I smiled and said, ‘So you did, Benjamin.’
‘Ah was a bit oot o’ practice, mind, but wiv a bit o’ training, Ah soon got caught up again. Like a lad Ah was, in full strength. And see that, a fine lad, as bonny as you could wish to see anywhere. And he’s mine, all mine.’
‘And mine,’ said Rachel gently.
I was pleased for Benjamin, but even now I cannot understand why such a lovely young woman had given herself entirely to this curious old character. She’d seen him as a poverty-stricken, unkempt old hill farmer during his visits to the mart and she knew his background and his age.
In spite of all that, she had fallen in love with him and had then transformed his life. Albeit at the unfortunate Kate’s expense, it was something of a miracle and it only served to make me more curious about the way a woman’s mind operates. That is something I have not yet discovered! But Benjamin became a local legend because of this romance; his prowess as a lover was the talking-point of the market and of the surrounding villages, and none of the eligible young men of the area could understand why they had lost to this ageing Lothario from Rannackdale. Nor could anyone else.
As one envious old farmer said to me. ‘He got shot o’ that nagging awd bitch of a wife and won hisself yon fit-looking lass who looks good enough for a duke and fit enough for a young buck of a lad. And he did it all without missing one hot dinner.’
* * *
Another character with a chattering wife was Horace Pitman who ran a small garage and taxi-service in Waindale. His was an old-fashioned garage which had been operating since the first cars came to these dales. Stocked with spare parts in neatly marked and carefully arranged boxes, and with a pair of tall green petrol pumps outside, Horace’s garage was always busy. He worked from seven each morning until ten each night, except when he was on rural or county council business. On those occasions, he would take a day off and hire a driver/pump attendant should anyone require a taxi or some petrol.
I seldom saw Horace dressed in anything but a pair of navy-blue overalls heavy with grease and equally greasy black boots. He did all the mechanical work himself and somehow coped with everything that came his way.
Horace was a big man. In his late forties, he must have weighed at least sixteen stone and had a jolly, calm face which never seemed troubled by anything or anyone. Balding on top, and with a monk’s hair-style of sandy hair, he wore rimless glasses and, oddly enough, always sported a crisp white shirt and coloured tie beneath his overalls. I think that was in case he got a sudden taxi job — he could throw off his overalls and put on a blazer type of jacket he kept hanging in his garage.
Everyone liked Horace, which is probably why he found himself elected to the rural district council, and then to the county council. With so little spare time, he did manage to accommodate his council duties, and often went to meetings at Northallerton in his white shirt and working clothes. These comprised a pair of dark crumpled trousers, that blazer-like jacket which he kept in the garage, and his greasy black boots. One snag with his trade was that his hands were never clean; black oil had engrained itself into the skin of his hands and his fingernails were always black. Scrub as he might, he could never get his hands clean. Those who knew him paid no attention to his mode of dress or dirty hands, but I often wonder what the other councillors thought.
But Horace was a good man, a fine councillor and a very able person in every respect; perhaps in other circumstances, he would have become a top-flight businessman or even a politician. But he was utterly content with his busy village life — he loved cars and he liked being a councillor, and his way of life gave him the best of both his chosen worlds.
His wife, Dora, was an ideal companion for him. A tiny, virile woman in her early forties, she was a bundle of energy who had a family of three fine teenage children and who busied herself with the Red Cross, Women’s Institute, night classes and various other charities. She was secretary to countless village organisations, including the parish council and parochial church council, and she also did the office work and accounts for Horace’s garage.
And she was a non-stop chatterer, unlike Horace who was a man of very few words. What he did say usually made sense, but she could not stop talking, and the village knew that if she cornered anyone for a two-minute chat, it would continue for half an hour if her time was short, and for well over an hour if things were progressing in a more leisurely manner. Horace, however, allowed her flow of constant chatter to drift away to oblivion over his head and he had that happy knack of saying ‘Yes, dear,’ at frequent intervals while never listening to a word she said. For Horace, Dora’s voice was nothing more than background noise, there to be ignored where possible.
