Constable Through the Meadow (20 page)

It was Dave’s misfortune, therefore, to be admitted at the same time as his own deputy chief constable. Within moments of arriving, the Home’s insistence that ranks should be ignored was made known to them, and to give the Deputy his credit, his first words to Dave were, ‘Ah, Dave. I’m Bill. I mean that; I’m Bill, so forget my rank. I’m Bill Short, got it?’

‘Yes, sir, er … Bill, . . sir …’

‘Bill,’ said the Deputy.

‘Yes, sir … er … Bill.’

It was very difficult to abandon that habit which had
developed
over many years in the service, but Bill Short did his best to make Dave relax. The others, a mixture of men and women of all age groups and from widely varying aspects of the job in distant police forces, had no trouble referring to Bill as Bill. They did not know his rank, and he did his best to ensure Dave didn’t tell them. But for Dave, it was not easy; it took days for him to be able to refer to his second most senior officer as Bill.

Inevitably, he did slip up from time to time and called Bill “sir” in front of the others. They, of course, did not mind for there were other “sirs” among them, happily unaware even then of the precise ranks involved. And then there developed a strange situation which completely relaxed Dave and put his boss in a wonderful new light.

One Friday evening, the residents gathered around the notice-board to study the list of forthcoming arrivals who were
due at the Home on the following Monday.

‘Bloody hell!’ cried Stan, a man from Lancashire
Constabulary
. ‘See that? He’ll not go along with this “no rank” idea. He’s the most rank-conscious man I know – he even gets his wife to call herself Mrs Superintendent Welsh. He never speaks to lower ranks when he’s off duty – he’s a right pain, I can tell you!’

The rest of them crowded around the board in an attempt to read the name of this unwelcome guest, as Stan went on:

‘He crawls to the bosses – he’ll grovel like hell to anybody higher than himself. He’ll put a right damper on this place, you’ll see.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Bill Short.

‘Superintendent Adam Welsh, the Admin. Superintendent in one of our Divisions in Lancashire. Special-course man, a flier, passed all his exams and shot up the tree. He’s a right toffee-nosed bastard! He doesn’t know me, thank God, but we all know him!’

Bill laughed.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘If he’s coming here to flaunt his rank, we’ll be ready for him. I have a plan. We can take him down a peg or two, as they say. Everyone agreed?’

They asked Stan to give a detailed account of the behaviour of the newcomer, after which they agreed they would listen to Bill’s idea. In short, Welsh seemed a most objectionable man whose chief aim in life was to rise through the ranks by creeping to those who were senior to him. After hearing this, Bill took them all into the lounge and explained his system.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘The first thing is not to react to him if he toes the Home’s line; I mean, he might join in with everyone and forget his exalted rank. If he does, then we don’t bring our plan into action. OK? We let him set the pace – we must give him a chance to join us.’

They all agreed to that.

‘But,’ he continued, ‘we shall need plans if he tries to pull rank on the rest of us. To get the maximum benefit from this, you should know that, although I’m Bill to each of you, I am really a deputy chief constable. But from the moment this man enters this Home, you will let him know that I am a constable.
I’m the sort of constable who has never been in line for
promotion
, never passed my exams, and at my age there is no hope for promotion!’

They smiled at the idea.

‘Now,’ said Bill addressing a man called Keith who came from Newcastle upon Tyne. ‘Keith. You are a very well spoken man, if I may say so. You do not have a Geordie accent, not even a trace of one and you do have the presence of a senior officer.’ Bill’s ability to assess a person shone through.

‘I’m originally from Surrey,’ said Keith.

‘You sound very like a deputy chief constable to me!’ smiled Bill. ‘At least a deputy, perhaps even a chief constable. You’re not, I know, because I know all the chiefs, deputies and
assistants
in the north. So do you mind telling us your rank – for this important exercise?’

‘No, I’m a constable, that’s all. I never got promoted because I never passed my exams!’

‘Right,’ said Bill. ‘From the moment this Lancashire
character
arrives and plays the rank game, you will be a deputy chief constable. I shall inadvertently call you “sir” from time to time and we’ll see how he reacts.’

