Then a crisis came to Ashfordly Police Station.
Polly retired.
We made a fuss over her departure and had a farewell party in one of the local pubs. Sergeant Blaketon made a nice speech and presented her with a portable radio we had bought for her.
That we missed Polly was never in doubt, but for a few idyllic days afterwards, we did honestly believe we could encourage any new cleaner to be as thoughtful and accommodating as Polly. But Sergeant Blaketon had quietly made his own decision about the kind of person who would be suitable for the appointment and we were to learn to our sorrow that his ideas did not correspond with ours.
My first encounter with the new cleaner came that April. The appointment had been made only days before and upon my first tour of duty afterwards, I was performing one of those early morning routes. I had started at 5.30 a.m. from my police house at Aidensfield, and had made my first point at Elsinby at 6.05 a.m. with my second at Briggsby at 6.35 a.m. As Ashfordly lay only a five-minute ride from Briggsby, there was time for a quick visit to the police station before my 7.05 a.m. liaison with another in my allotted chain of telephone kiosks.
If my colleagues had done their work efficiently, the new cleaner would have lit the fire; the kettle would be boiling and it would be known that a lonely, patrolling constable was in need of tea, warmth and amiable companionship.
As I made my lonely vigil outside Briggsby’s kiosk, I wallowed in anticipation of a hot cup of tea. The early spring morning was, in Yorkshire terms, “nobbut a fresh ’un”, the real meaning of that description being that the morning was extremely cold. Indeed it was, for April can produce some very chilly northern mornings; it can also produce some memorable April showers, and in both achievements it excelled itself that morning.
As I stood shivering beside my motorcycle with the cheerful singing birds for companionship, I wondered momentarily whether I was in the right job. After all, other folks were still in bed or had warm cars to carry them about their work. As I pondered upon the unfairness of a constable’s life, the heavens opened.
In a matter of minutes, the beautiful blue morning sky had been obliterated by a mass of swiftly moving black clouds, some with delightful silvery edges. As they succeeded in shutting out the rising sun, they opened their taps. Huge dollops of heavy rain lashed the earth from that sombre ceiling and in seconds, the roads and fields were awash with urgently rushing water and dancing raindrops. In seconds, brown rivulets were gushing from the fields and roaring along the lanes.
In my heavy motorcycling gear, I was reasonably prepared for most kinds of weather, but on this occasion, water ran down my neck and into my boots as the pounding rain bounced off my helmet and battered my face which was already sore from the effects of a chill morning breeze. The downpour persisted for several minutes, then the monstrous black clouds moved to a new venue upon their journey of misery and the sun came out.
Brilliant and warm, it caused the roads to dry a little and the birds to resume their singing. As I climbed aboard my motorbike, little clouds of steam began to rise from the tarmac, and as I kicked the bike into life, I wondered if the rain had waterlogged the electrical essentials. But it started without any trouble and I chugged over the hills to enjoy the dramatic vista as I dropped into Ashfordly. As I motored sedately into the valley, I could see the beautiful effects of that awesome shower — the glistening pools in the fields as they reflected the morning sun; the patches of rising mist as the water evaporated in the bright coolness of the day; the sheer greenery of the panorama before me and the freshness of the new spring colours. It was as if the landscape had had its morning bath.
But I was cold as the pervading dampness soaked into my clothes beneath my motorcycle suit. The one salvation was that a few minutes drying out before the lovely fire in Ashfordly Police Station would cure that problem. On the final run-in, I drove through some running rivulets, some lingering pools of muddy residue which the downpour had produced. Very soon, my boots, legs and machine were spattered with mud.
When I arrived at the police station, therefore, I was soaked outside with the mud and residue of the roads, and inside my clothing with rain that had flowed down my neck. I coasted the final few yards to avoid arousing Sergeant Blaketon and having parked the little motorbike, I switched off the radio. With visions of hot tea before me, I prepared to enter the warm office.
