It was then that I realised it was a Sunday and it should have been my day off. However, I checked the arrival times of trains from Newcastle and as I drove into York in my own car, I wondered whether this was classed as police duty. Was this a private matter or could I claim that I had used my car for emergency duty purposes?
If such thoughts seemed petty, this is not so because if I had an accident on this trip, it would be vital to my future security as to whether or not it was a ‘duty’ commitment. But there was nothing I could do about the technicalities of the situation at this stage; I would worry about those kind of things after I had met my damsel in distress.
And so it was, that shortly after 4.30 a.m. that chill but sunny Sunday morning, I was standing on York Station awaiting the Newcastle train. I must admit that I wondered whether I was a fool or not, or whether this was some curious prank, but on reflection I knew I had no alternative but to turn out. I had to discover for myself the reality of the situation.
The train was about ten minutes late. A few minutes after its arrival, as I stood at the ticket-collector’s barrier, I noticed a young woman heading my way. I did not recognise her. In her late teens or early twenties, she was pretty without being beautiful, and had mousy hair which straggled down to her shoulders. She was dressed in a rather crumpled, short tartan skirt, a dark green velvet top and white blouse. She wore no stockings or tights and was waif-like in many ways. As she drew closer, I could see that her pale face bore a hint of freckles, but other than some pale lipstick she wore no make-up. She had no luggage or topcoat but did carry a black handbag.
After passing through the barrier, she managed an embarrassed smile as she came nervously towards me. She was like a naughty child who was anticipating a telling-off by an angry parent.
“Hello.” Clearly she knew who I was. She stood before me like a lost kitten.
“Hello,” I returned, racking my brains in an attempt to recall her name or where we’d met. In those few brief moments, I failed. I had no idea who she was.
“I’m sorry . . . for all this . . .” she began in an accent which I did not recognise as either Yorkshire or Tyneside. “I was silly . . . I’ll go back. I’m all right now.” She turned to walk away from me.
“No,” I said, still baffled. “Don’t go. You need help, don’t you? Look, my car’s outside and my wife has got a cup of tea ready. The buffet’s closed, I’m afraid, so we can’t talk here.”
“No,” she said, “I’m all right now, honest. I can go. I’ll go back to Newcastle on the next train . . . I was silly . . . I’m confused . . . I’m a nuisance to you.”
“No,” I said, “my wife wants to meet you and I want to know what all this is about. So, come along. No arguing! I’m here because I want to help you.”
She hesitated momentarily, then followed me to my waiting car. Without a word, she climbed into the passenger-seat and settled down as I drove through York’s deserted streets.
“Well,” I said as we cleared the town, “so what’s all this about? How about a name to start with?”
“Tessa,” she said. “Teresa, really, but everybody calls me Tessa. Tessa Underwood.”
“I’m still baffled,” I admitted. “I don’t recall that name. Tell me about the phone call, Tessa. You wanted help, so why did you ring me? I don’t know you.”
“It all sounds so silly now, Mr Rhea,” she used my name quite normally. “It really does. After the train ride, I came to my senses. It was so silly . . . I feel a right fool, I do, bothering you like this, when you don’t know me.”
“It wasn’t silly at three o’clock this morning, Tessa. It was very serious then, and it could be serious again so let’s hear about it.”
And so, during the half-hour trip from York to Aidensfield, I managed to drag the story from her. Brought up in Staffordshire, her parents had been killed in a road accident about four years ago, when she was seventeen. For a time, she’d lived with an aunt, but had fallen out with her. So eighteen months ago, she had moved to Newcastle-upon-Tyne where she now worked as a shorthand typist in a factory on a new industrial estate.
She lived alone in a little flat which she rented and, apart from Mark, her boyfriend, and some of the girls at work, she knew no one. Some of the girls at work had made fun of her because of her curious accent, but three days ago, her boyfriend had left her.
At this stage, the tears started again; I was tempted to halt the car and comfort her but felt it wiser to continue. I exhorted her to continue. Through her sobs, she said Mark left her for a married woman he’d met in a night club, a real old scrubber according to Tessa. All attempts at reconciliation had failed; Tessa, with no parents to turn to and no relations other than the awkward aunt, felt she could not confide in anyone. She was alone in the world; She’d felt unloved and unwanted.
In her own way, she provided me with a graphic account of how her misery and loneliness had turned into a suicidal determination. Burdened with her worries in the early hours of this very morning, she had gone down to Newcastle Central railway station with a determination to throw herself under one of the speeding expresses. Even now, as she re-told her story among floods of tears, she wondered how she could have contemplated such a thing.
“I wasn’t thinking straight,” she said. “It was horrid. I was . . . oh . . . so silly, so miserable and sad, lonely . . . it was Saturday night, you see, and everyone goes out with friends and I had none, only Mark, and he’d left me . . . I had no one, Mr Rhea. No one. If you hadn’t said you’d see me . . .”
“But I did. I said you could come to see me and here you are. If that action has stopped you from doing something silly, then I’m delighted. Now, do you think you’ve got rid of those awful thoughts?”
