This lane took me on a circular route back to Crampton and I felt that the aircraft couldn’t have travelled much further. It hadn’t.
As I crested a gentle rise in the lane, I could see its tail sticking into the air like that of a diving whale and I could distinguish one crooked wing behind a copse of sycamore trees. I accelerated now, anxious to save life if that proved necessary, and within a minute was drawing up at the scene of the crash.
I was horrified.
The glider had come down squarely on the top of Coltsfoot Cottage. The nose had penetrated the newly-thatched roof and had thrust piles of straw on to the earth around the house.
Both the nose and fuselage were hidden deep inside the walls, while one wing had cracked off completely and was lying in the garden. The other was sticking out of the cottage, its fuselage-end deep inside the walls and the slender tip rising awkwardly to the sky like a huge broken feather. And the tail stuck up too, like a sentinel.
For one fleeting moment, I thought it looked like a giant white seagull sitting on a nest, but this was serious.
I parked my motorcycle on the road outside and ran into the grounds. My first contact was with a woman.
She was comforting James Patrington as he sat on the lawn. She saw me approaching.
“Thank God,” she said.
“Anyone badly hurt?” was my first question.
“This gentleman’s wife,” she said. “We were driving past at the time . . . we saw it all . . . my husband’s rushed her in his car to the hospital. Brantsford Cottage Hospital . . . she had a knock on the head . . .”
“And the pilot?”
“Him as well, he was bleeding from his face and leg . . . my husband’s taken him as well, this gentleman isn’t badly hurt. Just shocked, I think. No one’s badly hurt.”
The first aid training I’d received told me that shock alone could be a severe medical problem, so I radioed Control Room and provided a brief outline of the incident, then asked for an ambulance to take James to hospital as well, for a check-up. The good news was that no one was seriously hurt.
From this point, there would be all kinds of official bodies to inform; all that action would be undertaken by the Force Control Room who would operate from a prearranged set of instructions for dealing with crashed aircraft.
My priority now was to ensure that James received immediate medical attention, and that there was no immediate danger from the aircraft or the house. Happily, there was no aircraft fuel to worry about and there were no fires burning in the house. That reduced the fire risk enormously but it couldn’t be ruled out. I decided to keep everyone away from the house and to preserve the scene against the sightseers who would inevitably arrive.
As I marshalled my thoughts I made sure that all the relevant services were notified and that attention was given to the people and the premises. But I could have wept at the sight of the cottage. Perhaps, because it was a thatched roof, it could be repaired fairly easily and likewise because it was a soft landing, there had been no serious injury. It looked a real mess.
Later from home, I rang Brantsford Cottage Hospital to learn that James had suffered severe shock and had been detained. The pilot, a man called Alastair Campbell from Edinburgh, had a broken leg and severe bruising. He had also been detained. I then asked about Mrs Patrington, but the hospital had no record of her. When I added that she was a victim of the glider crash, I was told she had been removed to Scarborough General Hospital for treatment.
As I looked up the telephone number of Scarborough Hospital, my own telephone rang. When I picked up the receiver, a woman’s voice asked, “Hello, is that PC Rhea?”
“Speaking,” I acknowledged. “Who’s that?”
“Lucy Patrington,” she responded. “I’ve just heard the news on the radio, is it true? That a glider’s crashed into our cottage?”
I must admit that I was thrown completely off my stride by this call and for a moment, I did not reply. Was she really ringing me to ask this, or was she in hospital, dazed perhaps? I wondered if the shock of the event had caused her to lose all memories of the crash. Maybe she’d been unsettled by the trauma of the event?
“Hello,” she said anew.
“Oh sorry, Mrs Patrington,” I apologised, “I was completing something . . . er . . . yes, I’m afraid it is true . . . James is in the Cottage Hospital at Brantsford now, but he’s not hurt. Just a check visit. I was about to call and ask after you,” I rabbited on. “Now, are you fit to be released . . . I mean, should you be out of bed . . . ?”
“Released, Mr Rhea?” she cried. “What on earth are you talking about? I’m in my shop in London, and James has gone to Scotland for a weekend seminar . . .”
Then her voice trailed away and I knew I had let some sort of cat out of some sort of bag.
“James has not gone to Scotland, has he?” She put to me in no uncertain terms.