I was surprised when a powerful voice bellowed “Out!” It was a voice I did not recognise.
I stood for a moment in the porch, stamping my feet on the doormat and I must admit that I did not immediately connect the voice with my arrival. I continued to stamp in an effort to shake off the surplus water and then the inner door opened.
I was confronted by a short, thick-set fellow with a bull-like neck and cropped hair. It was still black but shaven so close that it looked like a well-worn black lead brush. Two piercing grey eyes stared at me from the depths of the heavy, pale features of a man dressed in a long, brown dustcoat. He’d be in his middle fifties, I guessed, and was only some 5 feet 5 inches tall. But he looked and behaved like a bulldog.
“Out!” he ordered. “Get out of here!”
I stood my ground, still shaking off the after-effects of that shower. “Who are you?” I demanded. “You can’t tell me to get out. I’m not even in yet!”
“And you’re not coming in, not like that. I’ve cleaned the floor, I’m not having muck dropped and paddled all over. Taken me hours to get it something like it has, so clear off.”
“Who are you?” I asked again, having stopped shaking off the water as he stood in the centre of the doorway to effectively block my entry. It would require a strong physical action to shift him, I reckoned.
“Forster. Jack Forster, I’m the new caretaker.”
“Caretaker? Cleaner, you mean.”
“Caretaker,” he affirmed. “I takes care of this police station, so I’m a caretaker. Now, if you want to come in, you’ll have to go into the garage and get rid of that mucky suit. Leave it there to dry off and make sure your feet are clean. I’m not having you lot messing up my floors. So you and your mates can all get that into your heads right from the start. I don’t clean floors so that folks can muck ’em up again.”
“I’m soaked, I want to dry myself in front of the fire,” I said. I wanted to see if there was any compassion in that squat, powerful frame.
There wasn’t.
“Not here,” he continued to block the doorway. “Yon fire’s not lit. I’m not lighting that fire while I’m working, it makes me too hot when I’m polishing. It’s laid, but I’m not lighting it today. So you’ve no need to come in, have you?”
“I’ve got some official business to conduct,” I said. “Telephone calls to make, reports to read. I’m on duty,” and I stepped up towards the door, but he stood his ground, determined.
“Then take them mucky clothes off,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll get Sergeant Blaketon to issue an order saying no motorbike suits allowed in here. I’m not having my floors messed up, no way. Look at you mud, water, muck everywhere!”
I was in a momentary dilemma. He had no right to bar an officer from his own police station, but I was acutely aware that if I physically moved him aside, he might lodge a complaint. He seemed the kind of person who might claim he’d been assaulted by a policeman. Time and time again in police circles, we met cleaners and similar operatives who used their mundane tasks as a source of petty power over others; cooks, cleaners, domestics, car washers there was always one who lusted after power and who liked to exercise his or her own brand of dominion over others. This man was of that breed, and the fellow was here, in Ashfordly, blocking my route into the office.
If I ignored his demands, he would, without any shadow of doubt, run to Sergeant Blaketon. He would then take great delight in banning us from using the office as a refuge and tea-room. This meant that I had the future welfare of myself and my colleagues to rapidly consider as I stood dripping before this little Hitler.
The options flashed through my mind as I watered the floor of the outer porch. Already, I had created a distinctive pool of mud.
But as I swiftly considered the alternatives, I concluded that, under no circumstances, must a trumped-up cleaner be allowed to succeed in banning me or my colleagues from the station. That fact must be established immediately.
I was tempted to use bad language to express my views but realised this could also be used as ammunition when this fellow made his inevitable complaint to Sergeant Blaketon.
“Mr Forster, by standing there, you are obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty,” I said with as much pomposity as I could muster and thrust him aside as I pushed into the office. I don’t think that accusation would have convinced a court, but my action took him by surprise. Any threat of greater authority, I knew, would compel him to retreat. He did, but he was not finished.
