Constable by the Sea (10 page)

I thought that such superstitions had long disappeared until early one morning, about five o’clock, when I was completing the final hour of a night shift. I was making a last check of lock-up properties along the harbourside when I became aware of an elderly lady walking towards the beach.

She was leading a donkey by its bridle. Seated on the donkey was a girl about nine or ten years of age.

The lady, thick-set with grey hair and a rather handsome, albeit swarthy face, walked with what can be described as a grim determination while the donkey plodded at her heels. This was not the usual donkey lady, although I was sure the animal was one of hers. The colourful harness and tinkling bell suggested that. I watched from the recesses of a yard as the little group moved along the deserted streets towards the sands, and I must admit I was puzzled.

There seemed to be no obvious reason for this, and so, acting on my suspicions, I decided the lady might have stolen the donkey, or removed it from its enclosure for spite or to donate it to the child or for some underhand reason. Clearly it was my duty to clarify the matter, so I stepped out of the darkness of the yard and began to walk along the street as lady and donkey drew alongside me.

‘Morning,’ I said.

‘Now then,’ it was evident she did not want company, for her pace increased.

‘You’re out early?’ I began to probe in what I hoped was not an aggressive manner.

‘Aye,’ she said, tugging at the reins.

‘Your donkey, is it?’

‘No,’ she said, then after a pause, added. ‘But Ah’ve not pinched it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Ah’ve got it on a loan, just for this morning.’

‘Is it a riding lesson then?’ I smiled at the child who sat on board in what did not look to be a very comfortable position.

‘No,’ she gave another of her short answers.

We walked in silence for a few yards, and I began to wonder about this mission. Her demeanour and her personality assured me that she was not doing anything illegal. I began to wonder how next to question her without appearing too nosy or obnoxious, for there was clearly something curious afoot.

Now that I could look more closely at the lady, I recalled seeing her about the fishmarket from time to time and felt she was the wife of one of the fishermen.

‘I’ve seen you about the fishmarket, haven’t I?’ I added. ‘Gutting herrings and things? Packing ice-boxes?’

‘Aye,’ she said.

Then the little girl piped up. ‘We’re off to t’sands. Grandma’s going to get me cured,’ she said. ‘Ah might catch t’mezzles.’

‘Oh?’ I knew that this was the local dialect word for measles and became more interested now. ‘And how are you getting cured?’

The lady spoke again. ‘In t’way that’s been used hereabouts for years,’ she said gruffly. ‘Wi’ donkey rides and donkey hairs.’

It was then that I recalled the ancient beliefs and was amazed that they should still be regarded as efficacious. I decided not to press the matter any more, and said, ‘Well, I hope it works,’ and veered away from them.

Ten minutes later, I was walking along the cliff top above the spa buildings and could see the deserted beach, the stretch near the water being as smooth as a plate due to the action of the ebbing tide. And there, approaching the water’s edge, was the donkey as it went about its curious mission.

I saw the lady halt it and help the child dismount, and then she executed a rapid action which I knew to be the pulling of three hairs from the donkey’s back. She took them from the dark markings of the cross, then took a small bag on a string from her pocket. She placed the hairs inside and fastened the bag around the child’s neck. The little girl was replaced in the saddle but facing the donkey’s tail, and then the donkey was led up and down the beach on a set route, its feet making deep indentations in the wet sand.

I counted nine trips along the little route, and then the girl was replaced in the more acceptable position, and the donkey
was led away. They vanished out of my sight under the cliff.

As I booked off at six o’clock, I asked one of the married officers, ‘Is there measles about in the town?’

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, just something I heard,’ I said.

It would be three weeks later when I was patrolling in the vicinity of the fishmarket and spotted the lady among a group of women who were gutting fish.

‘Hello,’ I said, and she nodded in recognition. I watched her deft hands work with the knife she was wielding among the plethora of fish, fish scales and innards, and then asked, ‘Did your little girl get the measles?’

‘Course not!’ she said.

