her.

Then, one day, she appeared to break her strict rules, because she appeared in the village store one Sunday
morning
. The store opened from 10.30 a.m. until 12 noon, and was patronised by the Catholics as they left Mass, and by others who forgot bits and pieces on Saturdays. The
uncharacteristic
appearance of Miss Prudom in the shop caused something of a stir, and I was in at the time, just passing the time of day.

She blushed as she entered, for she must have known that all present knew of her strict beliefs, but the shopkeeper calmly asked, “Yes, Miss Prudom?”

“I have friends calling for tea,” she said confidentially, “and they have just telephoned to inform me. I have
nothing
in the house. Could I have a tin of smoked salmon please, and a lettuce and some tomatoes?”

“Certainly.”

She wanted other items too, and ticked them off a
handwritten
list as the shopkeeper busied himself with her order. Finally, her basket was full.

“How much is that?” she asked smiling.

“One pound, five shillings and threepence,” he said.

“Will you take a cheque?” she asked him.

“Of course, I will be pleased.”

She opened her cheque-book on the counter and wrote in the correct amount, then said, “I have dated it for tomorrow, will that be all right?”

“Yes, of course, Miss Prudom.”

After handing over the cheque, she smiled graciously at him and said, “Thank you, Mr Woodall, it is most kind of you to allow me to do that. You see, I cannot buy goods on the Sabbath, so this means I’ve bought, them tomorrow, Monday. You have got me out of a dilemma, and I appreciate it deeply.”

“I’m always pleased to help,” and she was gone.

I was amazed at her logic, but have since come across similar faithful who bend the rules, such as those who refuse to drink alcohol, but who buy in bottles of brandy or whisky for medicinal purposes.

But it was Miss Prudom and her religious beliefs which caused me a headache.

Several months later, her house was burgled. I do not think she was wealthy, but her prim little home did contain some pleasing items of crockery and glassware, in addition to several good pieces of silver plate. These were family heirlooms. Sometime between nine o’clock one Saturday night and six o’clock the next morning, Sunday, a villain broke into her home and stole silver and crockery worth about £200. He entered through the rear kitchen window, which he broke in order to release the catch, climbed in and ransacked the downstairs rooms while she was asleep.

As Miss Prudom rose early on the Sabbath, she discovered the horror just after six and the shock was so great that she did nothing until nine o’clock. As I learned afterwards, she’d simply sat and wept at the sight of her personal belongings strewn across the floor, and at the thought of a strange, uncouth man rifling her treasures as she slept. At nine o’clock, she rang Ashfordly Police Station to report the crime.