“You’ll regret this, you’ll be disciplined!” he began to shout as he backed into the office. “I’ll have Sergeant Blaketon informed of this, so help me!”
Once inside, I made a great show of ringing up Divisional Headquarters, reading circulars, checking my in-tray, reading notices and generally doing all the routine chores which were expected during a formal visit of this kind. And all the time I dripped mud and water along my circuitous route across Forster’s floor. I felt some guilt but justified my conduct because of his uncompromising attitude. He followed me around, red-faced and angry, fuming at the mess I was leaving in my wake, and threatening all manner of actions from my superior officers. I decided not to stay for tea. The atmosphere was not conducive to a relaxing visit, and the fire was unlit anyway. It was laid out with regimental accuracy with the fire-irons arranged in sequence upon the hearth and the coal heaped neatly upon the paper and sticks. Those portions of the clean floor gleamed like polished silver. I was reminded of my days in the RAF, doing National Service, when we polished the floors of our billets to such a standard that no one dare walk on them. We moved around by sliding on little mats made from old blankets, one to each foot.
That ensured the floor was always polished and saved us lots of time on Bull Night. Now, this floor was heading that way. But, having messed it severely, I left. I found a welcoming bakery where I warmed myself as I enjoyed a nice bun and a mug of hot tea, and soon I was glowing amid the scents of newly baked bread and cakes.
Later, I discovered that Forster had complained to Sergeant Blaketon. To give the sergeant some credit, he had not spoken to me about the affair of the muddy visit which perhaps revealed something of his disdain for the nature of the grumble, but he did resort to his normal tactic — he displayed a typed instruction on the police station notice-board. Each of us had to read and initial it.
Sergeant Blaketon was prone to issuing typed instructions through the medium of the station notice-board. We learned that the degree of his anger was reflected in the method of typing — a notice produced in black lower-case type was routine. This might embrace matters like holiday dates, special duty commitments and so on. A black notice in upper-case type was more important — that could include warnings not to use the office telephone for private calls or to make sure our monthly returns were submitted on time.
A notice typed in red was rather more serious. If it was in lower-case red type, it was of considerable import — such as ‘Members will refrain from revving up their motorcycles outside the station at 2 a.m.’ or ‘Members will repeat will study all Force Orders and will repeat will initial each copy when it has been perused.’
We were never instructed to ‘read’ papers and documents — always, we had to peruse them, and we were always classified as ‘members’ in Sergeant Blaketon’s vocabulary. I never did find out of what we were members.
But a very important notice was always typed in red upper-case letters. For example, ‘MEMBERS WILL STUDY THE ACCOMPANYING PHOTOGRAPH OF THE CHIEF CONSTABLE AND WILL ACKNOWLEDGE HIM IN THE STREET BY SALUTING’ or ‘MEMBERS WILL NOT REPEAT NOT USE OFFICIAL VEHICLES FOR COLLECTING GROCERIES OR FISH AND CHIPS.’
After my first meeting with Jack Forster, therefore, an instruction did appear on the station notice-board. In lower-case red type, it said, “Members will take every care to keep the police office clean and tidy at all times and should not enter in soiled motorcycle protective clothing unless unavoidable owing to the exigencies of duty.”
The ‘exigencies of duty’ was a marvellous phrase for making exceptions to most rules, and when this notice appeared, the story of my meeting with Forster became widely known. So did the reason for the appearance of this order, and from that time forward, we discovered more of his tactics. He objected to smokers putting cigarette-ends in ashtrays; he disliked tea or coffee cups being left unwashed; he objected to paper containing crumbs of food being placed in the waste-bins; he wanted all lights switched off when the office was empty; he objected to out-of-date posters being left on the notice-board and apple cores on the mantelshelf. In fact, he objected to everything and everyone. He seemed to have a passion for cutting official expenditure which probably explained his unwillingness to light the fire, his passion for switching off lights and his theory that much of the paperwork in the office was not necessary. I think he based this judgement upon the amount of wastepaper which accumulated in the waste-bins. The outcome of his arrival was that the office did remain clean and tidy, chiefly because we rarely went in. There was no longer any pleasure in visiting our little section headquarters and the result was that the lanes around Ashfordly were very regularly patrolled. We made very frequent visits to establishments like hotels and bakeries which offered warmth and occasional refreshment, and we also made use of each other’s homes.