The coastal constable requires an ability to remain calm when all around are flapping, and to effect dramatic rescues at a moment’s notice. Holiday-makers and indeed local residents possess a remarkable ability to get themselves into some dreadful and highly unlikely situations, and the successful resolution of those situations often requires the expertise of many people with bags of common sense, and some with formal training.

In the short time I was at Strensford, I was staggered by the frequency of incidents which required a rescue team. People of all ages would be cut off by the tide, which meant they had to be hauled up the cliffs on ropes – there were no available
helicopters
in those days. This occurred time and time again in spite of warnings in the papers and on notice-boards at regular points along the beach. Others would allow themselves to be swept out to sea on dinghies or rubber rafts, some would get lost on the moors behind the town, which meant a fully equipped moorland search party had to range across the hills, and little children would inevitably become separated from their mothers, which meant another type of search party. This one usually consisted of a distraught mother and a solitary constable on tour among the town’s ice-cream kiosks and
bucket-and-spade
shops.

Some visitors put themselves beyond the stage of a rescue attempt. It was sobering to learn of the number of suicides along the coast, so often those of people from afar who came to the rugged Strensford coastline especially to throw themselves off the picturesque cliffs. It provided a spectacular finale to an otherwise boring and miserable life, but as a means of solving life’s problems it was thoughtless, because it meant someone else had to clear up the mess. It was usually the police who found themselves with that job, although even they would admit it was a highly effective ending for those who took the plunge.

Very few survived those lofty crashes onto jagged rocks; even if they did survive the fall, the raging sea was often on hand to finish the job. Any rescue attempt here usually ended with a dead body rather than a living person. Some determined individuals drove off the cliffs in their cars, and shot themselves in the driving seat as the rolling car trundled towards the edge of the precipice and oblivion.

Over the course of an average summer, therefore, the local police often reached the stage where rescues became so commonplace that they rarely justified comment over a cup of tea. But some were different: some were worth repeating in the pubs and clubs, and in police canteens.

Such was the one which involved County Councillor James L. Whitburn JP, a man of business in the town. An important man, in other words, and particularly so in his own estimation.

Only some five feet two inches tall, Whitburn was a round, fat little man with no hair and not a very handsome face. He had piggy little eyes and a painful high-pitched voice which utterly failed to generate any warmth no matter how hard he tried. He was quite generous to the town, however, although cynical policemen did wonder if he was trying to buy friendship and favour with a view to earning an honour from the Queen. So far as I know, he never got one.

In spite of his unfriendly appearance, he was a successful businessman with a string of shops and businesses in and around Strensford. He proved himself to be a very able councillor too, fighting for the benefit of Strensford. His
opinions and strategy were undoubtedly beneficial for the town, but as a magistrate he was disliked by the police.

Fortunately, he was not chairman of the Strensford Bench. This effectively curtailed most of his anti-police activities, although he always managed to make the police feel
uncomfortable
while giving their evidence. He would question and question the police officers until they were sick and tired of answering his probing, high-pitched voice, which invariably seemed to doubt the quality and veracity of their evidence or the value of the notes they had taken, the language they had used, the formalities they might not have observed, the motives behind their arrest and so on. He never let up, and his unspoken critisms gained regular Press coverage. His insinuations were clear.

For this reason, no policeman liked to appear before Mr Whitburn, and some said they would rather let a petty villain go free than endure the veiled remarks of this spiteful JP. No one knew why he was so vindictive, but it almost reached the stage where the whole police station decided to test his Jaguar every day or check his insurance or find his car in a position where it created an unnecessary obstruction. They would have dearly liked him to appear before his own court to sample the atmosphere before the Bench rather than sit majestically upon it to utter his pontifications.

But we did nothing of the sort. We grumbled a good deal about him, and most of us steadfastly tried to avoid any sitting of the court when he was on the Bench. That was the only action we took – we tolerated him, but only just.

I think the other magistrates even a got a trifle fed up with his persistent and niggling comments, and on more than one occasion the chairman openly cut him short during his spirited inquisitions.

But we cured him, or rather Joe Tapley cured him.

