CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries

by Nicholas Rhea

  There were times when I patrolled beside meadows filled with butterflies and bees busily exploring a bewildering range of blossoming wild flowers. Clovers and vetches patterned the greenery with tiny dots of colour and in the changing seasons I noted celandines, red poppies, sorrel, a variety of thistles, pretty red campions, cow parsley, buttercups, daisies and more besides, sometimes with a charming border of wild roses or honeysuckle along the carefully trimmed hedgerows.

  In the late spring or early summer, before haytime, the meadows are rich with a multitude of pretty grasses and I learned there are about a hundred and fifty varieties in this country, our farmers knowing which will produce the best nourishment for their grazing livestock, or which are most suited for transformation into hay and silage. I discovered that after the grass has been cut for haymaking, the coarse grass which follows is called fog by some Yorkshire farmers.

  ‘By yon fog’s leeaking well,’ a moorland farmer noted one morning. I looked for the familiar wispy clouds in the valley and wondered why he had made this comment on a clear sunny morning, but was later to learn he was speaking of the grass in a recently mown hayfield. I believe there was an old Scandinavian word ‘fogg’ meaning a limp type of grass.

  In addition to this form of fog, there is a variety of grass called Yorkshire Fog which is most attractive and very widespread throughout Britain and Europe. Growing up to two feet in height, it has a soft green/grey stem and when it flowers in the summer, it produces a most delightful pink and white hue which turns to purple as the long days of summer edge towards another autumn.

  Whatever their functions, these meadows and the highways and byways that knit them together like a huge patchwork quilt are an echo of history. Many of the fields which today support livestock or produce crops have been fulfilling this role for centuries, altering their functions and appearance to keep pace with the requirements of good husbandry. The changing techniques of farming and the increasing use of large agricultural machines mean that the size, shape and uses of our fields must alter to keep pace.

  Some of us grumble about the removal of hedges with all the consequent upheaval among the wild life that depends upon them, but we may not appreciate that this results from the desperate need to feed the expanding human race by making the best use of modern machinery.

  We grumble about the disappearance of footpaths or the use of chemicals, the removal of small copses or the way new roads and buildings encroach upon the natural landscape. We may not like these changes, but they are part of the moving pattern of the landscape which has been occurring since man first cultivated the land and made the countryside his home.

  History has noted the fields existed more than 3,500 years ago; there were fields in medieval times, fields born from the enclosures of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and the extensive but controversial fields of modern times.

  Throughout history, the countryman has loved the fields which surround his home, so much so that they have been given names. For the village policeman going about his daily business, it was necessary to know these names because they cropped up in his work. They were just as important as other place-names in and around the village and I was soon familiar with names like Hundred Acre, Highside, Beckside, Rough Edge, Stoney Heights, Back Lane, Maypole Hill, The Bottoms, Low Leys, Croft End, The Carrs, Hagg End, Manor Intake, Hob Hole, Castle Lands, Hawthorn Leys, Lucy Ings and others.

  Some of these names are self-explanatory, and others are widely used to describe the nature of a field. For example, a carr or The Carrs refers to an area of heavy, rough marshy ground which is not close to the moors, often being used in connection with a low-lying area.

  Ings is another word for a pasture with these features — many local ings are covered with water and there is a fine example at Fairburn Ings, a modern haven for wildlife close to the Al near Ferrybridge in West Yorkshire. A ley is a rich arable field which has been put down to grass, while an intake of the kind mentioned earlier is generally a patch of land which has been re-claimed from the moor. In our local dialect the word is often abbreviated to intak. Of some curiosity interest is the prefix Lucy, as in Lucy Ings mentioned above. This word is spoken and written in different ways such as Lousey Lane, Lowsey Ings, Lucy Field and so forth. It is nothing to do with a girl called Lucy nor does it mean lousy (as in awful); it comes from an old word meaning pigsty, one derivation of which is loosey. So Lousey Lane, Lowsey Ings or Lucy Field refer to places where pigs were once kept.

  Another interesting word is neuk; it means the corner or angle of a field and is perhaps more widely known as nook, as in nooks and crannies. This also appears in some locations such as Cocquet Nook or Blew Neuk, both being place-names on the North York Moors.

  During my patrols, I was frequently traversing the heights of the moors from which magnificent vantage points were available. Time and time again, it was possible to park my police motorcycle and sit astride it as I gazed across the panoramic landscape below.

  The fields and meadows decorated the countryside in a manner which has become so much a part of the English country scene, and from these lofty positions I could only wonder at the range of colours, shapes and locations. From a distance and from a height, those meadows were truly a gigantic patchwork quilt, but in the course of their history, they had witnessed a thousand stories, ancient and modern. They had seen more changes and innovations than we might hope to recall, and many of them remained stubbornly silent about their experiences. Some, however, did contain relics of earthworks, old tumuli, bygone settlements and even Roman remains, and from these sources the history of our district could be told.

