Constable Through the Meadow (3 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It was not in the garage, Rhea. There is a garage at your police house and I would have expected you to garage the van there, for security and safety.’

‘It’s a private garage, sir, my car’s using it.’

‘The official motor-cycle used it, Rhea.’

‘There was plenty of room for both, sir, I could park the bike alongside the car. That garage was added to the house long before official cars and motor-bikes were issued. Garages
adjoining
rural-beat houses have always been used for the officer’s private car.’

‘Then I feel the practice must cease, Rhea. Now that you have the official use of a van, the van must surely take
precedence
over your private vehicle.’

I noticed that he did not directly order me to garage the van nor was I ordered to remove my car. I felt there was scope for manoeuvre which in turn suggested there was some official doubt about the rights of the occupants of police houses. After all, the police house was my home but unlike some civilian tenancies, there was no rental agreement. A police officer simply moved in and out when instructed and obeyed orders if there was a dispute. I knew of no order which dealt with the current matter and the only condition of occupancy that came to mind was that I could not take in lodgers without permission!

As I pondered the Superintendent’s remarks, I realised that if I was unreasonable in my attitude, he might post me to a less-than-pleasant urban area, and I felt sure there was scope for discussion or flexibility.

‘You are responsible for the care of the van while it is in your possession,’ he reminded me. ‘It is a police vehicle and it does contain valuable police equipment, such as a radio. The van and
contents are your responsibility, Rhea.’

‘Yes, sir,’ was all I said. I understood the import of his remarks.

‘It will not be resting at your house every night,’ he reasoned and I saw a twinkle in his eye. ‘Others will be making regular use of it and it will be used for night shifts, so I think a little common sense will sort out this dilemma, don’t you, Rhea?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed.

And so it was. My private car continued to occupy the garage at my police house, and from time to time, I would give the mini a treat by placing it inside for the night. Then I discovered that if I parked the mini on the front lawn, it was obscured from the road by the privet hedge. Neither the Superintendent nor
Sergeant
Blaketon was in the habit of coming into the house or office, preferring to wait outside at the other side of that tall, thick hedge. And if they could not see into my garden, then neither could potential breakers-in of police vans …

Common sense did prevail and no one grumbled about the van’s open-air life.

The van, its other drivers and I soon settled into a
trouble-free
working routine and we had no problems; indeed, the little vehicle proved its worth over and over again. Its tiny engine and small size coped with the large constables it had to carry, and the steep hills of this dramatic part of Yorkshire. It was most useful for carrying assorted objects and for protecting us from the English weather, thus enabling constabulary duties to be
performed
with far greater ease than hitherto. But on one occasion when I was surreptitiously carrying a load of rather doubtful legality, I found myself face to face with the redoubtable
Sergeant
Blaketon.

It happened around 10 o’clock one Wednesday morning.

I was working a day shift from 9am until 5pm, a rare treat. Such routines are few in a police officer’s life and I was looking forward to the evening off. At 9am, therefore, I began work in the office which adjoined the house and by 9.45am was ready to begin my patrol.

Just as I was leaving, my wife, Mary, rushed in.

‘Oh, thank heaven I caught you!’ she panted. ‘The car won’t start.’

An immediate problem was presented, for it was Mary’s turn to convey seven or eight children to the village play school. Elizabeth, our eldest, had started play school and thoroughly enjoyed it, and the mums worked on a rota system, each taking their turn to tour the nearby farms and cottages to collect pre-school-age youngsters. It was an important part of village life, a bonus for the children and a welcome tonic for the mums.

I had a quick look at our car and decided the battery was flat; it had been causing problems in recent weeks and I had never got around to replacing it. Now I had no choice and would obtain a battery today, but first, we had pressing commitments to keep. Those youngsters and their mums would be awaiting collection at farm gates, isolated spots and remote cottages.

‘I’m going out on patrol,’ I said. ‘I’ll collect them. Give me a list.’

And so, armed with a list of children’s names and addresses, I set about this mission. Most of the mums saw nothing odd in their local constable collecting their offspring in a police van, while the children thought it was marvellous. Squatting on the cold, hard metal floor, they pretended they were chasing robbers as they listened to the dour voice from the police radio. They blew the horn and Elizabeth showed them how to flash the blue light, as a result of which we flashed the light at every halt to announce our arrival. By the time I returned to Aidensfield, the rear of the van, and the front passenger seat, were full of small, noisy but excited children. I had lost count of the number on board, but they seemed so happy at this change in their routine.