I was patrolling the West Cliff area of Strensford on a shift known as half-nights, that is from 6 p.m. until 2 a.m., and the time had ticked away until it was almost 1 a.m. PC Joe Tapley, probably the most experienced constable in town, was on the adjoining beat, and I saw his torch flashing from a shop
doorway. I left my own beat and walked the length of the street to chat with him.

‘Would you like to see something interesting?’ he asked as I reached him.

‘Of course,’ I said, not knowing what he had in mind.

He led me to the edge of the cliff, where we sheltered in the shadows of a fancy-goods and ice-cream kiosk and from where we could peer out across the sea and view almost the full length of the long, curving beach. The moon was full and it was a beautiful night, which meant our visibility was excellent.

‘Look down there,’ said Joe pointing towards the beach, his finger indicating an area below us and slightly to my right.

I could make out the distinctive shape of a dark-coloured Jaguar car which was parked on the beach not far from the foot of a slipway. The lights were out and there was no sign of activity.

‘Councillor Whitburn’s car,’ Joe almost whispered the words as he spoke in a conspiratorial way. ‘Do you notice anything else?’

I peered into the moonlit distance but could not see anything worthy of special interest.

‘No,’ I had to admit. ‘Why? What’s happening?’

‘The tide,’ he said in his soft voice. ‘It’s coming in, and it comes in very fast where he’s parked. In less than half an hour, he’ll be up to his hubcaps in salt water.’

‘Hadn’t we better tell him?’ I said, thinking this was what Joe had planned.

‘No-o-o,’ he grinned. ‘At least, not just yet. Let’s wait a while. He’ll be at it right now with someone’s wife. His own wife – a lovely woman by the way – will be sitting at home thinking he’s out on business. And there’s his attitude to our lads in court, eh? I think he needs a little lesson, Nick, and right now you and I are in a perfect position to see that he gets one.’

Joe advised me to keep off the skyline so that our silhouettes would not be visible from the beach, and we made our way down the cliffside paths until we gained an unobstructed view of the dark car. Even now the creeping water was lapping around the front wheels, but the goings-on inside were still a secret,
except that we did discern the occasional movement and gentle creak of top-quality leather upholstery. Whatever they were doing was of sufficient interest to render them unaware that the tide was rising so quickly around them.

‘He’ll never get that car off the beach!’ I hissed at Joe as the water rose to cover the tyres at the bottom of the wheels.

‘No,’ said Joe.

‘It’ll get inside, won’t it?’ I persisted, a few minutes later.

‘Mebbe,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how water-tight those doors are. But if he’s busy on the back seat, he’ll never notice, will he? Not for a long time, anyway, not until it swishes around his fat body. See, it’s touching the bottom of the hubcaps now.’

‘When are we going to tell him?’ I asked, somewhat worried by the rapid increase in the depth of the water. It was almost possible to see it rising.

‘In a minute or two,’ he said, to my relief. ‘When the moment’s right. I’ve got it all worked out.’

I reasoned that he knew exactly what he was doing, and we waited for a few more minutes, perhaps ten or so, and by then the water was lapping around the centre of the hubcaps and had reached the lower edges of the doors. The sills were now covered.

‘We’ll give it two more inches,’ he said.

When the water was about two inches above the base of the doors, Joe said, ‘Right, now we’ll raise the alarm.’

With me following tight behind, Joe hurried down the final yards of the path from where we had been waiting, and we came to a halt on the concrete slope of the slipway, right on the edge of the incoming tide. We could go no further because the water was lapping the foot of the slipway. From that point, Joe began to shine his torch on the windows of the silent car,
simultaneously
shouting and waving the torch about. I did likewise. We made a useful noise and created something of an illuminated commotion.

Our shouts and light-waving precipitated a great deal of action within the car: the wandering beams of our powerful torches touched upon startled eyes, white faces and many flabby lumps of bare flesh as the car rocked with their frantic
attempts to adjust or replace their clothing. During that burst of instant action, the expensive leather groaned even more, and the car rocked in its large puddle.

Then the rear door burst open and Councillor Whitburn’s piggy little face appeared; he opened his mouth to bawl his displeasure at us but almost immediately found himself standing knee-deep in cold sea-water. This effectively halted his outburst.