He did respond when she called ‘Coffee’s ready,’ or ‘Dinner’ or ‘Tea’s up,’ usually by simply arriving at the table or desk where she placed his morning cuppa. Even in council meetings, he said very little, consequently when he did say something, everyone listened. With his wife, however, no one listened, least of all Horace.
For all her chattering, she was a lovely woman and he was a fine man; they were a popular and hard-working pair of people who deserved the best. If anything, Dora was perhaps a little more ambitious than Horace although not in the same league as Mrs Pringle. Dora loved and respected her husband and felt that his work for the council, both at local rural level and at county level, deserved some recognition.
But Horace was not interested; he went along to the meetings, said his brief piece and came home to his garage. And that, in his mind, was that. He rarely told Dora what had transpired and if she asked what had happened, he would usually say, ‘Nowt much.’
I caught a hint of Dora’s ambitions one day when I was in his garage. I was asking about stolen cars, and had provided him with a list of their registration numbers in case any were brought in for petrol; he would ring me or our Divisional Headquarters if he spotted one. As we chatted, Dora came in with his coffee and invited me to have one. I agreed, and she joined us, chattering non-stop.
‘I mean,’ she said, ‘they never say thank you, not one of them out of the whole village and they expect Horace to trek over to Northallerton month in and month out to say his piece for them and to fight their fights about rates, drainage, the water works and sewage and I mean, he does do well for the village, don’t you think, Mr Rhea? More than some I know, more than some who make much more of a fuss about it and you’d think they would make a bit of a fuss about a man who works so hard for other folks and who’s got a business, two businesses in fact, taxi and garage, to run as well. It’s not as if he’s retired or on a private income, you see . . .’
I wanted to say that councillors did not work for thanks, but she would not let me get a word in.
‘Dora . . .’ I began.
‘Well, you would think they’d do something for people like my Horace, Mr Rhea . . .’
And so she went on, so I drank my coffee while Horace rubbed at a piece of car engine with some emery paper.
She rabbited on for a long time and I found myself becoming like Horace. Everything she said drifted over my head and once I caught sight of Horace, smiling to himself. This was a regular event for him.
I could see that his wife had some social ambitions for Horace even if he did not have any for himself, and it would be about a month later when I next came across the voluble Dora. I was on duty in Waindale when she was shopping and she spotted me; before I could leap into the mini-van to avoid a marathon session of her brand of verbal diarrhoea, she had presented herself before me.
‘Ah,’ she began a little breathlessly. ‘Just the man who might help me. Mr Rhea, I know you are familiar with the county council and how they operate because our Horace never tells me a thing because he just goes along to those meetings and says nothing, then comes home and says nothing has happened until I read in the paper that they’re building new schools here, police stations there, libraries and fire stations, new roads and putting the rates up and he would know al
l that and yet he never says a thing to me about it. You’d think he would, wouldn’t you, I mean I am his wife but the reason I’ve stopped you, and I won’t keep you because you must be a very busy man with lots of enquiries to make and jobs to do apart from talking to women like me, is that I thought you might know something about the Buckingham Palace thing. I met this lady at WI whose cousin is a councillor from Malton just like my Horace and he’s been on years, she says, sitting on the Finance Committee and the Highways Committee and really getting involved . . .’
‘The Buckingham Palace thing?’ I was baffled and managed to register my curiosity as she turned to smile at a friend.
‘Yes, you know,’ she said. ‘You must know, being a policeman, but that lady didn’t know much about it because her husband had never gone on it and I wondered if you know what it was, Mr Rhea, and whether I, well, Horace really, could go along as well, I mean, it would be nice, wouldn’t it? It would be a sort of thank you for Horace for all he’s done, and I could wear a new hat and lovely coat and meet the Queen and all those important people. I’ve always wanted to go to a posh place like that, Mr Rhea, in one of those large hats with a wide brim, you know, the sort society ladies wear at races and operas and things like that . . .’