‘I’ll love that!’ said Keith.

To avoid further confusion, the little meeting of conspirators decided that no one else would adopt a false rank, although there was nothing to prevent them pretending they were higher than superintendent if the moment justified it. They all agreed that Keith would be their deputy chief constable for this
exercise
, and that Bill would be a constable on a beat in
Scarborough
.

It was with some interest, therefore, that the company awaited the arrival of Mr A. Welsh. After being attended to by the receptionist, he settled in his room and came to join the rest of the guests in the lounge just before lunch.

His first remark, to a grey-haired man called Cyril was, ‘Where are the officers’ toilets, please?’

‘There aren’t any,’ said Cyril. ‘Men’s and women’s are separate, but we don’t use ranks here, Mr Welsh.’

‘This is a
police
establishment,’ was his retort. ‘I should not be expected to share toilets with the lower ranks. I shall speak to
the management. And for lunch? There will surely be officers’ tables? With linen cloths and napkins?’

‘No,’ said Bill Short, entering the conversation. ‘We all muck in, we don’t ask for ranks here, Mr Welsh.’

The cheek muscles in the taut white face of this man
tightened
noticeably; he was a tall, thin man with an almost gaunt expression and his fair hair was cut short and plastered back with hair oil.

He showed no inclination to smile and his eyes, darting rapidly around the room for indications of support, rested on Keith. As Bill Short had recognised, Keith, for some reason, had the demeanour of a very senior officer and Welsh addressed him:

‘Is this true? Am I to believe that in this police establishment, the achievement of rank is not recognised?’

‘Yes, Mr Welsh, that is so,’ said Keith in his finest voice. ‘We are all guests, men and women of equal status as we recuperate.’

‘Then I think this is appalling. I haven’t worked my way up to superintendent rank for nothing! I am Superintendent Welsh, I wish everyone to know that and to remember and respect that fact during my stay here!’

And with that statement, everyone knew what to do.

‘What do you think, sir?’ Bill Short asked Keith, slipping in the rogue “sir” with astonishing ease. ‘Should we revert to our ranks?’

‘I think it is a matter for individual choice,’ said Keith. ‘Speaking purely personally, I am happy to be called Keith by everyone here, including Superintendent Welsh.’

Keith played his part with such aplomb that the others almost applauded him and this set the scene. Later, they learned that Welsh had quietly sought the advice of one of the guests about Keith’s rank, and was told, in the strictest confidence, that he was deputy chief constable from Newcastle upon Tyne City Police.

In the days that followed, Welsh followed Keith around like a pupil with a crush on a teacher, having been assured that everyone else here was below his own rank and therefore unworthy of his companionship. He carried Keith’s golf clubs, invited him out for drinks, joined him at snooker and card
games, discussed policy matters with him and generally shut the others out of his short convalescence.

For Bill Short, this was excellent and he was enjoying himself testing Welsh’s reactions; he tried to win his confidence by inviting him out for a drink, by offering to play snooker with him, by inviting him for walks into the town for shopping or sightseeing, but each of Bill’s overtures was politely rejected. Welsh made it abundantly clear that he did not consort with lower ranks, especially constables who drank pints and played snooker.

Stan’s assessment of Welsh had been absolutely accurate for he was a snob, and a rank-conscious snob into the bargain. By the end of the week, everyone was wondering how to reveal to Superintendent Welsh the fact that he was being led gently along a path that led to nowhere in a wonderfully false world. It was learned that he would be going home on the Sunday, and in order to make the necessary impact upon him, the truth should be revealed.

The opportunity came during the dinner on Saturday night. It was made known that the Chief Constable of Newcastle upon Tyne City Police would be attending the evening dinner as a guest of the Home.

