Constable Around the Village (17 page)

She blushed furiously once again and asked, “Do I really have to tell you?”

“I’m afraid so. I must know precisely what he did, Hannah, if I’m to take any action.”

“Well,” she said. “Er…. his trousers front was open and … it … his thing … it was sticking right out.”

“Did he draw your attention to it?”

“Yes, he did!” she snapped.

“How?” I asked.

“He placed his fare on it, for me to take.”

“His fare?” I almost doubled up with laughter at this latest technique, but managed to keep a straight face.

“Yes, he spread the money out, right along it.”

“And how much was his fare?”

“A shilling,” she said. “He laid it out, right along his thing.”

“What sort of coins were they?” I was fascinated now.

“Pennies,” she said calmly. “Twelve pennies.”

My mind boggled. Side by side, they’d cover a large area, but twelve £.s.d. pennies laid out in a line covered an enormous distance, nearly fifteen inches. I made her repeat this. I had to be sure I got it right. Who was this man, I wondered? It looked as if we had a world record-breaker in the locality.

“And?” I asked.

“Well, I refused to accept them….” she said pertly. “I made him collect them himself and pay his fare.”

“And did he?”

“Yes, he did!”

“And then he put it away?”

“I don’t know. He was all alone on the back seat and I didn’t stay a minute longer.”

If my report of this event reached Force Headquarters, the place would be in uproar and every member of the police service would be jealous. I could imagine a stampede to check the veracity of this claim, but one’s constabulary duty must be done.

“Thanks, Hannah. I’ll make enquiries and I’ll let you know how I get on. You go home now and have that cup of tea with Arnold.”

She left the office and, as the bus rumbled out of sight I
collapsed in a fit of laughter. I’d never heard anything like this before and felt sure Hannah had made a mistake. What had she seen? I racked my brains to identify the fellow and then I realised who it was.

Poor Hannah!

But, first, I had to check my theory. I jumped aboard the little Francis Barnett and chugged over the valley to Elsinby. Through the village, I turned left along a rough lane until I arrived at Bankside Cottage. I knocked, for I knew old Bill Firby was at home. Smoke was rising from his chimney. Soon the green door was opened and Bill stood there, his jacket open and his face registering surprise when he saw me.

“Hello, Mr Rhea.” He stood back to invite me in. “You’re a stranger at my door.”

“Aye,” I agreed, entering his cosy home. “It’s not often I have cause to call on you.”

“Summat up, is it?” He led me into his sitting-room where a cosy fire burned, and pointed to an armchair. I settled with my crash-helmet on my lap.

“Bill, you’re going to laugh when I’ve finished this tale, but I need your answers first. Were you on the bus out of York today?”

“Aye,” he said. “Yes, I was.”

“And Hannah was conductress?”

“She was.”

“And did you pay your fare all in pennies?”

“Aye, I hadn’t a shilling piece, so I used pennies. Nowt wrong with that, is there?”

“No, there isn’t.” I laughed now. “You’ve cleared up a massive problem for me.”

“I have?”

The truth was that Bill had only one hand. His left hand was missing at the wrist, and that arm terminated in an irregular fleshy stump. He wore no covering and no false hand. On the bus, his fare had been in his right-hand pocket and in order to count it he had pulled up his left sleeve to expose his arm from his elbow down to his wrist. To gain stability for his stump, he had placed his elbow on his lap, tucking it firmly into his groin, and he rested his wrist on
his right leg. He had then laid out the coins for Hannah to count, placing them along his arm.

Hannah, poor unmarried woman, had totally
misunderstood
this innocent action.

When I told him the essence of her complaint, he laughed until tears rolled down his eyes and asked if I was going to tell her the truth.

“Yes, of course,” I assured him.

“Nay, lad, don’t do that. Think of my reputation if she spreads that tale around. I’ll be the envy of all the blokes for miles around!”