  Sometimes, at the crack of dawn, I would sit upon my police motorcycle and gaze in wonder at the illusion of history before me and, later, I came to realise that my own duty was somehow reflected by changing circumstances of those meadows. Just as they appeared in many shapes and sizes, so did the duties I was bound to perform. Large tasks and little tasks, major incidents and minor jobs all came my way, and just as the meadows changed during the year, so did my work. It was altering all the time, with constant innovations forcing changes upon the entire police service, changes which eventually filtered down to my level. In a lifetime, those meadows would evolve beyond all present recognition but in spite of that, they would remain English meadows.

  My work would be transformed too, but an underlying feature was that it would always be police work, albeit of a very special kind. Whatever variations were wrought upon society and upon the police service, the vital ground-level work of the constable would continue. With an air of permanence that can be under-estimated, those meadows and the British police constable will modify and be modified to accommodate society’s needs.

  I had arrived at Aidensfield just as the era of the pedal-cycling village constable was ending; I enjoyed the swift transportation offered by a little Francis Barnett two-stroke motorcycle, even if that transportation was tainted with the need to cater for the British climate. To perform a patrol, however short, I had to smother myself in oily waterproofs and if I visited anyone’s house, I had to stand outside lest the oil from the bike or water from the road caused damage to the home. Carrying papers and documents was fraught with danger and there were immense difficulties in conducting a roadside interview in pouring rain.

  But, in many ways, I did enjoy my motorcycle patrols. The power of freedom and the rush of fresh air combined to give a tremendous feeling of elation and I like to think this open-air life kept me healthy and free from colds. But change was on the horizon.

  One day in early summer, I was informed that I was to be issued with a mini-van.

  It would replace the motorcycle I used for my patrol work and at first I welcomed the news. A four-wheeled vehicle with a roof and comfortable seats would be so much better for my duties; I’d be able to carry equipment, forms and circulars and it would in all respects be a great improvement upon the motorbike. But there was one snag. I had to share the van with the constable on the
neighbouring beat whose house was seven miles away. If the authorities could not appreciate the problems this would create, then I could. The chief snag would be the possibility that the little van would be miles away when I required it urgently. I might be marooned with no official transport. When a constable lives on official premises as I did, he must be expected to cope with any emergency that occurs, even during off-duty periods. And there would be complications in making the change-over at the end or the beginning of each shift whether it was then in my possession or the possession of a colleague. On paper, it seemed a feasible idea; in practice, I knew it would generate problems. But the police service, always a Cinderella when it comes to local authority expenditure, could not afford to supply every rural constable with a van.

  Its arrival, however, signalled another change in the methods of patrolling a policeman’s rural patch. Instead of being on duty twenty-four hours a day, the village bobby would now work in shifts of eight hours, sharing his beat with other constables and performing duties away from his own beat.

  It meant that I must now patrol an expanded area, albeit for only eight hours a day, but my work would thus become more formalised and regimented. I would have to work shifts to accommodate the changing work pattern because, in order to ensure a full twenty-four hour cover every day of the year, the system requires about five officers. Three are needed every day to span the twenty-four hours in eight-hour shifts; to cater for days off, sickness, courses, holidays, court appearances and other absences, expected or unexpected, extra officers must be available. And so, with the stroke of a pen and the gift of a van, the policing of Aidensfield changed. I would be expected to patrol other parts of the district, while constables from afar would be invading my patch.

  I did not welcome this; I would far rather have been fully responsible for the Aidensfield beat for twenty-four hours a day, and allowed to work at my own discretion. But it was not to be; progress had arrived and it could not be halted.

  On the day the van was to be issued, I had to drive my little motorcycle over the hills to Police Headquarters. This was its last trip as a police motorcycle and it was rather sad; quite unexpectedly, I felt a twinge of sorrow at its departure and was tempted to try and buy it. But official wheels had already started to turn, and the Francis Barnett was to be sold, along with other redundant motorcycles, to the dealer who had won the contract to supply the vans. The outdated bikes were therefore part-exchanged for up-to-date transport in the shape of little grey vans.

  Having said a rather emotional farewell to my bike, I relinquished my protective clothing, crash helmet and gauntlets and handed over the bike’s log-book to the admin department of our Road Traffic Division. Thus I severed all links with my motorcycle. I was shown to my new van which stood among rows of others awaiting their drivers; each was gleaming in the morning sunshine and they were all alike. There seemed to be hundreds of them, all in symmetrical rows with their bonnets facing east, but there were probably about fifty! Each was a brand-new Morris mini-van clad in a pleasing grey livery; this surprised me. I had expected black or navy blue, but it seemed the service was moving away from its past stereotype colours. Furthermore, none of the vans bore police signs, the only visible link with the service being the blue lamp perched in the centre of each roof. Inside the cab, however, there was a police radio set plus an official log-book for recording dates, times and distances of journeys, petrol issues, oil consumption and the name of each driver. There was a tool kit, a spare wheel and nothing else.

  The rear of each little van was completely bare and empty; the ridged metal floor had no covering and there were no shelves or compartments for storage or for conveying the paraphernalia of constabulary duty. In truth, that empty rear compartment was of very limited value; no one (except a child) could sit there although I did note the huge battery strapped down near one of the rear-wheel arches.