He was chairman of the management committee and was attending in that capacity. Chief constables were regular visitors, for most of them served on the management committee or supported the work of the convalescent home in various ways. As the dinner gong sounded, therefore, the residents moved into the dining-room and Superintendent Welsh made sure he shared a table with Keith. There was an even more important reason for this because Welsh realised that Keith was from the Newcastle force. Perhaps he thought the Chief
Constable
would come over and express interest in the health of one of his most senior officers. Everyone was seated prior to the Chief Constable’s entry and, as was his custom, he toured the tables to speak to the guests before settling down to eat.

When he arrived at Keith’s table, his eyes lit up.

‘Ah, PC Burton, good to see you. How’s it going?’

‘Fine, sir,’ beamed Keith. ‘This break has done me a world of good. I feel much better now.’

‘Summonses and Warrants is having a busy time without you, you know. I’ll tell Sergeant Helm you’re doing fine; I know he’s anxiously awaiting your return!’

‘Another week should do it, sir,’ said Keith, pleased his Chief had recognised him.

‘Good, well, nice to have seen you looking so fit. And you,’ he now addressed Welsh. ‘Are you recuperating nicely?’

‘Yes, sir,’ beamed Welsh.

And before Welsh could announce his name and rank, the Chief Constable moved on and stopped at Bill Short’s table.

‘Bill, good to see you! Are you coping with these rebels around you? It’s time you were getting back, you know, your Chief hasn’t had a day off since you went sick!’

Everyone in the room heard his friendly exchanges and all eyes were now on Superintendent Welsh. For a long time, he said nothing, his eyes flickering as the full import of the Chief’s words began to register.

‘PC Burton?’ Eventually he quietly asked Keith to tell the truth. ‘Did I hear your Chief correctly?’

‘You did, Mr Welsh,’ said Keith with an air of pride. ‘I am PC Keith Burton of the Summonses and Warrants Department of Newcastle upon Tyne City Police.’

‘And that other man, that Bill Short, he led me to think he’s a constable at Scarborough. If my ears don’t deceive me, your Chief knows him well and that smacks of a rank much higher than constable! The others haven’t mentioned their ranks.’ Already there was a look of impending horror on Welsh’s pale face; he realised he had been deliberately tricked.

‘He’s a deputy chief constable, Mr Welsh. With the local force.’

For a long time, Superintendent Welsh did not speak. He ate his dinner in silence, often playing with his food and allowing the conversation to bubble around him. No one could tell what thoughts were buzzing through his head.

At the end of the meal, the Chief Constable left the room with other members of staff, and only then did the grim-faced Welsh make his move.

‘I would like a word with all of you,’ he said to the residents. ‘In the lounge, if you don’t mind, in five minutes.’

It was almost like a command, but it was clearly tempered with a note of sorrow and even regret. As the others looked to him for guidance, Bill Short nodded his agreement to Welsh’s request and they all assembled, wondering what was in store. They settled on the easy chairs which lined the walls, awaiting Welsh’s comments. He came in and stood before them, a tall, pale and now rather fragile figure. The arrogance had been knocked out of him.

‘You’ve made a fool of me,’ he said, without smiling. ‘I fell into your trap. I am a fool,’ he suddenly added with a smile. ‘An utter stupid fool. It’s people that matter, not ranks. So if anyone wants to go out for a drink, there’s a nice hostelry down the road, and the drinks are all on me. I am sorry for my behaviour.’

There was a momentary silence, then Bill Short said, ‘It takes a man to admit he’s wrong, so you’re on – er, sir!’

‘Thanks – er, Bill,’ smiled Welsh. ‘You’ve made me realise we’re human beings, not machines with pips on our shoulders!’

Everyone started chattering and then Welsh turned to Keith Burton. ‘Coming – er, sir?’, he asked with a smile.

‘You try and stop me – er, Adam,’ said PC Burton.

In previous ‘Constable’ books, I have provided accounts of fascinating people in the twilight of their years; some of their stories are included in
Constable
around
the
Village
and I thought I would elaborate upon one or two of those tales and include a few new ones.