‘It’s the police!’ shouted Joe as if we had just arrived in the nick of time. ‘You’re up to the axles in water …’

‘Help!’ screamed a woman’s voice from inside. ‘Jim, you’ll have to do something … Get this car moving, for God’s sake …’

‘You’ll never drive it out!’ bellowed Joe as the Councillor paddled about in the water, hurrying around to the driving seat. ‘Leave it, and come up here.’

‘I can’t leave it here!’ came the squeaky reply. ‘I’ll drive it out, I’ll move it.’

‘I’m going!’ said the woman. ‘This is too bloody embarrassing for words. I’ll have you for this, Jim Whitburn!’ she cried at him as she disembarked. ‘I’ll never let you forget this … How bloody silly can you get …’

She paddled through the swirling water, holding her shoes and stockings high above her head and her skirts almost as high as she struck out for dry land. Joe reached out a hand and hauled her up the slipway.

‘Hello, Mrs Beckett,’ he greeted her. ‘Nice night for a bit of courting, eh?’

‘He’ll never get me down there again, not ever!’ she snapped. ‘I’m going home.’

Pausing only to slip on her shoes, the lady stomped away up the slope and vanished towards the town.

‘Mrs Beckett,’ smiled Joe. ‘She’s a teacher at one of the schools in town. Nice chap, her husband. She’s on the council, too, you see; she’s doing her bit for the town tonight, in a manner of speaking.’

Meanwhile, Whitburn had managed to start his engine, and the twin exhausts were making the sea bubble behind the
marooned Jaguar; it seemed the water had not reached the interior of the engine, and so long as he could keep it running, the power of the exhausts would keep the water at bay, at least temporarily and at least from that part of the vehicle.

But Whitburn’s attempts to drive out of the sea were futile. The wheels utterly refused to grip the sandy surface, and as they turned, it sank deeper into the holes it produced. Accompanied by deep gurgling sounds, the engine spluttered to a halt, and Whitburn came splodging ashore.

‘Oh, it’s Mr Whitburn,’ Joe sounded very surprised. ‘Won’t it budge, sir?’

‘It’ll be swamped,’ cried the distraught man. ‘My car, my new bloody car! It’ll be covered – it’ll be ruined!’

‘I’ll drag it out for you,’ offered Joe. ‘Come on, Nick. Quickly, before the car’s completely covered up.’

Parked only yards away, close to the lifeboat house, was the tractor which was always on stand-by to winch the lifeboat, or other boats from the sea. Its winching gear was in position on the rear, and Joe had no trouble starting the engine.

‘Grab that cable and hook, Nick, and lead it out to Mr Whitburn as I unwind it. He’ll take it. There’s no need for you to get wet. Ask him to link it around the back axle of his Jag, and we’ll haul it out.’

And so we did. In minutes, the car was back on dry land, a little wet on the outside but very wet on the inside. It was a very relieved Mr Whitburn who began to splutter his thanks, as the water sloshed about the floor of his car. The carpets would be ruined.

‘Forget it,’ said Joe amiably. ‘It’s all in the course of duty. There’s no harm done, is there?’

‘You’re both very kind,’ he managed to say. ‘We might have been drowned …’

‘I trust the newspapers won’t get hold of the tale, Mr Whitburn,’ smiled Joe, adopting that amiable smile once again. ‘You know the sort of thing they’d print – “Local Magistrate in High Tide Love Drama” …’

‘You won’t tell them, will you?’ There was a sudden flash of concern across that podgy face. ‘I mean, you are not allowed to
talk to the Press, are you?’ There was more than a hint of menace in that squeaky voice, even in these circumstances.

‘Some things are forbidden, Mr Whitburn, things like internal police matters, the secrets of criminal investigations, a person’s criminal record, that sort of thing. But, well, brave rescues by policemen always make a good press. But,’ and now Joe spoke very slowly. ‘I’m sure that if you adopt a more sympathetic approach to our men in court, that you bury whatever grievance you are nursing against my colleagues, then we’ll say nowt about this unfortunate little episode. There’s only us know about it, and Mrs Beckett, but I reckon she’ll not say much.’