They babbled and chattered, made police siren noises, caught robbers, arrested thieves, chased speeders, battered my brain with questions, and generally created something of a party atmosphere in the back of the little van. The bouncing didn’t seem to bother them, for in their minds, they were keen police officers engaged upon a matter of grave importance. I’ve no idea how many villains we arrested on that trip, but I reckon each child caught several and tonight they would recount their
experiences
to their dads. As a public relations exercise it was
marvellous
and as a means of getting those children to school it was a success.

But the noise they generated within the confines of the van
was colossal and I was pleased I was not a play-school teacher having to tolerate it for longer periods. On the last lap, I turned into Aidensfield and was about to drive down the lane to the house which hosted the school, when I saw the tall, severe figure of Sergeant Blaketon standing on the corner of the road. My heart sank. Of all the people to meet this morning of all mornings … I thought of his instructions about using the van, about unauthorised passengers, about disciplinary
proceedings
, about the law on overloading, about insecure loads …

I had probably broken several laws on my goodwill mission.

I could not avoid him. I eased to a halt before him, flushing furiously as I anticipated his wrath. I switched off the engine and climbed out, my mind full of excuses, reasons,
apologies
…

‘It was urgent …’ I began.

But he ignored me and thrust his head inside the van and I heard him say, ‘Now then, what’s going on in there?’

There was an instant babble of juvenile response; I heard tiny voices shouting at him about catching robbers and poachers and making people drive better and then, after asking more
questions
and generally joining in the chit-chat, he emerged.

‘Is this the village bus service, Rhea?’ he asked me.

‘Er, no, Sergeant, you see … well … they’re going to play school … er … the car taking them wouldn’t start, you see, so they were stuck … I … well …’

‘Got a Public Service Vehicle operator’s licence, have you?’ was his next question. ‘Know about seating requirements in vehicles, do you? Safety of passengers?’

‘Er, well, Sergeant,’ I started. ‘It was an emergency

‘So all you lot have been arrested, have you?’ he poked his head inside again.

‘Ye … e … e … e … s …’ came the sing-song response. He emerged, smiling with joy.

‘Nice one, Rhea. Creating goodwill with the public and making the kids happy, eh? All right, carry on.’

And so I did.

I learned afterwards that the play-school teacher had asked them to draw a police van and, without exception, they had included Sergeant’s Blaketon’s big smiling face.

Patrolling in the warmth and comfort of the mini-van was heavenly after the inconvenience of the motor-cycle and I think it is fair to say that one adverse effect was to make us rather lazy. When using the motor-cycle, particularly during chilly weather, it was sensible to walk as much as possible, if only to keep warm. But that exercise was unnecessary with the mini-van. We were cosseted in an all-embracing warmth from which, especially in the chill of a long night, we were unwilling to emerge. This tended to make us drive where we should have walked; we took the van around all manner of unlikely places, roaming behind buildings, through factory premises, into
farmyards
, along narrow alleys and over fields, all of which were the kind of places we should have walked in our efforts to prevent and detect crime.

Our supervisory officers and our own consciences told us it was not a good thing to spend so much time sitting in a van, that exercise was necessary for continuing good health and that foot patrols were a vital part of the constable’s crime-preventing and public relations repertoire. Each of us appreciated such precepts and although we began our patrols with those aims uppermost in our minds, they soon evaporated once we settled into the cosy routine of heated and motorised patrolling.

We learned, for example, the best places to park in order to
shine either the van’s headlights or our own torch beams upon vulnerable windows and doors; we located places in which the van could be concealed for a short nap, a tasty but forbidden sandwich or sip of coffee from a flask. We knew where to hide from Sergeant Blaketon or which unmapped track offered the best short-cut through the lush and scented meadows of
Ryedale
.

It was a bout of idleness of this kind which led me into a spot of bother one night. It happened like this. Tucked in the centre of my beat, well away from urban civilisation, was a derelict airfield. The nearest village was Stovensby, a tiny collection of pretty stone houses on a gently rising street, and everyone knew this patch of cracked concrete and unsightly old huts as
Stovensby
Airfield even though no aircraft had used it since the end of World War II. Leading from the village into one corner of the airfield was a narrow, unmade lane, across which someone had, years ago, erected a gate.

As time passed, however, that gate had fallen into disrepair which meant that courting couples, trespassers and all manner of other inquisitive folk ventured on to the airfield from time to time, perhaps to steal bits and pieces from the derelict buildings or perhaps to conceal themselves in the old ruins so that their love-making was kept a secret from prying eyes, as well as from suspicious husbands, wives and neighbours.

