Constable Through the Meadow (18 page)

I sent Mary home while I remained to help the two officers with the statement-taking, clearing the scene and generally making myself useful. Under the circumstances, I’m not sure if anyone went to the house to see the presents, but we didn’t. I was shattered by the awful turn of events, the enormity of which did not register until some time later.

This is a feature of police work; you deal with a harrowing incident in a cool and professional way, and it is later, when relaxing at home, that the sheer horror of the incident registers. I’m sure many police officers have wept with sorrow and anger after dealing with terrible incidents.

But this was not such a serious case for there were no
fatalities
. That, I felt, was another example of fate. With so many cars involved, there could have been carnage.

I rang the hospital to enquire after each of the casualties and learned that Susan had fractured an ankle and had suffered lots of bruising to her body. Colin had a broken arm, a minor fracture to his skull and lots of cuts about the face; the
chauffeur
, a man from York called Eric Wallis, had fractured six ribs and had facial injuries due to impact with the steering-wheel and windscreen. The tractor driver, a 56-year-old farm worker called Eddie Harper, had been knocked from his machine to suffer a broken shoulder blade, a broken arm and severe
lacerations
to his face and hands.

The following day, I rang the two motor patrol officers to explain about my battles to get the junction made safer either by more signs, better advance warnings and a clearer view from the minor road and they assured me this would be incorporated in their report. Their enquiries, based on witness statements, suggested that poor old Eddie Harper had pulled out of the
minor road with his slow-moving tractor and trailer, and the fast-moving Jaguar had crested the blind summit of that hill driven by a man who was accustomed to city traffic, not country roads. The Jaguar had hit the tractor, and the following cars had each collided with another vehicle. Nine of them were damaged, and fifteen people had been injured.

It was the worst accident on my patch and I hoped it would result in some improvements to that road. And then, about six or seven weeks later, I received a phone call.

‘It’s Colin Blenkiron,’ said the voice. ‘We’re out of hospital, Mr Rhea, Susan and me, and we wondered if you and Mrs Rhea would like to see the wedding presents? I know it’s a bit late, but we’re having friends in, a few at a time … how about Sunday afternoon, say three-ish?’

‘We’d love to!’ I enthused.

‘Drive carefully!’ he said, laughing.

It was pouring with rain as we went along to their lovely cottage and we found both of them still wearing dressings on some of their injuries and both chuckling at the absurdity of the situation.

‘That crossroads has got it in for us!’ Colin laughed as he poured the wine. ‘It’s put us in hospital twice now … I never go that way when Susan’s with me. I’m not risking another accident, I can tell you!’

‘You met me because of Pennyflats Cross!’ she retorted with good humour.

‘And I got put in hospital twice because of it!’ he said. ‘And that first accident was all your fault …’

‘It wasn’t! It was yours!’ she cried. ‘You were going far too fast …’

‘Here’s to the pair of you!’ and as the driving rain beat upon their cottage, a flash of lightning was followed by a crack of thunder which rattled the windows.

I raised my glass to them and then, for some odd reason, I remembered the words of Samuel Beckett in, I think,
All
That
Fall.
I quoted them as a toast, “What sky! What light! Ah, in spite of all, it is a blessed thing to be alive in such weather, and out of hospital!’

And Colin kissed Susan.

Society will have its jokers. Throughout the ages there have been many classic pranks, some on a large scale and others of a very minor nature. In the countryside, April 1st has always been a good time for practising pranks upon one’s friends, relations and workmates. I remember one joker who claimed that hens’ eggs could be stretched if they were collected
immediately
after being laid because at that moment, their shells are still soft. He said they could be stretched to appear larger and so fetch a better price.

In our area, one newspaper printed a story that the castle at Barnard Castle was to be demolished to make way for a bridge across the River Tees, and there was a joke that almost went wrong when a man walked into a park and picked up a new park bench under the nose of a policeman. He was stopped on suspicion of theft and claimed he wanted the seat for firewood. He was promptly arrested and when he explained that it was merely a joke no one believed him. He did, however, manage to prove that the seat was his own, as he’d bought it specially for the joke only the day before.

One Yorkshire lad tricked his family and friends when he organised a spoof wedding. He and a girlfriend had apparently got married, had their photographs taken, and then driven around town in their wedding outfits for all to see.

One of my favourite jokes was the news that British time was
to be decimalised. It claimed that, in order to rationalise Great Britain with the move towards metrication and decimalisation, the year would no longer have twelve months. Instead, Britain would have 10 months, each comprising 10 weeks; there would be 10 days to each week, and 10 hours to each day. Each hour would have 10 minutes and each minute would be split into 10 seconds. A year would be called a Kiloday, a month would be a hectoday, a week would be known as a decaday, while a minute would become a centiday and so forth.

Furthermore, to coincide with the change, Big Ben would become digital and there would be wage adjustments to cope with each Leap Kiloday.

