Constable among the Heather

by Nicholas Rhea

But I hadn’t bargained for Sergeant Blaketon.

  When I first arrived, I did not require any stores, because my predecessor had stocked my office shelves – a kind touch, I felt. I had a plentiful supply of official forms, envelopes, a rubber, a few ballpoints, chalk (for marking the road at the scene of a traffic accident), a ruler and other office and operational essentials. Looking back, I have no idea how the previous Aidensfield constable had managed to stockpile such quantities – he must have raided the store while Sergeant Blaketon was on holiday.

  I was soon to learn that Sergeant Blaketon took his storeman duties most seriously. He alone kept the key to the stores; it could be used by others only after signing for it in ‘the Store Key Book’, and such signings had to be witnessed in writing by another officer. It had then to be recorded in that book precisely what had been removed from the store, each person present witnessing the honesty of the transaction. Inside the store, there was another book. This one listed every single object in the stores, and the entries created a series of running totals. On one occasion, I saw he had four gross tins of Vim and 250 floor-cloths – I reckoned these would keep our cells scoured well into the twenty-first century. These ponderous procedures were to counteract any suggestion of pilfering by the local constables.

  On one occasion I was privileged to sneak a rare peep into Sergeant Blaketon’s store. That was when I realized it was there – what I had originally thought to be a small cupboard in the wall of his office was in reality a spacious storeroom. When the door was opened, it led into a type of cupboard-under-the-stairs. It ran the length of the sergeant’s office wall and was about six feet wide, extending under his private accommodation at Ashfordly police station. It was a veritable Aladdin’s Cave, stocked with everything from mop handles to pencil-sharpeners, by way of ink wells, toilet rolls and tins of furniture polish. A quick appraisal of the contents showed that some stock had been there since the foundation of the North Riding Constabulary in 1856 and were now museum pieces. Examples included acetylene cycle lamps, pen-holders and nibs, two spare whistle chains, a tin of black lead and other assorted gems.

  The only reason I managed to see these cherished stocks was that, at the precise moment Sergeant Blaketon opened the door, his telephone rang. Thus I had a few brief moments of ecstasy as with a worried frown on his face, he watched my antics. My only purpose in being there was to obtain a new notebook, which I did after signing for it. I’m sure he thought I was scheming to pilfer something.

  I recall two supreme examples of Sergeant Blaketon’s own individual flair in storemanship. The first involved an electric light bulb.

  Those of us with office accommodation adjoining our private houses were instructed to obtain official bulbs for the office. I think this was to prevent some of us making an application for an office bulb allowance. I would have been quite happy to furnish a bulb from my own funds, but orders are orders. Consequently, when my office bulb began to flicker, I thought it was time for a new one. When I was next in Ashfordly police station, I made my request.

  ‘I need a new bulb for the office, Sergeant,’ I began.

  ‘Size?’ asked Sergeant Blaketon.

  ‘100 watt.’

  ‘We don’t stock hundreds. You’ll have to make do with a 60 watt,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not very bright if I’m working at night,’ I said.

  ‘Economy, Rhea, economy. We can’t go around dishing out big bulbs when smaller wattages will do. Now, you’ve brought your old one in?’

  ‘No, Sergeant. It’s not finished yet, it’s flickering. I think it might go out soon. I want to be prepared.’

  ‘But if your present one is still working, why do you want a replacement?’

  I groaned inwardly. Here was the Storeman Syndrome in all its perfection.

  ‘It’s nearly done, Sergeant. It’s been used ever since I came to Aidensfield, and it’s flickering, like they do just before they pack up. I thought I’d be prepared for when it does fizzle out. I don’t want to be caught out at night with no bulb if you’re not around to issue one.’

  ‘You know I can’t issue a new bulb without taking in the old one,’ he said. ‘That is my system. New for old.’

  I knew his system. He thought that if he issued something new without inspecting the expired old equivalent, the new thing would be purloined for the private use of the officer, who would later return for another new one. And so production of the old was an indication of total honesty. Men like Oscar Blaketon don’t even trust themselves.