So far as old folk are concerned, caring for them is very much a part of the village constable’s life. This is not formal care of the kind expected from the multitude of welfare and charity
services
nor does it impinge upon their family’s own
responsibilities
, but it means that the village constable, while on patrol, does keep an eye open for signs of need or distress among the older folk. Sometimes this continuing observation results in a telephone call to the family concerned or perhaps to one or other of the welfare services or charitable organisations. More often than not, however, the constable is able to cope with any immediate need and his work goes unpublicised, save for a word of thanks, or a cup of tea, from a grateful senior citizen.

I found that the elderly who lived in and around Aidensfield were highly independent country folk who hated the idea that they might have to depend on charity or the welfare state. In helping them, there was a need to exercise discretion and to show them that any help given was not an adverse reflection upon their own capabilities.

Having led a life of self-sufficiency founded upon hard work
and enterprise, their advancing years made them less able to cope physically, although their mental state and belief in
themselves
remained undimmed. Many of them felt they could achieve just as much at eighty years of age as they had done at thirty, and that did cause some worries.

One shining example of this philosophy was eighty-
three-year
-old Jacob Broadbent. Officially, he was a retired farmer and he and his wife, Sissy (81), lived in a neat bungalow in Aidensfield. Built specially for them in their retirement, it was fitted with the latest work-saving ideas and boasted a large garden full of mature soft-fruit bushes, fully grown apple and plum trees and a patch for vegetable cultivation. The garden had once been part of a larger house and Jacob’s son had succeeded in buying the plot upon which to build his parents’ retirement home.

The inclusion of a large garden had been a brilliant idea by Jacob’s son, Jesse, a man in his late fifties. Jesse knew that his father would require something to occupy him during his
so-called
retirement, and this was the garden’s purpose. In spite of tending his little patch, however, Jacob made regular visits to the farm where Jesse found the old man various jobs to keep him busy. Jacob, as one would have expected, couldn’t understand the new ideas and machinery that Jesse introduced, but
contented
himself by looking after the pigs and sheep, feeding the hens and recording their egg production as he had in years past.

The result was that in his retirement, Jacob was kept busy and that made him very happy. Sissy, his down-to-earth wife, kept out of his way. She knew better than to interfere with his daily routine. Always on the go, she fussed over her new
bungalow
, visited people in the village and, even at eighty-one, made sure she was involved in village activities such as the church and the Women’s Institute. This kept her fully
occupied
, and for a couple in their eighties, they were remarkably alert, active and energetic.

There is no doubt that one of Jacob’s joys was his orchard. Having grown apples at the farm, he had continued this
enterprise
at his new bungalow, another example of Jesse’s foresight in providing something for his father to do. And so, in the autumn, Jacob supplied the local shops, hotels and village
people with a variety of fresh and tasty apples. It provided him with some pocket money, out of which he enjoyed a regular pint in the Brewers Arms, a daily pipe or two of strong-smelling tobacco and weekly trips to all the local cattle markets and, where possible, sales of antiques or house-contents.

It was during a late September afternoon that I was attracted to his orchard by a cry for help. By chance, I was walking through Aidensfield, intending to call at the garage on a routine enquiry about a recent accident. The garage had recovered from the scene the vehicles which had been damaged, and because I needed precise details of the damage for my report I was on my way to inspect them.

As I walked beneath the high wall which concealed the Broadbents’ home from the street, I became aware of a hoarse cry. It was very faint. At first, I could not decide what it was or where it was coming from, but as I stopped to listen more carefully, I realised it was a man and it was coming from Jacob’s orchard. Sensing trouble, I rushed into the garden and hurried around the back of the bungalow to the orchard from where the calls were being repeated. And there, as I rounded the corner past the greenhouse, I found Jacob.

‘Mr Rhea!’ he breathed as he saw me. ‘By, it’s good thoo’s come along now …’

He was lying on his back beneath a tall, sturdy apple tree and his right leg was held high in the air among the lower branches. A basket of apples was lying upturned near by with its contents spilled across the grass.

‘What’s up, Jacob?’ I asked, hurrying to his aid.