Harmless, and at times very believable, jokes are great fun, such as the time our local zoo claimed they had found the Loch Ness Monster and even fooled the Scottish police into halting them at the border as they tried to smuggle out the carcase. It was in fact a huge type of seal, but the police had unearthed a byelaw which forbids the taking of certain rare species out of Scotland and so they were halted at the border in the belief they had the Loch Ness Monster in their possession!

One ‘animal’ which is a regular victim of April Fool jokes is the famous White Horse of Kilburn. It overlooks the North Yorkshire countryside from its vantage point just below the rim of the escarpment near Sutton Bank.

This huge white shape of a horse, over 105 yards long, was cut from the hillside in 1857 from plans drawn by John Hodgson, the headmaster of Kilburn village school. Helped by his pupils and a group of local men, Hodgson carved the horse from the hillside where it remains a landmark for miles around. It is the only hillside sculpture of its kind in the north of England and can be seen from over 70 miles away. It was filled with white lime and so the outline of this magnificent horse continues to dominate the countryside around Kilburn, not far from
Aidensfield
. But on April Fool’s Day, the horse is liable to change! From time to time, it has been transformed into a zebra, a cowboy’s horse with a rider and, in recent times, a well endowed stallion.

I think it is fair to say that most of us enjoy a clever but harmless joke and police officers are no exception. A clever
April Fool joke is always appreciated and so are jokes
perpetrated
at other times of the year.

I well remember one young rookie constable who was ordered to place traffic cones around York Minster one Sunday morning which happened to be April 1st. He had been told that today was the annual Archbishop’s Foot Race, when every clergyman in the York Diocese was expected by the Archbishop to run a short race around the Minster, all dressed in their cassocks and surplices. The lad had therefore coned off the entire Minster moments before the regular services were due to start. If he kept his cones there, no one could enter the Minster.

The situation was rectified at the last minute when he
received
a radio call, supposedly from Police Headquarters, to say the race had been cancelled because the Archbishop had
influenza
.

Other jokes included leaving notes for the night-shift sergeant to the effect that the Chief Constable had requested an early call at 5am, and a similar one backfired when an
unsuspecting
constable was ordered to wake up the warden of the local dogs’ home at 5am by knocking on his door. He was told that the warden had made this request and that he had insisted that the police keep knocking until he answered the door. He was a noted over-sleeper and had a very important meeting that day. The truth was that the warden didn’t live on the premises; in fact, no one lived on the premises except hundreds of dogs, and the resultant continuous loud barking roused the entire town.

It was when I called at Eltering Police Station one day on duty that I found myself involved in a practical joke on a new constable who had recently arrived. His name was Justin
Pendlebury
, a man of about twenty-eight years of age, and he came from a very wealthy background; it seemed his family were from the stockbroker belt of Surrey, but Justin had decided to break away from both family and environment to become a constable in the North Riding of Yorkshire. We never knew why he had done this, but in fact he proved himself a very capable young officer.

But he had one annoying character trait. He was rather pompous and always boasted about the style and quality of his
clothes. Certainly, he dressed well, far better than the rest of us. His suits were beautifully cut, he wore hand-made shirts and shoes, exquisite silk ties and his casual wear was of the very highest quality.

Justin certainly looked very stylish and smart, but he made everyone aware of the fact, telling us tales of how his tailor was the very best in London’s West End, how the fellow made all his suits by hand and dressed film stars, politicians and City
business
people. Justin scorned the cheap suits and flannel trousers that we wore, saying we ought to be more clothes-conscious. But none of us copied him or ever tried to emulate his style. If our clothes kept us warm and dry, then that was good enough.

Although everyone liked Justin and admired his
professionalism
when on duty, we did get sick of his continual talk of fine clothes, men’s fashions and popular styles. He talked of Ascot, Glyndebourne and Epsom as we talked about the back row of the Empire Cinema or the cheap end at Thornaby Races and Cargo Fleet Greyhound Track.

As I entered Eltering Police Station that day, I walked into a discussion about clothes. And, as usual, it was led by Justin. He was having an animated conversation with PC. Alf Ventress and two visiting officers, PCs George Henderson and Harry Pitts.

Alf Ventress was known to us all as Vesuvius because his uniform was always covered in ash and he was likely to erupt at any time; he was a huge, grizzly-haired constable of the
old-fashioned
type whose trousers always needed pressing, whose tunic was constantly smothered in dandruff and cigarette ash, whose boots always needed cleaning and whose shirts always sported crumpled collars. He was the last person to be
discussing
smart clothes with Justin.

‘Ah, young Nick,’ he said as I walked in. I had my bait-bag with me, bait being the name for my sandwiches and coffee. I was to take my meal-break here this evening.

‘Hello.’ I nodded at them all as they were seated around the kitchen of the police station, with the kettle boiling and a bottle of milk on the table.

‘Just the chap!’ said Vesuvius to me. ‘Nick, a few months ago, you were telling us of a tailor you knew, one of the
old-fashioned 
kind who makes suits by hand. He sits on his table cross-legged, you said, and you can see him at work through his window.’

‘Golding,’ I said. ‘John Golding,’ for this was his name and I remembered telling them about him.