But I had to tell Hannah the truth. I did and she listened intently; happily, she laughed when I explained Bill’s
fare-paying
technique. Whenever he travelled by bus or paid in a shop, he always used that system, I explained.

“Oh,” she said. “Silly of me. I’m sorry to have troubled you Mr Rhea. I will apologise to Mr Firby when I see him.”

“He’s not worried,” I said. “There’s no need to bother yourself any more about it.”

“Thank you, Mr Rhea,” she beamed and I left her
comfortable
house.

On reflection, that little episode raised more questions about Hannah’s past than it solved. Until then, we had assumed she had never had a man friend, but perhaps she had.

We all wondered who it might have been.

It has been said that the duties of a police officer do not include social work. In theory, there are skilled professionals to undertake such responsibilities, but in practice the work of a police officer does include a whole range of jobs which could be classified as social work. The conscientious constable visits the sick, the lame, the infirm and the aged because one of his basic functions is to protect life and property. If he can call upon those in need of help, he might save a life or prevent damage to property. His presence is often reassuring to the lonely and frightened.

The rural bobby in particular spends a good deal of his time, on and off duty, visiting the aged upon his beat. I was no exception.

During my daily tour I would drop in, unannounced, upon many pensioners and have a cup of tea with them. I think Sergeant Blaketon frowned upon this; he never said so because I had pre-empted any criticism from him by stressing that I considered this to be an important part of a rural constable’s work. He suffered my cups of tea in silence and I got the impression he resented my free tea rather than the time I spent indoors chatting for no apparent
constabulary
purpose. Sergeant Blaketon was one of the old school; he liked policemen to be seen and he liked them to be always asking questions about unsolved crimes or
seeking
criminal information from likely sources. He failed to appreciate the very basic social requirements of the job.

While law-enforcement is a vital part of the constable’s task, it is no more important than the welfare of those under the constable’s care, and I made certain he knew how I felt.

Gradually, I learned of the whereabouts of the lonely aged on my patch; I was not too concerned about those who lived with their families, or even those with families living nearby. I needed to know about the widowed and lonely, the isolated person with no relatives to call upon. These were my concern—they might be suffering from illness, or they might have fallen and hurt themselves; they might be plagued by stupid vandals or be the butt of confidence tricksters … all kinds of social evils can befall an elderly person living alone and I wanted no villainy against those residing on my beat.

Visiting these marvellous old folks was a wonderful experience. There was a man of 92 who had made ornamental buttons for Queen Victoria; a lady of 87 who recalled seeing Queen Victoria when she visited the district in 1900 and a man of 83 who fell down an apple-tree and who pleaded me not to tell his wife how he’d hurt his back. I liked the man of 88 who was ill and, when I asked if he wanted me to tell anyone, he asked me to notify his
schoolteacher
, a Miss Wilkinson. She’d taught him as a boy in primary school and, thinking he was senile, I checked—she was still alive and enjoying the sunshine in Eltering, aged 98!

Yorkshire folk are noted for their contemptuous attitude to old age. It is merely a nuisance to them, something like a nagging illness. No self-respecting Yorkshireman will admit to being ill. They fight illness by pretending it doesn’t exist, and will continue working through ailments that would fell lesser mortals.

This stubborn attitude is shown in a lovely tale about a young lady newspaper reporter who called to see a
Yorkshire
villager. He had reached 100 years of age and was inside his house as the reporter talked to his daughter.

“You must be very proud of your father,” the reporter commented.

“Oh, Ah don’t know,” replied his daughter. “He’s done
nowt but grow old, and look how long it’s taken him to do that!”

The elderly crack jokes among themselves, such as “Awd Sam’s refusing to die because it saves funeral expenses”, while another in his nineties commented, “When Ah was a lad, Ah used to get oot o’ bed ivvery morning at five, but now Ah’s gittin on a bit, it’s very near six before Ah stir.”

Those with a literary turn of mind might consider the words written by the poet Edward Spenser which so aptly sum up the feeling of creeping senility. He wrote:

One wonders what he knew about old age, because he died in 1599 at the ripe old age of 46.