‘I tummled doon this tree, Mr Rhea, and that trouser leg’s gitten hooked up somewhere …’

‘Jacob!’ I tried to sound angry as I examined his elevated leg. How did he come to tumble down the tree? But I had no time to ask that sort of question just yet. I had to release him first. The material of his trousers had “snagged” on a short, strong stump of a branch, and it had pierced the cloth. This now held Jacob’s leg in the air and from his position on the ground, he could not free himself. He was a prisoner of his own apple tree!

‘This is a right mess you’ve got yourself into, Jacob!’ I said, trying to free his leg. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘It winded me, Mr Rhea,’ he said. ‘Knocked the stuffing out of me, landing flat on my back like this. But I’ve got me breath back now. I think I’m all right.’

‘No injuries, then?’ I was struggling to free the trouser leg from the tree but his weight made it difficult.

‘Nay, nowt.’

‘How long have you been lying here then?’ was my next question.

‘Ages, Mr Rhea. She’s out, you see, our Sissy, I mean. Gone to see a friend, she has. I’ve been laid here shouting for hours … nobody heard me … I got frightened, thoo knaws.’

‘Lift your backside in the air a bit, can you?’ I asked him. ‘Then it’ll take some of the weight off this leg and I’ll be able to lift you off this branch.’

His overall trousers were made of tough denim and I had to cut the cloth to effect his release. My pocket knife made short work of that problem and once his leg was free, I lifted him to his feet. He hobbled around a bit, stamping his foot and holding his aching back with his hand. I looked around for a ladder, but found none. Maybe a rung had snapped or its wood was rotten?

‘How did you get up that tree, Jacob?’ I asked.

‘Climbed up,’ he said.

‘Without a ladder or steps?’ I put to him.

‘There’s no need for owt like that, Mr Rhea,’ he said with just a trace of contempt. ‘Why bother with ladders when t’trees grow their own steps?’

‘You shouldn’t be climbing trees at your age!’ I shook my finger at him in a mock rebuke. ‘You could break a leg or something if you fall down – these are big trees and it’s a long fall from the top! Look how a tumble bruises apples that come down! You’ll be covered with bruises tonight, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Thoo’ll not tell our missus, wilt thoo?’ he asked with a note of pleading in his voice.

‘Why not?’ I put to him.

‘Well, she’s allus going on at me about climbing trees and picking apples, Mr Rhea, and it’s only way I can pick ’em. So say nowt to her, eh? About me tummling doon.’

‘So long as you’re not hurt!’ I submitted.

‘Fit as a fiddle,’ he said, straightening his back as if to emphasise his words. ‘There’s nowt ailing me.’

‘OK, but remember, no more climbing trees!’

‘You sound just like my missus!’ he grumbled as he stooped to begin picking up the spilt apples, groaning with pain as he did so. I helped him and when we’d collected the lot, he went indoors.

‘Thoo’ll come in for a cup o’ tea, Mr Rhea?’ he invited me.

‘No thanks, Jacob,’ I said. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got to get on. I’m supposed to be visiting the garage!’

Happy that his fall had not resulted in any permanent damage, I left him to recover over a cup of tea. I thought little more about the incident until I saw his wife, Sissy, in the village street a couple of weeks later.

‘How’s your Jacob these days?’ I asked after a general chat.

‘Fine,’ she said, ‘But his rheumatics is bothering him a bit. He reckons his back hurts; I say it’s with climbing apple trees but he says it’s not. Mr Rhea, mebbe you’d have a word with him about climbing trees at his age. He’ll fall down one of these days, mark my words, and that could be t’end of him. I shouldn’t want to deal with him if he cripples hisself cos he’s tummled oot of a tree at eighty-three, Mr Rhea. He’s a bit awd for that sort of a caper.’

‘I’ll have a word with him,’ I promised her.

I did speak to him and said he was too old for that sort of a caper, as Sissy had put it. But it made no difference. He continued to climb apple trees until his death at ninety-two.