Squatters, tramps, down-and-outs and persons on the run from life, from HM Forces, from the police or from their families would sometimes hide here too.

The area covered by the old airfield was huge; remnants of the Air Traffic Control Tower remained, as did buildings which had been Station Headquarters, Squadron offices, hangars, sleeping accommodation, etc. Many of them were windowless, some were roofless and none had been officially occupied or used for almost a quarter of a century. In the broad light of day, the airfield reeked of dereliction and decay, although the old runways themselves were in fairly good order. They were like huge modern highways which crossed and re-crossed this patch of Ryedale and they had survived surprisingly well without any formal maintenance. The area between them comprised
overgrown 
grass, weeds and scrubland, although some of the fertile areas had been leased to a local farmer who managed to grow wheat there.

No one seemed quite sure who owned the airfield; perhaps the Air Ministry had forgotten it was there, perhaps someone had purchased it years ago and had no idea what to do with it …. I never knew. What I did know, however, was that the deserted runways were regularly used by learner drivers, by young men who fancied themselves as racing motorists, by teenage motor-cyclists who roared about the place doing crazy things with their moving machines such as wheelies or headstands on the saddles, and even by pedal-cyclists who organised time trials and races around the perimeter track.

The old notices saying ‘Trespassers will be Prosecuted’ or ‘Air Ministry Property - Keep Off’ had fallen down and although there could have been a question of illegal use, it was not the job of the civilian police to enforce any such rules. We knew that the public, rightly or wrongly, made use of the old airfield and we did not raise any formal objection because we knew where many of the youngsters got to. They were safe here, far better using this enclosed area for racing or showing off than attempting their doubtful skills on the open road.

So we closed our ‘official’ eyes to the many trespassers although, at night, we did make routine patrols through the airfield, checking for possible lawbreakers who might dump stolen cars here, steal bits from the buildings, cause damage or perform a host of other illegal acts. Children on the run from school or home were another aspect of our searches, as were depressed folks who wanted to be left alone with their thoughts, or even to commit suicide.

One night in early May, I was performing an all-night duty, having started at 10pm. I booked myself on duty from home by ringing Eltering Police Station at 10pm and asked for any routine messages. I was given a list of unsolved crimes
committed
locally during the day, plus details of a car which had been stolen from Scarborough. It was a Ford Consul, five years old and a dark green colour, and it had been stolen from outside the Spa before eight that evening.

According to the police at Eltering, a villager from Stovensby
had telephoned at quarter to ten to report a car with blazing lights repeatedly circling the old airfield at high speed. There was just a possibility that it was the missing vehicle in the hands of joy-riders, as other cars stolen from the coast had been found abandoned here.

I was therefore asked to check out this report.

It was a foul night with pouring rain and lingering mist as I arrived in Stovensby village. The time would be around 10.20pm and the late spring dusk had matured into a heavy darkness due to the weather. I drove the little van down to the fallen gate which marked the entrance to the airfield, the windscreen wipers having trouble coping with the teeming rain. I extinguished the van lights as I peered through the gloom, hoping to catch sight of roving car lights somewhere in that vast expanse of misery and darkness. I saw none, so maybe my own approaching lights had alerted the thieves? Perhaps they’d gone? Perhaps it was just a local lad having a fling around the place in his own car? Maybe it was thieves who had run for shelter and were hiding in one of the many disused buildings? The lights could have been anything or anyone, harmless or potentially harmful.

I waited for five or ten minutes; there was no sign of activity on that airfield, not a hint, not a light. But if a car had been seen earlier – and not all that much earlier – then a full search would have to be made.

To make a proper search, I should really walk; I should take a torch although, strictly speaking, I should make a search in complete darkness so as to surprise the villains in possession of the stolen property. In the darkness, I could creep up on them …. But, I reasoned, if they were in a car, they could escape simply by driving off and I would be marooned in the middle of the airfield with no car, no radio and no chance of catching them. I reckoned that if I circled the airfield in the mini-van, shining my lights into and behind all the old
buildings
, I might flush out the thieves. Then I could give chase, and my radio would allow me to summon any necessary aid. That seemed a far better idea.

So I switched on my lights, crossed through that tumbledown gate and found myself driving along the glistening wet concrete
of an old wartime runway. The rain, the mist and the darkness made driving very difficult, and without a detailed knowledge of the layout of the airfield, I really had no idea where I was heading. My only hope was to pick out the buildings one by one and then scan them in my headlights. If I did detect anything or anyone suspicious, then a more detailed search could follow.

