Constable Through the Meadow (5 page)

I opened all the windows and found that the flow of fresh air did keep some of the powerful pong at bay, but it was a terrible journey. My uniform and hair would reek of the stuff when I emerged.

After radioing Control to say I had searched Keldhead Stables but had found no intruder, I decided to sneak home and remove the muck. But on the way, I got a call to a road traffic accident about two miles from Aidensfield. Groaning, I could not avoid this duty; happily, it was not serious and no one was hurt. A farm lorry and an old Ford Cortina had collided on a junction near Briggsby, but the lorry had been carrying farm manure too, several tons of it. Due to the accident, it had been catapulted from the lorry and had almost smothered the car and peppered both drivers.

The Cortina, a battered old vehicle, had been carrying a drum of waste oil on the back seat. The oil drum had overturned inside the car, resulting in a terrible mess to both the car and its driver. The fulsome smell surrounding this scenario was
dreadful
, so much so that the contribution made by my uniform and van was of no consequence. After dealing with the accident and arranging for the load, the vehicles and the mess to be removed, I chugged home.

There is no need to explain the effects of this combination of events upon my person and upon the little van, save to say that Mary and I spent the next three hours frantically trying to remove the muck and then attempting to rid the van of the lingering effluvium.

But the manure had filtered into every possible crevice; try as
we might, we never did remove it all.

I bathed and changed my uniform for the second half of my patrol, but the miasma remained; I cleaned the rear several times afterwards, using all kinds of disinfectants and smelly things, but it seemed that for ever afterwards, the mini-van smelled of horse muck. Some of the other drivers, including Sergeant Blaketon, did from time to time refer to the redolence; I said it had come from dealing with the accident to the
muck-carrying
lorry, some of which had penetrated our official vehicle. I’m sure he did not believe me, but he never questioned me further. After all, it was I who had to live with the
unwholesome
results of my manure venture.

In spite of everything, we should not criticise that young girl – after all, she had obeyed her boss’s instructions to the very letter. However, the incident did teach me that orders must be precisely and clearly given if they are to be properly obeyed. And so Mary got her muck and the garden did benefit from it.

On another occasion, another car landed me in trouble, but it was not a police car this time. It was my own.

Even though we had been issued with our little van, the faceless powers-that-be felt it was prudent that, from time to time, we patrolled on foot.

I think this idea came to them because there were, inevitably, occasions when two rural beat constables were on duty at the same time, when both simultaneously required the official van.

Clearly, we could not patrol together, consequently when our duties overlapped in this way, one of us was scheduled to work a foot patrol, perhaps for four hours or even for eight. Now, in a city or town, this is a splendid idea and there is no finer way for a constable to meet the public and for them to meet him. But it does not quite operate the same way in rural North Yorkshire.

For one thing, villages or centres of population are several miles apart. Another thing is that such centres may contain only six or eight houses and a telephone kiosk, added to which many of the farms which created our work were located some distance away from these little villages. Furthermore, our patrols were governed by the location of telephone kiosks because we had to stand beside a nominated kiosk every hour on the hour in case
our superiors wished to contact us, or in case there was an emergency.

How we would have travelled to any emergency was never discussed, but this system meant that we spent about an hour walking along deserted country lanes between villages,
following
which we stood beside a telephone kiosk for five minutes. After that, it was time to walk to the next village which meant we never had time to meet people or time to perform any duty of more than a minute or two’s duration.

To my simple mind, it seemed very silly to spend periods of almost one whole hour beyond communication with the public. Virtually the only companions I had upon those long country walks were the beasts, birds and insects of the fields and
hedgerows
. Cars carrying people did flash past and occasionally one would halt to ask whether I required a lift anywhere, but such occurrences were rare. More often than not, I simply left one village telephone kiosk and walked to the next without meeting a solitary person.