Another tale involved Sidney Latimer who was eighty-six. A retired lengthman, his work had involved keeping the roads tidy and well maintained. And, so I learned from the older folks, Sidney had done a very thorough job. In winter
especially
, he had kept them gritted and open when others near by had been closed in the grip of the weather. Sidney had always taken a pride in “his” roads.

He lived alone in a pretty cottage just off the main street at Aidensfield and he coped very well with his daily chores, albeit with the help of a lady who popped in to care for him. Like so many of the elderly in and around Aidensfield, he would emerge
on a fine day to sit on the bench near the war memorial, there to observe the passing show and to chat with three or four pals of similar age.

Then he became ill. I was not aware of this for some time, but realised that he was not enjoying his daily walk or his sojourns to the village seat and so I asked after him from his cleaning lady.

‘Oh, he’s in hospital, Mr Rhea, at York.’

‘Oh, I had no idea! What’s wrong with him?’ I asked.

‘Old age mainly,’ she said without a hint of sympathy. ‘And his waterworks are giving him pain. They’re seeing to him there, he might be in for a week or two.’

I rang the hospital to enquire after his progress and was given the usual response, ‘Mr Latimer is as well as can be expected.’

That did not say a great deal so, one afternoon when Mary and I, with the family, went shopping to York, I decided to pop in and see Mr Latimer. I found him in a ward full of elderly gentlemen, some in a very poor state and clearly approaching the end of their lives. Assailed by the distinctive smell from this geriatric ward, I settled at Sidney’s bedside.

‘Now, Mr Latimer,’ I said. ‘How’s things?’

‘Hello, Mr Rhea.’ His old eyes twinkled with delight because he had a visitor. ‘You are looking slim. How’s Mrs Rhea?’

This was his usual greeting; whenever he met anyone, man or woman of any shape or size, he complimented them upon looking slim.

‘She’s fine thanks,’ I told him, pulling up a chair. ‘She’s in town, shopping, she sends her best wishes and hopes you’ll be home soon.’

‘It’s my waterworks, Mr Rhea, they say. I reckon I need a good plumber not a doctor. But they say I’ll be home before long.’

He was very alert and we chatted for some time about village matters. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, and in his younger days must have been an impressive sight. He had married, I knew, but his wife had died several years earlier and, so far as I knew, there had been no children. Sitting propped up on that hospital bed, he did look rather vulnerable and
somewhat
smaller and more fragile than usual. During the course of our conversation, he said he got a bit lonely.

‘It’s not like being at home, is it? At home I can pop out and see folks, there’s allus somebody about, or something to do, even if it’s just popping into a shop or the post office for my pension. Here, I just have to lie down and do as I’m told. These old lads in here aren’t much company, are they?’

He looked along the ward at his companions and sighed.

‘Just lying there fading away, that’s all they’re doing. There’s not a lot of excitement unless it’s some poor sod who’s cocked his toes.’

It must be awful, seeing one’s companions dying one by one, but he seemed unperturbed. He was fully convinced he would be allowed home very soon.

‘There must be somebody I can tell about you being in here, Mr Latimer,’ I suggested. ‘The village folks know you’re here

‘They never come!’ he grumbled.

‘Relations, then? Old friends? Shall I write to them and say you’re here?’

‘Apart from folks around Aidensfield, there’s only my old schoolteacher. Taught me when I was a lad, she did. You might tell her, I allus send her a Christmas card.’

Now I thought he was going senile but wary of his reactions if I showed disbelief, I said, ‘Where’s she live? I’ll tell her.’

He delved into his bedside cabinet and pulled out a battered old pocket diary, years out of date. Flicking through the pages until he found the place, he said, ‘No 18 Ryelands Terrace, Eltering. Miss Wilkinson. Taught me my three Rs at Ashfordly Primary she did. 1886 she was there. Lovely woman. Lovely as they come. She’ll be interested to know I’m here. Allus kept in touch, she has.’

To humour him, I made a note of the name and address in my private diary and promised I would tell her. This seemed to please him greatly and our next half-hour was spent in casual chatter about nothing in particular. I could see he was tiring so I said my goodbyes.