In one sense, the social life of our happy little section was enhanced because we saw more of each other and of each other’s families, but it was clear that Sergeant Blaketon was growing concerned about our unwillingness to make regular visits to the office. To circulate our paperwork, we tended to rely upon his visits to us, rather than our visits to him. To counter this, he compiled an instruction, in red lower-case type, about the matter.
It read, ‘Rural members will repeat will visit the Sectional Office at Ashfordly at least once during each tour of duty. It is essential that all members keep up to date with correspondence, local procedures, new legislation, Force orders and internal instructions. This instruction is effective immediately.’
And we all had to initial it and comply. Thereafter, we made these token visits to collect our mail and to obey Sergeant Blaketon’s order, although most of us managed to make our visits when Jack Forster, whom we nicknamed Jack Frost because of his chilly nature, had completed his daily stint. He worked from 6.30 a.m. until 9.30 a.m. each morning consequently avoidance was not difficult, except when working an early route.
But overall, the effect of his presence could not be ignored. We moved around the clean, tidy office as if it was a showroom of some kind, hardly daring to touch the furniture or leave footprints on the floor. We cursed Jack for his cussedness, and we cursed Sergeant Blaketon for engaging him. I must admit that I often wondered whether poor old Blaketon had really foreseen what the outcome of Forster’s appointment would be.
Some of us did try discreetly to frustrate or annoy Jack. We did paddle upon his floors; we did leave wastepaper lying about; we did spill tea or coffee from our flasks and we did make the office look as if it was a place of work and not a disused museum.
But the real punishment for Jack arrived late one night; it was something that could never have been planned and it was doubly pleasing because it could be logged under that wonderful heading ‘Exigencies of duty’. I was pleased too, because I was the officer involved. I felt that some kind of poetic justice had descended upon Jack Frost.
It so happened that I was not working one of those motorcycle routes but was performing a full tour of night duty in Ashfordly. A complete week of night duty came around every six months or so, when we worked from 10 p.m. until 6 a.m. the f
ollowing morning.
I was patrolling on foot in the outskirts of Ashfordly. It was 1.30 a.m. and I was looking forward to my meal break which was scheduled for 2 a.m. I would take that break in Ashfordly Police Station, careful not to dirty the place because of Jack’s ferocious responses.
During patrols of that nature, we kept our eyes open for villains and villainy of every kind, from drunken drivers to car thieves, from burglars to cattle thieves, from runaways to tearaways. So when I saw a small, rusty Morris pick-up inching slowly along Brantsford Back Lane without any lights, my suspicions were immediately aroused. It was moving jerkily and rather noisily towards me, and so I decided to investigate.
My first job was to halt it so I stepped into the lane and flashed my powerful torch at the vehicle, waving it up and down in the manner then used to halt motor vehicles.
Always wary that vehicles of this condition might not have brakes, it was unwise to stand right in front of them. The procedure was to keep clear as they came to a halt, and then move in to continue the investigation. But there were no problems as the slow-moving pick-up came to a halt with my torch shining into the driving-seat.
The driver, a thin-faced individual with thick, dirty hair, looked pale and ill and he awaited me with a suggestion of resignation on his face. I opened the driver’s door, removed the keys from the ignition switch and said, as all policemen do, “Now then, what’s going on here?”
“Summat’s gone wrong wi’ t’electrics,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Sorry, Officer. Ah know Ah shouldn’t have drove, but Ah had ti git ’ome . . .”
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 18