“All I know,” I told her, “is that he was at the house when the glider came down. Maybe he stopped off en route to Scotland? I can confirm that a glider has landed on your roof, and no one is seriously hurt, although there is a good deal of damage . . .”
“The news said a woman had been taken to hospital, Mr Rhea,” she pressed me.
“She had gone before I arrived . . . I don’t know who she was. I am, at this moment, trying to find out who she is and the extent of her injuries. Perhaps it was someone from the village, visiting the cottage . . .” Rather irrationally and without any real reason, I found myself defending James Patrington.
“Perhaps it was that bitch of a secretary of his,” she snapped. “It serves them right!” and she slammed down the telephone.
So because something fell out of the sky, James Patrington’s little secret had been revealed to the whole world and a few weeks later, the now deserted cottage, still in its damaged condition, was once again put on the market. I never saw James and Lucy again.
I often wonder if he had his cottage insured.
I was more directly involved in another story of love which came about because of a broken romance. This one was almost as unlikely as the Patrington saga.
At three o’clock one morning, my telephone rang. It was downstairs in the office attached to my house, and its continuous shrilling gradually penetrated my sleep. As I staggered downstairs, I rubbed my eyes and tried to shake myself into clarity of action before I lifted the noisy instrument. It was a call from a kiosk.
“PC Rhea, Aidensfield,” I announced, shivering as my bare feet grew cold upon the bare composition floor.
At the other end of the line, coins were inserted and the pipping ceased, then all I could hear was sobbing. I waited for a brief moment, hoping that the person would say something, but the sobbing continued.
“Hello?” I called into the phone. “Hello, this is the police.”
It continued and I realised Mary had joined me; she stood at my side, wrapping her dressing-gown tightly around her slim body. She’d had the sense to put on her slippers.
“What is it?” she asked. With late calls of this nature, it was natural to think it was a personal family crisis of some kind.
“Somebody sobbing. Listen,” and I passed the handset to her. She listened and passed it back.
“Hello,” I tried again and increased the volume of my voice this time, “Hello, this is PC Rhea speaking.”
“I want to come and see you,” said a faint voice, a female voice, through the sobbing.
“Who is it?” I asked, holding the handset so that Mary could hear both sides of the conversation.
“I must come,” continued the voice. “Now, or I’ll jump under the train . . .”
“What train? Look, who are you? I want to help you.” I had detected a note of real desperation in that voice and did not think it was a joke of any kind. “Where are you?” I added.
“Newcastle Railway Station,” she sobbed, “and if you don’t say yes, I’m going to jump off the platform . . .”
Mary was hissin
g in my ear.
“For heaven’s sake say yes,” she snapped. “Don’t string her along, don’t make it appear you’re not going to help . . .”
“But . . .” I began as my suspicious police mind began thinking all manner of thoughts.
“Do it,” said Mary.
“Look,” I said to the caller, “I’ll welcome you, we’ll welcome you, my wife and I. You can come and see me. But how . . .”
“I can get the next train to York.” Even now, the sobbing sounded less dramatic.
“Yes, all right,” I said, “I’ll meet you there, at York Station.”
“Thank you, oh, thank you,” breathed the voice, sniffing as the sobs subsided. “Oh thank you . . .”
The pips sounded and the call was abruptly ended.
I stared at my handset and asked Mary, “Well, what do you make of that?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “One of your ex-girlfriends getting worked up about something? A blast from the past? Or have you been misbehaving when you’ve been away on your various courses? Maybe you’ve broken someone’s little heart?” There was a trusting twinkle in Mary’s eye, but I knew that this call could have been misconstrued in all kinds of ways.
“I don’t know who she is or what she wants!” I began a weak protest . . .
“Then you’ll have to go to York and find out. Bring her here,” said Mary. “She sounds as if she needs help and friendship, whoever she is and whatever she’s done.”
There are times when one is thankful for a marvellous, understanding wife who possesses oceans of common sense, and this was such a time. Policemen especially require wives who have all the qualities of angels coupled with a high measure of earthly common sense. So, in response to Mary’s advice I nodded in agreement and said, “OK, I’ll have a cup of tea and get dressed. I’ll drive to York to meet our mystery lady.”
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 . . .”
&
nbsp; “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 . . .”
CONSTABLE ALONG THE LANE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 6