As she chattered on, I began to gain a glimmer of understanding.
‘You mean the selection procedure for the Garden Parties?’ I said during another momentary lull in her chatter.
‘Yes, so you do know! How marvellous. What do I have to do, well Horace really, what does he have to do? I mean, does he write to the Queen or how does he get there? I mean, I’m sure Her Majesty has never heard of my Horace even though he does do an awful lot of good work for the council and the village but he’s so quiet about it and never makes a fuss while other folks who don’t do so much seem to get down to the Palace for tea with the Queen.’
Now I realised what she was talking about because my own grandfather, himself a County Councillor, had once been invited to Buckingham Palace for a garden party.
Dora stopped chattering to say a long “Hello” to a passing friend, and this gave me the chance to say, ‘Horace will have been told about the system, you know.’
‘He never tells me anything, Mr Rhea, you know my Horace, tight as the proverbial duck’s, well, you know what and he always says nothing’s happened at the meetings, then I hear of Mr and Mrs So-and-So, then Mr and Mrs This-and-That going off to London to meet the Queen and I ask myself why isn’t our Horace getting himself there, and why isn’t he taking me? I would love to go and wear my new hat, Mr Rhea, I really would, it’s not as if I get far, you know, what with the business and my other interests, so this would be a once-in-a-lifetime outing, a really lovely one . . .’
‘There’s a draw for tickets,’ I managed to tell her. ‘I’m not sure when it’s done or how often, but according to my grandfather, all councillors who want to be considered must put their names forward, and then a draw is made. Those drawn out of the hat, in a manner of speaking, are then invited to the Palace Garden Party. But Horace would have to find out exactly how the system operates. Get him to put his name forward, Dora. But you realise it’s something of a lottery — not everyone can go, so there’s no guarantee Horace would win an invitation.’
She beamed with happiness.
‘Oh, Mr Rhea, I know he’ll get there if only he’ll do something about it . . . I will have a word with him straight away; now I mustn’t keep you, I know you’re very busy.’
She kept me standing there another ten minutes, saying how busy I was and how busy she was, and then she sailed away home in a very cheerful mood. Horace, I knew, was in for a session of chatter from her, with strict instructions to put his name forward next time Buckingham Palace asked the County Council for Garden Party nominees.
It would be four or five weeks later when Horace mentioned this; I had popped into his garage on a routine enquiry and he said, ‘Mr Rhea, our Dora said summat about you suggesting I put my name down for t’Buckingham Palace jobs?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She was asking how councillors like yourself managed to get invited to Buckingham Palace, so I told her about the draw they have.’
‘Aye, well, I can’t say sike affairs are much in my line, but my name’s gone down. They asked us at t’last meeting, and a few councillors sent their names in. I thought I would, then if our Dora goes on at me, I can allus say I put my name forward. That’ll keep her quiet, cos I shan’t win. I never win owt, Mr Rhea.’
I was surprised that he had bothered to actually do this, for it would have been easy to tell a white lie, to tell Dora he had submitted his name even if he hadn’t. But the surprising thing was that Horace won. His name was drawn from the list and he was notified by a telephone call, following which detailed instructions about the event would be sent to him.
Dora spent hours rushing around the village telling her friends, and then she went off to York to buy an entire new outfit, including one of those huge wide-brimmed hats that were her heart’s desire.
Then the formal instructions arrived by post.
And Dora’s world fell apart.
Horace had certainly submitted his name, but he had failed to understand that he had also to nominate his wife; he had failed to include her name, and so the invitation was for him and him alone. A maiden lady councillor from Whit by had also won an invitation — she had been issued with the one that should have gone to Councillor Horace Pitman’s lady.
