Constable Through the Meadow (4 page)

As the half-hourly ritual continued, I renewed my efforts to drive off the runway. Travelling at less than walking speed in the darkness, often with my head out of the window for better vision, I continued to search. But it was hopeless. By the time of the next ‘locations’ call, I was still on the airfield. But I daren’t admit it.

When Control Room next asked Echo Seven for its location, I said, ‘Echo Seven. Eltering towards Cattleby.’

‘Received Echo Seven,’ responded the voice. ‘Echo Nine?’

And so it continued. I daren’t halt the vehicle for any length
of time in the fog to search on foot in case the battery could not cope with the demands upon it from the combined effects of the heater, radio and the lights; I did not feel inclined to switch off the lights in this ghastly silent world. So I continued to drive around; in any case, I wanted to find my way out! For each half-hour, therefore, I provided a fictitious location when asked, and when the time came for my refreshment break at 2am, I took a gamble.

We were supposed to take our refreshment breaks at police stations and not in our vehicles; I knew Ashfordly was
unmanned
at night and hoped no one would attempt to contact me there by telephone. So, when I would normally have broken my tour of duty for refreshments, I radioed to Control ‘Echo Seven, refreshments Ashfordly. Over.’

‘Received, Echo Seven.’

I halted in the gloom and had my break at the wheel, in contravention of Sergeant Blaketon’s rule about not eating or drinking in the mini-van. I kept the engine running and the equipment and lights operating, for I needed light and heat, and then, after enjoying my sandwiches and flask of coffee, I decided to risk a brief exploration on foot. I’d leave the lights on and the engine running so that I could re-trace the van. Perhaps this would help me find the exit?

With my hand torch, I tried to determine my whereabouts but failed. In whatever direction I walked, I found nothing but more featureless expanse of runway and the thickest fog I’d ever encountered. I daren’t stray too far from the car either, in case I failed to re-locate it. And so, at 2.45am at the official
termination
of my break, I had no alternative but to recommence my circuits of the airfield.

‘Echo Seven,’ I introduced myself. ‘Resuming patrol at
Ashfordly
, towards Gelderslack.’

‘Received, Echo Seven,’ acknowledged Control.

And so the second half of my shift began. The rain had ceased now, but the fog had not lifted and the darkness was just as intense, but I knew that before my knocking-off time at six o’clock, daylight would arrive. This would help me find a route off this awful place.

For the next two and a half hours or so, I continued to provide
fictitious locations, listing places I would have visited during a normal night patrol. Happily, it was a very quiet night and I was never directed to any incident. And then, soon after I’d given my final location at 5.30am, the fog lifted. A gently breeze had risen as dawn was pushing the darkness aside, and I saw the distinct movement of the thick fog. Wisps began to float away and then, with remarkable speed, it began to disperse. In the daylight, I could now see the outline of some buildings and hazy roofs of the village on the edge of the airfield.

And I was less than a hundred yards from the exit!

I need hardly express the cheer that I felt as I drove out of that old gate, and with considerable relief, I made for home.
According
to the log-book which I had to complete, I had covered nearly forty miles around that airfield, a useful distance for a night patrol. My eyes were red-rimmed and sore with the strain of staring into that wall of fog, and I was mentally shattered.

I arrived home at six o’clock to find Sergeant Blaketon and PC Clough waiting for me. They were in Sergeant Blaketon’s official car. Clough was to take the van out from 6am until 2pm, and on this occasion, Sergeant Blaketon had decided upon an early visit to both Ken Clough and myself. And he had undertaken to ferry my colleague to Aidensfield Police House to collect the van.

‘Morning Rhea,’ he said as I emerged, bleary-eyed and very anxious to get some sleep. ‘All correct?’

‘All correct, Sergeant,’ I managed to say.

‘The duty chap at Eltering said something about you
searching
for a stolen car on the old airfield?’

‘Yes, Sergeant. I searched for it just after commencing my shift. It wasn’t there.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, Sergeant!’ I snapped the answer. ‘I searched every possible place. The airfield was deserted.’

‘Good, I thought you’d have done a thorough job.’

‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.

‘It’s just that Eltering Police Station got one or two calls during the night from residents at Stovensby. They reckoned cars were running round the airfield all night. They reported seeing lights and hearing engines in the fog. Eltering’s sending a
car to have a look in daylight – apparently, a road-traffic car attempted to investigate last night, but turned back because of dense fog.’

‘I’ve just come from there, Sergeant,’ I decided to tell him. ‘I did a final search myself, in daylight with the fog thinning. I saw nothing – that was only half an hour ago.’

‘They must have imagined it, Rhea. So, nothing else to report, eh?’

‘No, Sergeant,’ I said with determination.

‘Good, then sleep well,’ and they left me.

It was a long, long time before I returned to Stovensby Airfield and I never ventured there during a fog!

Mind, there were times when I wondered how those wartime pilots had coped with these Stovensby pea-soupers. Perhaps they had never become airborne, pretending instead to fly upon long circuitous missions into enemy territory?

There was another occasion when a duty trip in the little van caused something of a headache, and again it involved a journey which would certainly have caused Sergeant Blaketon to consult his book of rules. Happily, he never learned of this particular mishap.

Like so many memorable incidents, this one happened through a chance conversation. I was on patrol in the mini-van with instructions to deliver a package to a member of the Police Committee who lived on the edge of my beat. The package had come from the Chief Constable via our internal mail system and I was the final courier in this postal routine. I think it contained a selection of local statistics and pamphlets required for a crime prevention seminar in which she was to be involved. She was out when I arrived, but I spotted a gardener at work in the grounds of her spacious home and he told me to leave the mail in the conservatory. She’d find it there, he assured me. He pointed me towards the door and then, eager for a moment’s respite, asked me how my family and I were settling in. I did not know the man, but saw this as yet another example of how the public knows the affairs of their village constable!

As I’d been at Aidensfield for a year or two by this time, I was able to say we were very happy and enjoying both the area and
the work.

‘Got the garden straight, have you?’ he asked with real interest, and perhaps a little professional curiosity.

‘Not really,’ I had to admit. I love a well tended garden which comprises vegetables, flowers and shrubs, but I never seemed to have the time to create the garden of my dreams. Mary,
however
, in spite of coping with four tiny children and a hectic domestic routine, did manage to spend some time tending the garden.

I told him all this and he smiled.

‘Tell her not to be frightened to ask if she needs owt,’ he offered. ‘Cuttings, seeds, bedding plants, that sort o’ thing.’

‘Thanks, it’s good of you,’ I responded.

‘Well, we’ve often a lot o’ spare stuff and t’missus is happy to give bits and pieces to t’locals.’ By ’t’missus’ he meant his employer. ‘You’ve only to ask.’

It was at this point that I remembered Mary asking me to keep an eye open for horse manure during my patrols; she’d mentioned it some days ago and it had slipped my mind until now.

‘That reminds me,’ I said half apologetically, ‘she did ask me to look out for some horse manure. That was ages ago.’

‘Ah, we don’t have any o’ that,’ he said. ‘But there’s plenty at Keldhead Stables. They can’t get rid of it fast enough. It’s free to take away. Just go along and help yourself.’

‘They’re the racing stables, aren’t they?’ I asked.

‘Aye, they get some good winners from there if you’re a betting man. Grand National, Cheltenham, Lincoln, Derby – they’ve won some big races. You can’t go far wrong if you follow them – they’ve often winners at Stockton, Thirsk, Ripon, Beverley and Wetherby an’ all. I don’t mind admitting I’ve won a bob or two on ’em.’

‘So their manure should make our rambling roses gallop along, eh?’ I laughed. ‘Thanks, if I’m ever out that way, I’ll pop in.’

We chatted about other trivia then I moved on. Keldhead Stables was off my beat in another section and it was highly unlikely that I would be able to pop in during a duty patrol, so I made a mental note to tell Mary. Perhaps we’d make a special trip there on my day off.