  ‘So what happens if it goes out when I’m in the middle of an urgent report?’

  ‘You’ve got bulbs at home, haven’t you? In the house? Borrow one of those until you get the official one replaced.’

  ‘That’ll mean my family might have to cope with the dark!’

  ‘But that is not my problem, Rhea,’ he smirked. ‘I have no interest in your domestic problems. So that’s it – when your bulb blows, come to me for a new one, and fetch the old one in, as proof.’

  And having said that, he refused to change his tactics.

  The next example involved No. 1 cell. There were two cells at Ashfordly police station, No. 1 being the male cell and No. 2 the female cell. They were rarely, if ever, used by prisoners, because we seldom arrested anyone at Ashfordly, but we did make use of the toilet in No. 1, because the cell toilets were the only ones in the police station. While on duty one day, I had occasion to visit the loo in No. 1 and noticed that the toilet roll was almost exhausted.

  ‘Sergeant,’ I later announced to Sergeant Blaketon, ‘we need a new toilet roll in No. 1 cell.’

  ‘Is it finished?’ he asked.

  ‘No, there’s about three sheets left.’

  ‘Then I’ll issue one when it’s exhausted. When it runs out, fetch me the cardboard tube from the roll.’

  ‘But if you get a prisoner in who needs more than three sheets, he’s going to be in a bit of a pickle, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘Or it could be one of us, alone in the station. If we put one out now, in reserve, like they do in hotels …’

  ‘This is not an hotel, Rhea. This is a police station, and I issue new toilet rolls only on production of the used tube. Otherwise everybody would be asking for them.’

  ‘Do you think we’d take them home or something, Sergeant?’ In my exasperation I was cheeky to him.

  ‘It has been known, Rhea,’ was his cold reply. ‘Just ask British Rail or any of your hotels …’

  ‘I can’t imagine any of our men wanting to make private use of this paper,’ I laughed. ‘It’s nearly as bad as cutting up squares of the Daily Mirror.’

  ‘I care not for your opinions or sarcasm, Rhea. My job is to maintain stocks of equipment and to issue it when needed. It is not my intention to squander official supplies. A new toilet roll is not needed yet.’

  And that was that.

  Ten minutes later I returned to the loo, used the three sheets and beamed at him as I held out the cardboard tube.

  ‘I do trust you have not wasted official toilet paper, Rhea, in order to make your point,’ he said as he handed me a new roll and booked it out.

  ‘No, I’ve thrown it down the toilet, Sergeant,’ I assured him. ‘But before I left the cell, it did serve a useful purpose.’

  For me, and indeed all the other constables in Ashfordly section, it became something of an ongoing challenge to persuade Sergeant Blaketon to part with any official stores. We used all sorts of devices and excuses in our attempts to win our deserved odds and ends, but his system reigned unconquered.

  And then, to our delight, one market day, his stores were superbly raided.

  I was on duty and was patrolling among the colourful stalls, savouring the atmosphere that is generated by this weekly conglomeration of fish, fruit and fancy goods, when a uniformed police constable hailed me.

  I recognized him as the deputy chief constable’s official driver but did not know his name.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Caught you. I’m PC
Hughes, David Hughes. DCC’s driver.’

  ‘PC Rhea, Nicholas; Nick.’ We shook hands.

  ‘The boss spotted you as we drove past,’ said Hughes. ‘He asked me to take you back to the car.’

  ‘Something wrong?’ I wondered why on earth the deputy chief constable would want to talk to me. He wasn’t in the habit of calling on constables like this.

  ‘No. He wants to visit your office. There’s no one in just now.’

  I approached the gleaming black Humber Snipe, flung up a smart salute and said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ as he lowered his window.

  ‘Hop in, Constable,’ he invited, and so I did. As we cruised away, he said, ‘I’m in the area and thought I’d give the station an official visit. It’s locked.’

  ‘Sergeant Bairstow is on day off, sir,’ I told him. ‘And Sergeant Blaketon went over to Brantsford.’