In reality, however, I found the aged had minds of their own. Their opinions, which had been nurtured over many generations, were so firmly established that no amount of argument or discussion would shift them. I had to accept this as a fact of life. Change is not welcome in the land of the aged. Memories of loved ones do feature in this tough, inflexible attitude and can lead to a softening manner or even a change of opinion. Such a case involved old Mrs Ada Flanagan of Aidensfield and her easy-chair.

The chair was nothing special to look at. It was of simple design and rather old-fashioned for it had wings at the back and castors beneath which squeaked every time it moved. The upholstery was dull grey but this lack of glamour was concealed by a faded cover of deep-blue material, offset with a floral design. Mrs Flanagan had made the covers herself some ten or fifteen years ago and was undoubtedly proud of her handicraft. She called it Bill’s chair.

That the chair needed a new cover was obvious to me, but
I sensed it was imprudent to even suggest it. Although she’d asked me not to sit in that chair, I think she welcomed my visits for she would make me a cup of tea when I called, usually around eleven o’clock on a morning. In respect for her wishes, I would never sit in that chair to drink it, always using a dining-chair at the table. Bill’s chair was always in the same position, I noticed, just to the right of the fireside. There it was close enough to the mantelpiece for Old Bill to have reached out for his pipe or tobacco, or his racing papers.

Through those regular visits, I learned all about Bill’s chair. He had occupied it every evening after work and in retirement had used it during the day as well. He liked it exactly where it now stood, and she was determined that it should remain there.

I whiled away many hours drinking Mrs Flanagan’s tea and listening to her constant chatter as she either ironed or baked on the table before me.

She would talk about her childhood in Ireland and how she went potato-picking on her father’s farm. I knew it had been a struggle to earn a living; then, when she was twenty, she had married Bill Flanagan. He’d always wanted to go to Scotland—and so he had, with his young wife.

That old chair had been one of their first possessions as man and wife. Sometimes she would laugh as she told me how they would both use it—they would sit in it together because they had nothing else! She would sit on Bill’s knee and they’d chat together as only a young couple can; this chair had been their joy until they could afford more
furniture
.

In Scotland, their fortunes had improved and Bill had found a good job on a farm; gradually they built their little home, with this chair always occupying the prime position near the fireside.

As my first year as the village bobby passed, it seemed as if I was an old friend to Mrs Flanagan. Perhaps I was because I knew all about her wishes, hopes, sadnesses and past history. We knew each other very well, I felt. I also felt I knew old Bill; although he’d died long before I came to Aidensfield, her stories had made him live anew.
Sometimes
I could almost see him in that battered old chair, so vivid were her memories.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Mrs Flanagan started to go out to work. I was quite surprised, but she told me she did this to occupy herself and to earn a few coppers. Her new
part-time
job was to cover chairs and furniture, or make curtains. She told me she used to do that sort of work when she was younger but in those days her skills had been confined to the family or for the benefit of close friends. She’d never thought about doing it professionally, but had seen an advert in the local paper.

It had been placed by a department store in Ashfordly who sought a seamstress capable of covering chairs and making curtains on a part-time basis. The work entailed some travelling to take measurements in the homes of customers, all of whom lived locally, while the actual sewing could be done at the seamstress’s home.

For Mrs Flanagan it was the ideal job and she was appointed. I could see it was the making of her.

Then, quite suddenly, I noticed the chair had gone. One morning as I called, I could see that Old Bill’s chair was no longer before the hearth and in its place was a modern chair with slender wooden arms. I’d seen this one before, in Mrs Flanagan’s front room when I’d been in for sherry and Christmas cake.

So from that day forward I sat in that new chair for my cups of tea, but I didn’t dare ask the whereabouts of the old blue one. Perhaps some bygone memory had upset her? I didn’t dare risk an upset by referring to it, so left my questions unasked.