Dora’s anger and disappointment were acute and she kept herself hidden from the public for some weeks after this bad news. Then on the day before the event, I saw Horace getting into one of his cars, and went across. He was dressed in the dark blazer he used for taxi-driving; he had on a dark tie and white shirt, and some crumpled trousers which he usually wore under his overalls. His boots were clean but very greasy and he carried a brown paper carrier bag.
‘Going shopping, Horace?’ I asked
‘Nay, it’s for t’hotel tonight, Mr Rhea. I’m off to London. A clean collar and me razor and toothbrush. I need nowt else. I’m off to Buckingham Palace.’
And so he was; thus equipped, he got into his car and started the engine. I had no idea whether he intended to drive all the way to London or catch a train from York, but he sat there, smiling at me but saying nothing as he ran the engine of his car.
And then Dora came rushing out, looking like a dream. She wore a beautiful new suit, a matching wide-brimmed hat and high-heeled shoes. She carried a small suitcase and a matching handbag.
‘Off to see the Queen, Dora?’ I asked.
‘I am not, and I’m glad I’m not, not with our Horace looking like that. You’d think he would have got some new clothes if he’s to shake Her Majesty by the hand . . . no, Mr Rhea, he’s not getting away with this! I’m going to London to see the sights, a play maybe, and then the shops. I wouldn’t be seen dead with our Horace dressed like that . . .’
And Horace engaged first gear and drove off with a big smile on his face. I wondered what Her Majesty would make of him. Upon their return, Dora never stopped talking about her trip. She’d had a marvellous time and had crammed a host of exciting events into her short visit to the city. As for Horace, I asked him what he thought of the Buckingham Palace Garden Party.
‘Not much,’ he said. T’food was nowt but a load o’ ket.’
A translation of that dialect word would, I doubt, not please those who arranged the teas.
Chapter 6
If this be not love, it is madness,
and then it is pardonable.
WILLIAM CONGREVE, 1670—1729
One of the recurring duties of the sympathetic police officer involves dealing with people in distress; there are times when that distress is self-inflicted either by accident or design, and there are times it is inflicted upon us by other people or by a single event or even a series of unfortunate occurrences. Officialdom, bureaucracy and red tape can also inflict distress in their own inimitable manner, the l
atter being revealed when puzzled pensioners receive threatening letters from computerised accounts departments when their rates or other bills have been paid.
Minor examples of distress might include those who lock themselves out of their homes or whose motor cars run out of petrol, or who are locked out of their homes by others during arguments or stupidity, or whose cars run out of petrol because their teenage son has surreptitiously done a trip to Scotland and back. Other people can inflict distress upon us, by simple things like persistent telephone calls or playing football in our front garden, or by greed such as burglary or through dangerous actions like reckless driving, playing about with firearms or indeed anything else. The possibilities of trouble are endless, and it seems we are continually at risk either through our own behaviour or from the actions of others.
In the course of police work, therefore, the constable often comes across examples of this kind and seeks to comfort the victims where possible. A kind word and some assurance that the world isn’t going to end is generally sufficient, albeit tempered with advice on how to cope with the unexpected and harrowing predicament.
In dealing with jobs of this kind, however, it becomes evident that of all the root causes of man’s predilection for disaster, that which causes most problems is man’s love for woman. Through their vast experience of people, police officers know that men get themselves into some of the most curious situations in their undying efforts to prove their love to the lady of their dreams. Constables know that love is one of the most powerful of urges, so strong that at times it removes every scrap of common sense from the skulls of those whom it infects. A poet who remains anonymous once said that ‘Love is a passion which has caused the change of empires’ — in short, men do the daftest things when they are in love, and I have mentioned some of their misadventures in previous ‘Constable’ books.
But because this symptom provides a never-ending series of dramas, sagas, mishaps, problems and (to be honest) a few chuckles in the process, every constable has witnessed and can recount stirring tales of love. They would fill a volume, so I thought I would place on record a few more tales of the lovelorn countryman.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 46