With the excitement of the chase making my heart pound just a little faster, I located the first of the buildings and drove towards it; it was an old hangar, vast and empty in the darkness so I drove right inside, did a sweeping turn in the mini and watched as the beams explored every corner.

Old oil drums littered the floor, a few rats scuttled off at my intrusion and there was an old settee against the far wall, but it was otherwise deserted. I moved to the next location, another hangar similarly deserted. As I searched each building, the radio in the van burbled into life and I recognised my own call sign.

‘Echo Seven,’ it said. ‘Location please.’

Every half-hour, our Control Room sought our location in this manner, then plotted our movements on a map so the most conveniently-positioned vehicle could be directed to any incident. It was also a means of checking our individual safety; if we failed to respond, we might be in trouble.

‘Echo Seven’ I spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Stovensby
Airfield
.’

‘Received. Echo Nine?’ the next car was requested.

As locations were sought from every mobile on duty, I
continued
my search. Sometimes, I walked in the light of those headlamps, sometimes I drove around a block or behind the more remote buildings, but I did make sure that every possible hiding place was examined. As I progressed, I found it was becoming more difficult to see the buildings ahead; the rain and mist obscured them and so I found myself having to drive at a crawling pace in the gloom. From time to time I’d leave the van with its engine running and lights blazing as I fought my way through the thickening mist to a building with a difficult access.

I must have searched every conceivable nook and cranny without finding anything remotely suspicious, by which time I had decided that no stolen car was hidden there. There was
nothing and no one lurking on that deserted airfield. Of that, I was positive.

I radioed Control. ‘Echo Seven,’ I announced. ‘Have
completed
search of Stovensby Airfield for reported stolen vehicle from Scarborough. No trace. Am resuming patrol. Over.’

‘Received Echo 7. Control out.’

With the windscreen wipers assailing the tumbling rain, and the dense fog now blanketing the entire airfield, I screwed my eyes against the white screen outside. While I had been busily searching the buildings, the fog had dramatically intensified and now I could barely see the runway ahead of me. I could not determine the edges of the concrete …. I moved to one side, swerving to catch a glimpse of the runway’s extremities. I failed. The twin beams cut into the fog like two long shafts of solid light, but they did not penetrate it. The light simply reflected back at me. I was moving at less than walking pace now, my head out of the window hoping to see where I was heading …

But I was hopelessly lost. I’d lost all contact with the
buildings
which had, to some extent, broken the fog’s density and I was encircled by a thick white blanket of dripping clinging mist. I was somewhere inside a dark fog-bound wilderness and had lost all sense of direction.

I found myself fighting the onset of panic; I knew that I was only a few miles from home and from civilisation, but at the same time, could not find the route which led off this old airfield. It was almost like being trapped, like driving through a black, unlit tunnel and into a massive blockade of cotton wool; the mist was so thick that it had become a wall of brilliant white through which nothing could apparently pass. Although I was still driving, I had no impression of movement or distance for I could see nothing but the reflected glow of my headlights. I was upon a featureless plain and the headlights would not even pick out the surface of the runway. I had no idea whether I was in the middle, on the edge, doing a circuit of the perimeter track or simply driving around in circles on an expanse of featureless concrete. I have never been so helpless. It was like one of those nightmarish dreams that childhood worries can cause and there seemed no immediate relief.

I knew it would become easier in daylight, but dawn was hours away, and I felt such an idiot. I was lost within such a small patch of England … but I could not stay here all night. I had to find a way off, and so I kept moving. Once or twice, I ran off the edge of the runway, but fortunately the ground was solid enough to carry the weight of the mini-van, and after each mishap I managed to regain the solid surface. I had no idea how long I’d been looking for the exit until my call-sign sounded from the radio.

‘Echo Seven, location please,’ asked the voice.

I must have been chugging around for nearly half an hour! I did a rapid mental calculation. If I failed to reply to this request, Control would think I was missing or injured, and a search would be established. And in this fog, more officers could get lost as they hunted for me! Furthermore, at the last ‘locations’ I’d already said that I was resuming patrol and if I now
announced
that I was lost in the airfield, I’d look a real idiot in the eyes of our Control Room staff.

Surely I would soon find the exit? I’d been going round in circles for ages, and must have covered miles, however slowly I’d been driving.

‘Echo Seven, not receiving. Echo Seven, location please,’ repeated the voice.

‘Echo Seven,’ I decided to pretend I was patrolling normally and made a guess about where I might have been if I’d emerged from the airfield. ‘Echo Seven. A170, travelling east and
approaching
Brantsford. Over.’

‘Received, Echo Seven. Echo Nine, your location please,’ all cars were now being asked this question.