She nodded and wiped her eyes. “I’ll be all right now.”
“But,” this was the point that still puzzled me, “why ring me? Of all the people who would have helped — the local police, for example, the Salvation Army, the Church! And you rang me!”
She produced a thin smile and looked embarrassed. “It was so good of you, I mean, you could have said no and . . .”
“And you might have jumped in front of a train?”
“You didn’t ignore me, Mr Rhea . . . I’m . . . well . . .”
“I know. But, Tessa, I don’t know you. I still can’t understand why you rang me?”
She hesitated. We were now drawing close to Aidensfield and in the growing light of dawn, I could distinguish my police house on its lofty site which overlooked the ranging and beautiful countryside. By now, it was after five o’clock and the lights of some houses were showing as smoke rose from our chimney. Mary had prepared a welcome for this girl.
“Can you remember a car breaking down outside your house, about a year ago?” Tessa asked, smiling at the memory.
Vaguely, I did recall the incident.
“Me and . . . that boy . . . well, we’d had a day out on the moors in his car, and when we came along the road somewhere in this area, we found a small suitcase lying in the road. So we picked it up and thought we’d better report it to the police. Well, yours was the first police station we saw. So we stopped and Mark, that’s him, made me bring it in.”
I was now recalling the incident with more clarity.
“He didn’t want to bring it in, so I did. I handed it to you and you made a note of it in case the loser came asking.”
“She did, I remember,” I said. “She was most grateful — it had fallen off a roof-rack. So that was you, was it? You look so different!”
“I’ve changed — I’ve lost my puppy fat for one thing, and I’ve had my hair cut.”
“So you remembered me from that little incident?”
“Well, you remember Mark’s car? When I went back to the car after bringing in the suitcase it wouldn’t start. Mark tried and tried, so you ran him down to a garage in the village and got a set of plugs or something for the engine.”
“Points,” I corrected her. “A set of points.
Yes, and we put them in, me and your friend. I remember it now.”
“Well,” she was still trying to reach the end of her story, “I remembered how helpful you were . . .”
“It was nothing,” I said.
“But you see, I wasn’t used to policemen helping me, Mark neither. But, well, I kept the receipt you gave me for that suitcase. It was in my handbag, it has been there ever since. You know what women are for carrying stuff around and well, last night when I was so unhappy and depressed, I was rifling through my bag, getting rid of his letters and things at the station. I was putting things in the rubbish bin, you know, getting rid of everything, then I found that receipt. It had your number on as well. So I rang — and here I am.”
“I’m pleased you rang if it meant so much,” I was sincere. “Well, we’re almost home.”
“I’ll go straight back,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come. I’ve been a silly, stupid nuisance and I’ve thought things out on that train, sensibly I think. I had time . . .”
“At least come in and have some breakfast,” I offered. “And you are welcome to stay until you get yourself completely sorted out.”
And so she did. At Mary’s invitation, she stayed three days and Mary was marvellous with her. Tessa was lovely with our children too, and that girl and our family are still good friends. She still calls, albeit now with a new husband and two lovely children of her own.
But her presence in our house did cause a flutter of interest and some speculation in the village. Mary and I decided we must not tell anyone of her real reason for being with us, and so we were faced with questions like, “Is that the wife’s sister then?” or “Been arrested, has she?” or “Is she a policewoman in disguise, watching summat in Aidensfield?”
In all cases, we simply said she was a friend who was staying for a day or two.
But I often wonder whether that event was part of my police duty or not. I think not, for I never mentioned it to any of my superiors.
Chapter 4
Little deeds of kindness, little words of love
Help to make the earth happy, like the heaven above.
JULIA CARNEY, 1823—1908
There was a great excitement in Ashfordly one Friday morning in June. It arose because BBC radio had decided to broadcast its ‘Good Morning’ programme from a mobile studio in the market-place. It was to be a live broadcast from the North Region and would be on the air from 7 a.m. until 9 a.m. At that time, the ‘Good Morning’ series visited a different town or village each week and the series had a dedicated following.
It was natural that the people of Ashfordly were excited and delighted that their charming market town had been selected and in due course, a list of candidates for interview was drawn up. Personalities from all walks of life were procured and the interviews would be interspersed with music and reports about a selection of the interesting places in the locality.
Late on the Thursday afternoon beforehand, the BBC’s entourage arrived and the galaxy of technicians and production staff established themselves and their vehicles at the prearranged place. The little town awaited the honour of tomorrow’s spell of publicity, while the participants grew more nervous as their hour of glory approached. The police, as always, had their role to play.
In addition to keeping a protective eye on the vehicles and their loads of expensive equipment during the preceding night, they had to maintain a discreet presence on the day itself. We had to be there just in case someone tried to gatecrash the proceedings or otherwise make a nuisance of themselves.
As an outdoor audience was anticipated in the vicinity of the mobile studio, there would be a degree of crowd control and some car-parking to supervise. Duties of this kind were undertaken in conjunction with every crowd-pulling event and the BBC’s ‘Good Morning from Ashfordly’ was no exception. As our duty rota had been compiled some weeks in advance, I was delighted to find that I was to perform an early morning patrol that Friday. My duties were from 6 a.m. until 9 a.m. and I was therefore allocated a foot patrol in the town centre so that a uniformed police presence would be evident.