‘The best for miles around, you said,’ continued Vesuvius and he winked at me in what I recognised as the beginnings of a conspiracy of some kind.

‘He does a lot of work for the local folks,’ I agreed. ‘Yes, he turns out some good stuff, our farmers love him.’

‘Justin here was saying he needed somebody local to make him a good suit,’ Vesuvius continued. ‘I was telling him of that chap you mentioned; couldn’t think of his name or where he works.’

‘Ah, well, John Golding,’ I said to Justin. ‘He’s a bit
old-fashioned
, but he sits there in full view of the street making suits, jackets, trousers and so on. He’ll tackle women’s
costumes
, children’s coats and, well, everything, even rugs for horses or car travellers. He’s always busy.’

‘Really, where’s he operate?’ asked Justin.

‘Elsinby,’ I said. ‘If you’re ever out there patrolling, park near the church and then go up the little alleyway just opposite. You’ll see his window. It’s a little stone cottage and there’s a sign on the top of his window with his name, and it says “Ladies’ and Gentlemen’s Alterations”.’

This was true; people from far around took pictures of that curious sign with its double meaning, but John reckoned it brought him customers!

‘And can you recommend him?’ asked Justin. ‘I need a brand-new suit, you see, urgently. I’ve been invited to the wedding of Lord Gauvey in Westminster Abbey and I must have a new suit. Duty commitments mean I cannot get to London to be measured, and Vesuvius recommended this fellow.’

At this stage, both the other constables began to praise the old tailor and I suspected a plot of some kind.

I had no idea what they’d been saying before my arrival, so I adopted an impartial stance by saying, ‘I’ve never had anything made by him.’

‘But your local farmers use him?’ Justin said.

‘Oh, yes.’ I knew this to be the case. ‘They keep him going with their jobs.’

‘Just like your farmers from the south, they are,’ said
Vesuvius
. ‘Smart, plenty of cash, and always out to impress.
Gentlemen
farmers, you know, stylish and up-to-date.’

Now I knew something was going on. Many of the local farmers didn’t care two hoots how they dressed or what they looked like. If they had one smart suit for funerals and
weddings
, that was sufficient; the rest of the time was spent in any old working-togs they could muster. They would rarely buy a new outfit, the main visits to Golding being by bachelor farmers who wanted to have tears mended or patches sewn on knees and elbows of worn-out clothes which they thought had ten or twenty years of wear left in them. Those who were married received this attention from their wives.

I realised no one had told Justin that Golding’s suits never fit anyone properly; they were always far too big or far too small; one sleeve or one leg would be longer than the other and the general rule was that his clothing only fitted a customer who was misshapen. Throughout the district, John Golding was known for his awful tailoring, although the material he used was of very superior quality. ‘It’s stuff,’ said one farmer to me. ‘Real stuff.’

John Golding always used the finest of materials and we never really knew his source, although it was thought he had family connections with the textile industry at Halifax, West
Yorkshire
. But his cloth was his strength, and those who
commissioned
John to tailor their clothing invariably knew the outcome. They would received an ill-fitting outfit made from the very best of materials, so they would take it to another tailor to have it altered. Because he was more than generous with his sizes, making clothes that were far too large, such alterations could usually be achieved. This system kept John in work, for his fees were modest, and at the end of the operation, the customer did have a very fine article of clothing which would last a lifetime.

The outcome of that visit to Eltering Police Station was that Justin Pendlebury did call on John Golding. He was duly measured and ordered his suit. He selected the very best
Yorkshire 
worsted and was highly impressed by the quality of material kept in this tiny village tailor’s shop.

‘Amazing,’ he said to me over the telephone. ‘You’d never expect quality of that kind up here! It’s top quality, you know, genuine too, the real stuff.’

Two or three weeks later, I received another telephone call from Justin. ‘Nick,’ he said. ‘Can you do me a favour? I’ve had a call from Mr Golding to say my suit’s ready. I wondered if you could pick it up for me and drop if off at Eltering Police Station? I see you’re covering the whole section next Friday.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I offered.

That Friday morning, I called at John Golding’s little shop and collected the parcel. I completed my morning’s patrol and at lunch-time telephoned Justin who was on duty in Eltering until 3pm. He was working 7am–3pm that day, and I said that I had the parcel and would bring it to the police station around 3pm. I arrived just before three o’clock and Justin was already there, awaiting his treasure. The wedding was the following day, and he was to travel to London later this afternoon.

Vesuvius had obviously spread the word around because four other constables from the villages had, apparently by sheer coincidence, come into the office at that time, and Sergeant Charlie Bairstow was there too. They had brewed a cup of tea and it seemed that Justin, even though he didn’t realise it yet, was about to have a fitting.

‘I had one earlier, you know,’ he told us when we pressed him to try on the suit. ‘Mr Golding called me in last week … the final fitting … it was a really good fit …’

‘Come on, Justin,’ pleaded Vesuvius. ‘Let’s see how a city man should look. We know nowt about smart clothes up here on t’moors, you know. You’ve been telling us to dress well, so now’s your chance to show us how to do it, right from scratch.’