  This had replaced the original car battery because of the additional power required for the radio which would be functioning virtually round the clock, and for activating the flashing blue light should it ever be required. After a short course of instruction about operating the mini-van, the radio and the blue light, and a lecture about the need to regularly clean the vehicle inside and out, to rigidly abide by servicing dates and oil changes, to enter details in the log immediately upon completion of each journey and to report any fault however minor, I was allowed to leave.

  It was at this point that another problem faced me and countless other constables. It was a simple problem — police officers are among the largest of people and mini-vans are among the smallest of motor vehicles. Getting some officers into those driving-seats was rather like a size 6 foot being squeezed into a size four-and-a-half shoe. Not being as tall or as broad as some, I found that I could get into the driving seat and, with the seat pushed back to its maximum, I could operate the foot pedals and hand controls. But I could not wear a cap while driving. Even though we wore peaked caps and not helmets, I now knew the purpose of that empty rear part — it was to carry the caps of constables at the wheel, even if they were liable to rattle around in that empty bare area. Once inside, however, I started the engine, listened to the crackle of the tiny exhaust and switched on the official radio. Having booked on the air, I found first gear, noted the fuel tank was full and set a course for Aidensfield.

  On the journey home, I gained impressions of my cap bouncing around in the rear, of me bouncing around in the front and the little van et al bouncing across the moors. I was later to learn that passengers in mini cars are nervously aware of this bouncing motion because their rumps hover dangerously near to the road surface while the suspension of the vehicle gives the overall feeling of riding in a high-speed motorised trampoline. But we made it.

  During that half-hour trip, I learned to drive with my head slightly bowed to avoid crowning myself on the roof, and managed to manipulate the miniature pedals by judicious use of my police boots. Sometimes, however, the expanse which formed the soles of my boots made me strike two pedals at the same time, but protests from the mini rapidly corrected that fault. The simultaneous operation of a brake, clutch or accelerator is enough to confuse the cleverest of transmission systems and the mini had the sense to protest loudly and actively at this abuse.

  Once at home, the children were delighted. Tiny as they were, they thought it was my personal van and so I let them sit in the back; for them, the experience was wonderful and they squeaked with delight as they tumbled and rolled about the bare metal floor. Lots of little faces peered out of the rear windows like miniature prisoners in a miniature Black Maria, and more squeals of delight occurred when one of them tweaked the switch of the rotating blue light which flashed and reflected brightly in the windows of the house.

  They spent a few minutes playing in the van, sometimes listening to the burble of voices that muttered eternally from the official radio and sometimes pretending to drive it to an accompaniment of suitable brum-brums and pip-pips. It was a moment of fun in a vehicle that had a very official function to perform. After a coffee, I rang Sergeant Blaketon to announce my return to Aidensfield with the van and he ordered me to drive to Ashfordly Police Station so that he could formally inspect this newest of acquisitions. Before leaving, I made sure the children hadn’t left anything in the van, because Oscar Blaketon was not the sort of person to appreciate a child’s desperate need to play ‘going to Nanna’s’ in Daddy’s new police car.

  I parked it outside the square brick-built police station at Ashfordly and entered; Sergeant Blaketon was writing something at the front desk and actually smiled at my arrival.

  ‘All correct, Rhea?’ he asked; this was his way of saying ‘Hello.’

  ‘All correct, Sergeant,’ I chanted the ritual response.

  ‘The section’s new vehicle functioning all right, is it?’ he continued. ‘No breakdowns, mechanical defects, malfunctioning of equipment, unnecessary rattles, squeaks or groans? Damage or wear and tear? Punctures or oil leaks?�
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  ‘No, it seems to go very well,’ I said. ‘Good acceleration, the braking seems OK and it corners very well. I didn’t hit anything on the way here either,’ I added.

  ‘You’re to share it with other beat men, Rhea,’ his face never cracked at my veiled sarcasm, for his smile was now stored away for use at a future time. ‘That van does not belong to Aidensfield beat, you appreciate?’

  ‘Yes, I know that, Sergeant.’ I was now behind the counter and had removed my cap. I had some report writing to complete, and this seemed the ideal opportunity to do it on the office typewriter. ‘You wanted to see the van?’

  ‘In a moment, Rhea. I’m busy compiling a set of instructions right now,’ he said, ‘You’ll have to familiarise yourself with them, so you might as well type them out for me. Copies to all users of the van, copy for the office notice-board, copy for Divisional HQ, and a copy to be stuck inside the van’s log-book. All to note and sign as having read and digested the said instructions.’

  I knew Blaketon’s obsession for detail and his practice of committing his orders to writing; I could visualise the contents of his order. I was not disappointed when he presented his neat handwritten work for me to type. After identifying the vehicle by its registration number and the call sign of the radio set, he listed a host of ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts.’

  These included the following:

  ‘Members will, repeat will, maintain the vehicle in a roadworthy condition. Under no circumstances will road traffic laws and regulations be infringed. Members will therefore inspect the van before and after each journey.