I looked forward to the work.
I left home at six o’clock on my Francis Barnett, arrived at Ashfordly Police Station at 6.15 a.m. and left my motorcycle there. I also left my motorcycling weather-proof clothes and donned my uniform cap as I set about my patrol. Even at that early stage of the morning, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered but they stood at a respectful distance and appeared to be causing no bother. The technicians were hard at work setting up and checking their sophisticated equipment while the producer of the programme had gathered the programme participants in a separate caravan for a final briefing.
I did not intrude. I could see that things were moving apace so I kept in the background, watchful but discreet. The minutes ticked away and then, as seven o’clock approached, much of the crowd melted away.
I realised they would be going home to hear the broadcast and I wondered if Sergeant Blaketon would be listening. He had not yet made an appearance and I did wonder if he was just a wee bit upset because he was not one of the selected personalities . . . But I reckoned he would be tuned in as he enjoyed his breakfast.
I knew that I could listen to parts of the broadcast in a friendly bakery just behind the market-place. Confident that my presence was not required, I sidled away and entered the bakery by a side door. I was assailed by the marvellous whiff of new bread as the manager noticed my entry. He pointed to the kettle and then to a radio perched on a shelf.
I got the message. They were listening as they worked, and I was invited to join them and to make myself a cup of tea; they were already drinking theirs. I asked if anyone required a refill, but they were content and made hand signals to inform me of the fact, so I made myself a cup and stood in silence beneath the radio. At seven, the broadcast started with the announcer sounding bright and breezy as he introduced the programme and gave a brief résumé of Ashfordly’s topography and the delights in store.
Then he said, “And here I am, in the middle of the market-place awaiting my guests. And in my rush to get everything ready this morning, I forgot to bring some sugar for my tea! We’ve no sugar in the studio, folks, but perhaps someone will fetch a spoonful along . . .”
No one in the bakery made a move, and so I decided to help out. After all, I reasoned, everyone else was glued to their radios at home, and would hate to move away in case they missed something. If everyone took this attitude, no one would provide the sugar! And so I thanked the bakery staff for the tea and left. The shops which stocked sugar would not yet be open, so I hurried to the police station, located the tin of sugar we used in our own tea-swindle, and poured some into a milk bottle.
Rather than carry it through the streets in my uniform I donned my crash helmet, popped the bottle of sugar into the pannier of my motorcycle and scooted the few yards back to the market-place. Lifting the machine on to its stand, I removed the bottle of sugar and walked across to the BBC’s collection of vehicles. At the door of the studio, I found an assistant, handed over the sugar with my compliments and left.
I returned to my bike, placed the crash helmet upon the saddle and resumed a normal patrol. And that, I thought, was that. It was my good deed for the day. Twenty minutes later, I was in the local newsagent’s shop, a courtesy visit during my patrol, and I heard the broadcast issuing from their radio.
Miss Phyllis Oakworth, a leading light in Ashfordly WI for fifty years, had just been interviewed, and the announcer was once again in full flow.
And to my horror, I heard him say, “I am delighted that my plea for some sugar has been answered. I’ve now got enough for myself and my guests. For this, my thanks go to the local constabulary in Ashfordly who rushed a supply to our studio by police motorcycle. Now there’s an example of co-operation between the police and the public — if you need help, just ask an Ashfordly policeman. Well done, Officer, whoever you were, you’ve saved the day. I think your policemen are wond
erful, Ashfordly. And now to our next guest . . .”
“You?” asked Ken, the newsagent.
I nodded and grimaced at the unwarranted publicity, but he just laughed. “Nice one,” he said and continued his work among the morning papers.
I left the shop and wondered who, among the dozens of my senior officers, had heard that; furthermore, I wondered what their reaction would be. Could my action be construed as too frivolous for a police officer? But as the morning passed and the local folks listened to their own town, its people and its attractions being so professionally scrutinised, my worries began to evaporate.
Then, at quarter to nine, I noticed the tall, smart but severe figure of Sergeant Blaketon as he moved towards me across the market square. Rigidly upright and with military bearing, he came towards me, an impressive man in his immaculate uniform. He was prominent among the crowd which had grown larger due to the arrival of some workers who were due to start their day’s toil at nine o’clock.
They had paused for a moment before disappearing into their offices and places of work, and the broadcast was drawing to a close in those final minutes.
“All correct, Rhea?” he asked. I noticed the more-serious-than-usual expression on his face as he arrived at my side.
“All correct, Sergeant,” I responded in the traditional manner.
“No problems? Trouble from the crowd? Parking?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“No crimes, no pickpockets in the crowd, no thieves at work as everyone’s attention was diverted by this affair?”
“No, Sergeant,” I said, hoping that no one had taken the opportunity to steal a bike or to take someone’s wallet. That sort of thing just did not happen in Ashfordly, I felt, and so I was confident in my bland assessment of the situation.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 23