  ‘And you are PC Rhea, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, wondering how he knew my name. I was later to learn he had an amazing memory for numbers – he’d seen the numerals on my shoulders. He was a charming man, easy-going but efficient.

  When we arrived at the station, I unlocked the door and escorted him inside. PC Hughes waited outside in the official car. The DCC examined the cells, the books, the general state of the place and the daily occurrence book. In keeping with the procedures for such a visit, he would then make an entry in the occurrence book to record the event.

  ‘Well, your sergeants and colleagues keep the place in good order, PC Rhea,’ he said. ‘I wish all our stations were so efficiently kept. Now, I’ll just sign your occurrence book and then I’ll be on my way.’ And he began to tap his pockets as he sought a pen. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I must have left my pen in the office.’

  ‘You can borrow mine, sir,’ and I produced my ballpoint.

  ‘I’ll need one for the rest of the day,’ he said. ‘Can you issue me with one from your stock?’

  I explained Sergeant Blaketon’s book procedures, and the DCC smiled. ‘I’ll witness your signature for the issue of one ballpoint to me,’ he said, with just a trace of humour in his eyes. But when I opened the cupboard door and stepped inside, he followed and exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll be damned! This is like a museum!’

  He went inside and picked things off the shelves to examine them, chuckling and shaking his head as he found treasures from a bygone age. There was even an old-fashioned stalk telephone, a copper kettle, a leather-bound book with no entries at all, a Victorian pen-holder and stacks of old files.

  ‘PC Rhea,’ he said suddenly, ‘am I right in thinking there was a charity stall on your market-place today as I came past?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s for the parish church. They’re raising funds to repair the bell tower.’

  ‘Then all this surplus stuff must go. Have it taken to the stall now and get rid of it. It is no use here; in fact, I issued an instruction several months ago for all such clutter to be cleared out. This lot will help a deserving cause.’

  ‘I’ll inform Sergeant Blaketon, sir.’

  ‘It’s no good relying on old Oscar, PC Rhea. I served with him at Scarborough years ago. I know him too well. No, we’ll do it now, you, me and PC Hughes.’

  And so we did. We loaded the rear seat and the boot of the DCC’s official car with what amounted to a cache of antiques and surplus but unused domestic goods of ages past, such as old tins of polish and brush-heads. The stallholder was delighted. The DCC left a note for Sergeant Blaketon to explain what he’d done, and I resumed my patrol.

  Later Sergeant Blaketon said nothing to me, and when I did next peer into his cupboard, I saw he’d used the space to accommodate more stocks. Among the boxes, I noticed three gross of toilet rolls. The one in No. 1 cell had just five sheets left, but even with such a colossal supply, I wasn’t going to ask him for a replacement just yet.

  When patrolling the moors around Aidensfield, I soon discovered that the Storeman Syndrome is not confined to those employed in formal organizations. It exists among individuals too. There are many examples of those who simply cannot throw anything away, in case it might come in useful for some obscure future purpose.

  I have heard it said that everything comes in useful once every seven years. On one of my moves to another house, I found a coiled and lengthy piece of wire in an outbuilding. In its prime, it had been an old-fashioned television aerial. Following the belief that it might be useful one day, I kept it – and some ten years later found it ideal for cleaning out drains. Policemen do tend to keep things ‘just in case’. Storerooms and cupboards throughout the land are full of things which are kept ‘just in case’. It is true, of course, that, if one disposes of any one of these items, it will be required two or three days after the dustman has carted it away. That might explain why my garage is full of odd bits of apparently useless paraphernalia, all of which I believe have some potential destiny.

  But scattered about the moors and dales are people who keep things for best, who reserve rooms for special events which seldom seem to happen, who keep drawers full of linen which is never used, and crockery which has never been sullied with food or drink. The front doors of such homes are rarely opened, and visitors are invariably welcomed in the kitchen. Even now, I find myself in this category – our callers come to the kitchen door. It’s a matter of custom, not discrimination. In my tours of duty I had occasion to visit many such places and came to realize that it was not an unusual aspect of moorland life. In fact, it was very much a part of the prevailing practice.