Nowadays she chatted to me and made my usual cups of tea as she told me of the people she met during her travels and how nice they all were. She used the buses, or a taxi if it was urgent, and I knew the job had given her a new lease of life.

Sometimes I found her ironing chair-covers and curtains as well as her own washing. But I still wondered what had happened to Old Bill’s chair?

Where had it gone? Why had she moved it? It was really no concern of mine although I often felt like asking about it.
Maybe it was linked with her acceptance of this job? But I never asked.

Then one summer morning, I called as usual but she didn’t hear me enter. I had knocked and walked in like I always did, but she was busy in the front room. I could hear her old but efficient sewing-machine whirring away, so I stepped across the floor to tap on the front room door.

She stopped her work; the door opened and I saw the old treadle machine with yards of material strewn about it. She had a mouth full of pins and the floor was covered with paper patterns and cut pieces. I was surprised to see such a large amount of cloth but I was equally surprised to notice the material was the same colour and pattern as that battered old cover on Bill’s chair. Was she covering his chair? Here was a new design, an exact copy of that old one, but all this material for one chair?

She smiled as I entered and took the pins out of her mouth.

“Go and sit down,” she said. “I’ve got to finish this edge and I’ll be through.”

“Don’t rush and spoil it,” I told her. “I’ll make the tea!”

Her quiet smile told me that this was a good idea, so I left her to continue her work. I knew where everything was and before long had the kettle boiling. When I made the tea she came to join me and brought a length of cloth which she hand-stitched as we chatted.

We talked about the weather, the news, the village problems and a young couple down the road who were expecting their first child. Occasionally we lapsed into silence as she came to a tricky part of her work; throughout, I watched her quietly.

In some ways, my time in her house was like stepping back half a century—there were the worn beams, the
ponderous
tick of the grandfather clock, the black-leaded iron grate and its glowing fire which invariably crackled and spat with logs newly cut. The brasses shone and the windows glittered after years of methodic housework.

I enjoyed the peace and atmosphere of this place. Mrs Flanagan had captured the slow-moving rhythm of her life
and her mode of existence was the epitome of country life. I liked it.

“You know,” I spoke after a spell of silence, “I’d miss this cup of tea and chat, Mrs Flanagan. I really look forward to it. I’m pleased you don’t work full-time.”

“So am I,” she said, “and it’s nice to talk to somebody who doesn’t pass on everything I say!”

These confidences were clearly something she treasured and yet we had never reached the Christian-name stage. I always called her Mrs Flanagan and would no more dream of using her first name than she would of using mine. We were friends but kept our distance and our chats were confined to these occasional visits. Maybe that’s why our talks were so successful—in some way, I was like one of those
anonymous
people who answer letters and give advice in magazines and newspaper columns. I was someone she could trust with her innermost thoughts and I knew we had a fine platonic relationship and eventually I knew that I could safely broach the subject of Old Bill’s chair, more so because she was working with material which was an exact replica of that which covered his absent fireside friend.

“That’s nice material.” I pointed to the piece in her hands. “Is it an urgent job?”

“For the weekend,” she answered. “The van is coming for it on Friday afternoon. It’s for a young couple over at Fernley. Their parents gave them an old three-piece suite to start their home and they wanted it covering. It’ll look nice when it’s finished—it’s a real good suite, you know. One of the type which seem to last for ever.”

“They made things to last in those days,” I said.

She nodded and there was another pause.

“It’s exactly the same as the pattern on Bill’s chair,” I spoke slowly.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have said it! Immediately the words were out, I regretted having said them. But I needn’t have worried.

“I know,” she spoke quietly. “It’s funny really. Here I am, covering furniture for a young couple with material which is exactly the same I used for our first chair—the very first bit of furniture we had, me and Bill.”

There was no finer moment to ask about Old Bill’s chair.

“Where is his chair, Mrs Flanagan? You haven’t sold it, have you?”

She shook her head. “It’s upstairs, in the spare room.”

“I liked that chair,” I told her. “It looked so comfy and warm.”