From a purely selfish point of view, it was marvellous. It meant I was getting paid for regularly taking a most enjoyable walk through some of England’s most beautiful countryside, a pleasure for which many were prepared to pay considerable sums or to travel long distances. But from a police efficiency point of view, it was ridiculous. The amount of official time wasted was considerable and besides, what aspects of police work could I engage upon in such circumstances? The answer was nil, other than a spot of musing upon aspects of the
profession
.

I had a word with the Inspector about this ludicrous
situation
, but his response was simply. ‘If it says foot patrol on the duty sheets, then that’s what you must do.’

I attempted to defend my logic by saying that an hour spent in every village
en
route
would be far more beneficial than an hour spent plodding along an empty road; if I spent time in a village, I could meet the people and undertake the traditional role of a village constable.

There were always enquiries to complete about local crimes or happenings, investigations to be made and contacts to be established. But my reasoning fell on deaf ears. Foot patrols
were foot patrols and there must be no arguments against the system. Try as I might, I could not persuade anyone to change the useless ritual. Then, one foul and rainy day, I hit upon a solution.

Rather than endure many hours walking to nowhere in the pouring rain, I decided to use my own private car to transport myself between the villages. I would not claim anything by way of expenses from the police authority; I would quietly drive between points for my own convenience and peace of mind. This would enable me to spend the best part of an hour in each of the villages upon my route, so giving me a greater
opportunity
for solving crimes, meeting people, getting acquainted with the locality, absorbing knowledge about the area and its personalities and, in fact, doing all those varied jobs a police officer should do.

None of my superiors knew about this little scheme, and so when I was next detailed to undertake a foot patrol of this kind, I decided I would once again use my own car to transport me between points. Upon arrival in each of the villages, I would conceal it well away from the telephone kiosk, just in case the Sergeant, the Inspector or the Superintendent called on me and objected to my enterprise. So far as they were concerned, I was still spending all my time on foot.

I almost fell foul of the Superintendent on one occasion because I arrived in Elsinby by car, only to find him standing at the telephone kiosk, awaiting me. And he was a witness to my arrival in this very unofficial transport.

With some apprehension, I parked and walked towards him, throwing up a smart salute upon my approach. He chatted amiably for a while and then threw in the barbed question,

‘Why are you using your private car, PC Rhea?’

‘I’ve a firearms certificate to renew, sir, at Toft Hill Farm. It expires this week. It’s a mile and a half out of the village, and I wouldn’t have had the time to do that, and then walk to my next point on time.’

It was true, as it happened, and he accepted my excuse.

‘Well, so long as you don’t do this regularly, PC Rhea. Remember this system is designed as a foot patrol.’

‘Yes, sir.’ I had become too wise to argue and quietly
determined 
that I would studiously ignore this instruction, albeit with the knowledge that he would inform the Inspector of my transgression. But I could easily conceal the car in countless hiding places at every village I visited. And so that is how I conducted my foot patrols.

Then, on a damp, cold and foggy evening one November, I was performing yet another of these marathon patrols. This one, whether by accident or design I am not sure, took me to the more remote corners of my patch. I had started at 5pm, and was due to patrol, on foot, through those remote lanes until 1am with a refreshment break around mid-way.

In my view, to patrol on foot along unlit roads in the foggy darkness was rank stupidity. It was both dangerous and futile, and so I decided to use my own car. Things went well until I arrived at my 8pm point in Ploatby; in that time, I had managed to call at local inns, to chat to residents and to conduct a miscellany of minor enquiries. And then, as I stood beside the lonely kiosk in the thickening fog, the Inspector arrived in his official car.

‘Ah, Rhea,’ he smiled, ‘Nasty night. Anything to report?’

I detailed some of the duties I had performed since starting work at five and he expressed his satisfaction. Then, after signing my pocket-book to record this conference, he appeared to have an attack of benevolence.

‘Shocking night, Rhea.’ He regarded the deepening fog. ‘Where’s your next point?’