Then, through one of those flukes of circumstance, I was directed there within a week of learning about their manure offer. It was a Saturday evening in late May and I was making a patrol from 5pm until 1am, being responsible for the entire section in my little van. Shortly after 7pm, I received
instructions
over my radio to proceed immediately to Keldhead Stables where a prowler had been sighted – by chance, I was the nearest mobile.

This was not uncommon – people did trespass upon the stables’ premises, sometimes just out of curiosity or to see a famous winning horse in its home surrounds. The motives of some, however, were a little more suspect because, at some other stables, there had been attempts to dope horses which were favourites to win. Scares of this kind had led to increased security at all racing-stables (and many existed in our area), consequently reports of such trespassers were fairly frequent.

I rushed towards Keldhead and drove into the stable yard. Waiting for me was J.J. Stern, the noted trainer, and his face bore clear signs of relief at my arrival. After a very brief chat, he pointed towards the stable block and said a lad had seen a man creeping furtively about. By now, something around half an hour had passed and I felt sure any visitor would have left, but I made a thorough initial search of the premises. Stern had already examined his horses without finding a fault and nothing appeared to have been damaged or stolen. With a stable lad in tow to guide me through the complex of buildings, I made a second very detailed examination. It took some time, but I found no one.

Afterwards, I detailed my actions to J.J. Stern and advised him that if other uninvited guests trespassed on his premises, he should take care to record a detailed description of the visitors, and to obtain the registration number of any suspect cars that were around. So many people fail to do this when they see a suspect car – a car number in these circumstances is vital to an investigation and can very swiftly help to trace the culprits.

He thanked me and said he would issue instructions to his staff to follow my advice. Then he asked if I’d like a coffee. It was at this point that I remembered Mary’s wish for some manure – and at this very moment I was surrounded by a huge amount of surplus horse muck.

I hesitated to ask, but he had guessed I was about to make a request of some kind. He must be plagued with people asking for winning tips, but I was not seeking this kind of
information
…

He smiled as if not to discourage me.

‘Er,’ I began. ‘While I’m here, I was told you had some horse manure to get rid of.’

‘Manure? Tons of it! Want some, Mr Rhea?’

‘I wouldn’t mind some, not a lot … I’ll pay,’ I offered. ‘I can help myself …’

‘Nonsense. It’s free to any good home! We just want shot of it. Look, you’ve earned a coffee for your advice, so come into the office and I’ll get young Christine to pop some in your van. Are the rear doors open?’

‘I’ll unlock them,’ I said, and I did, leaving them standing open.

In the office, he picked up the intercom telephone, dialled an extension and a girl answered.

‘Christine,’ he said. ‘There’s a police van in the yard. Pop some manure in the back, will you? The doors are open.’

She agreed and he replaced the phone. ‘She’s new here,’ he said. ‘Only sixteen, but she’s mad on horses. It’s only her first week, so it’ll do her good to see what goes on.’

He organised a cup of coffee, asking if I would like a touch of Scotch with it, but as I was on duty and driving, I declined the latter offer. The coffee would be fine.

We chatted for about quarter of an hour, he telling me about his life in horse racing, and me trying to explain a little about the work of a rural constable. He was a charming man, I decided.

Just as I stood up to depart, his telephone rang so I excused myself and left him to deal with his caller. When I got outside, the van doors were closed and there was no sign of Christine; I had never even seen the girl and could not even thank her for her trouble.

But when I opened the driver’s door, I was horrified. The stench that met me was appalling, and as I stared into the rear compartment, I saw that it was full of hot, fresh horse manure. It was neatly spread across the width and along the length of the back of the van.

She had filled every space, but she had not bagged it; she had
simply shovelled muck into the back of the van, as a farmer would have shovelled muck into a cart. I could have died on the spot. What on earth could I do?

I thought fast, closing the door to shut off some of the stink; if I returned to complain to J.J. Stern, he’d probably fire the girl … and it would look as if I was rejecting his
generosity
… I decided to drive away.

Gingerly, therefore, I climbed into the malodorous interior, already feeling itchy as flies were buzzing around, and began the trip home. The weight in the rear was enormous and it affected the steering, making it dangerously light as I took to the winding lanes to avoid being seen.