  The typical situation was like this. A householder or family living on a farm, or in a country house or cottage, would live in the kitchen. This was a plain, functional place, often with a bare stone floor, but with a couple of Windsor chairs for comfort and with a bare wooden table for all meals. There was rarely a dining-room – all meals were taken in the kitchen. Elsewhere in the house would be a sitting-room; this was more comfortable, perhaps with rugs or even a carpet on the floor, settees and easy chairs and a welcoming fire. There would be sideboards too and pictures on the wall.

  But in addition to these there was the best room, sometimes knows as ‘the house’ or in some areas as ‘the parlour’. This was often at the front of the house, close to the seldom-used front door. Judging from those I have seen, they were dark and airless and always smelt of mothballs. The window was never opened, the rooms usually faced north and so attracted little sunshine or light, and they were full of ‘best’ things which were to be used only on special occasions and which had, in many cases, been passed down from one generation to the next. Wonderful old antique furnishings, a firescreen, cushions, rugs, the carpet, easy chairs, crockery, drawers full of unopened linen such as pillowcases, sheets and serviettes, smart cutlery, a selection of ancient books, some antique ornaments, a piano, the family Bible and the inevitable, well-thumbed album of family photographs. Most rooms of this type that I had occasion to visit reeked of Victoriana and must have been an antique-collector’s dream – in some there was even an aspidistra in a heavy brown pot. Throughout the life of the contents, they had seldom been used, having always been kept for best.

  ‘Best’ seemed to imply family gatherings such as christenings, weddings and funerals (especially funerals), although if an important visitor called, the room might be put into use. It would have to be someone very important indeed to justify preparation of that room, for the status of the visitor had to be substantial before the fire was lit and the room made welcoming. Routine calls by vicars, vets, van-drivers, valuers and visiting relations did not quality – there had to be something special about the call and the caller.

  The degree of high importance was generally something associated with the family. I doubt whether the Queen, if she called without warning, would be shown into that room, and the same might be said of the lord of the manor, although if cousin Freda came all the way from Canada to trace the family tree, the lady of the house might get her duster out and ‘do’ that room.

  If th
e room was maintained for very important family occasions, its contents were likewise separated from the rigours of the daily routine. Gifts given to the husband and wife at their wedding, for birthdays, at Christmas and anniversaries were seldom used – they were put away for a special occasion. Drawers in such rooms and indeed in bedrooms and other parts of the house contained unopened parcels dating from the wedding day of the occupiers. I found this an intriguing practice. Things needed from day to day, such as household crockery, were used with alacrity, but special things, such as presents, were never used – they were always put away. I was never quite sure why, although it happened with such regularity.

  Having once been put away for a special occasion, such an item rarely saw service, because there was never an occasion special enough to justify unwrapping it or opening it. Whatever occurred never quite seemed to qualify for the ceremonial use of Aunt Emily’s gift of china, Uncle Jasper’s white sheets or Cousin Ermintrude’s canteen of cutlery.

  In contemplating this logic, I doubt if that predetermined visit by Her Majesty would be of sufficient importance to bring out such treasures. She’d probably be given a drink of tea in a mug bearing a picture of her grandmother, but she might be allowed to sit on the best sofa in the best room to sip it; if she came to a family funeral, however, the best room would be available.

  Probably the most upsetting incident which involved such a room happened one hot July day. It was just after 10 a.m. and I was prepared to patrol Aidensfield and district in my little van when Dr Archie McGee from Elsinby knocked at the door. He was dressed in his plus-fours as usual, and I never knew whether he was doing his rounds or going shooting.

  ‘Ah, Nick,’ he beamed in his affable way. ‘I’ve just driven past Mrs Gregory’s place and there’s a light on. I thought I’d mention it – she’s away, you know. She’s gone to her sister’s funeral in Bradford.’

  ‘It must be something serious to get her away from home,’ I smiled. ‘But how long’s she been away?’

  ‘Day before yesterday,’ he said. ‘I came past last night and there was no light.’