‘Nine o’clock, sir, at Waindale, then I’m off duty at ten o’clock at home for my refreshment break.’

‘With a long wet walk in between, eh? In that case jump in. I’ll give you a lift to Aidensfield, you can make your nine o’clock point there instead of Waindale. Then you can patrol your own village until refreshment time. I’ll inform Control of the change. It’s silly tramping these lanes in this fog.’

For a moment, I wondered if some of my earlier protestations had had an impact, then I realised with horror that it would mean leaving my own car abandoned out here.

And if I left my car here, it would mean a long walk back for it! Or, I might cadge a lift … As I dithered in my momentary indecision, he unlocked the passenger door and waved me in.

‘Come on, Rhea, I haven’t got all night.’

As he issued his order in those curt words, all thoughts of refusing his offer evaporated and so, with my heart sinking at the thought of a long trek back here, I settled in the warm and comfortable front seat of his fine vehicle. He drove confidently and smoothly away and within quarter of an hour was dropping me in the splash of light outside the Brewers’ Arms in
Aidensfield
.

‘Goodnight, Rhea,’ he said, and vanished into the misty darkness.

He left me standing in the pool of warmth outside the pub, so I went in, half deciding to regard this as an official visit when I might chase out of the premises any stray under-age drinkers, and half to see whether any of the Ploatby farmers were in. Maybe I could persuade one of them to give me a lift back to my car? But I was out of luck. The pub contained no one from that part of the dale and I had no wish to intrude upon the drinking-time of anyone else.

By the time I’d chatted to some of the locals about crimes reported in the national papers, to others about the state of the weather, refused several offers of a drink and checked two youngsters for their ages, it was nine-thirty.

A quick peramble around the village took the time around to ten o’clock and then I knocked off for supper. I had a grumble to Mary about the Inspector’s actions, but she didn’t offer much sympathy.

‘If they say foot patrol they mean foot patrol,’ she said with feminine simplicity. ‘You haven’t forgotten I need the car early tomorrow, have you?’ she added. ‘I’m going to see my mother and I must get some shoes for Elizabeth. She’s got a hole in hers.’

I decided not to pursue the matter; I would endeavour to retrieve my car sometime during the remainder of this tour of duty. After all, when I resumed my work at 10.45pm, there would be a couple of hours left before 1am, and I might still beg a lift from some of the pub regulars. But when I looked at my points and predetermined route, I saw it took me well away from the local pubs. The short second half of my patrol took me through some lonely poachers’ territory, not villages.

At the end of this marathon shift, therefore, I still had not recovered my car. Tired and footsore at 1am, I trudged into my little office beside the house and rang Eltering Police Station to book off duty. The duty PC wished me goodnight. Mary was in bed and had left a mug and biscuit on a tray; I would make myself a cocoa. But she needed the car first thing tomorrow …

And there was no local officer performing night shift who might come to my aid … I daren’t ring Kit Clough at
Falconbridge
who was in possession of the official van. He’d
completed
a 2pm–10pm shift and was due out at 6am so he’d be fast asleep; I couldn’t rouse him for this and did consider rising early myself, to beg a lift from him as he began his tour. But I couldn’t guarantee he’d be free to do the trip – the Inspector might go out early to meet him or there might be some other commitment.

It was my very own problem, so I crept out of the house and started the long, weary, wet and dark walk back to Ploatby to collect my car. I’ve never known such a long, foot-weary trail. In the pitch darkness and in thickening fog, I slowly made my way to Ploatby, the time ticking away and my energy being sapped at every step.

But I made it. Somehow, I managed to reach it and with a sigh of relief, opened the door and sank into the driving seat. For an awful moment, I thought it might not start due to the damp atmosphere, but it burst into life and carried me safely home.

As I sank into bed just after two o’clock, trying desperately not to rouse Mary, she muttered, ‘Busy night? Working late?’

‘Yes,’ I said, drifting into a blissful slumber against the warmth of her resting body.