“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 wonderful, Ashfordly. And now to our next guest . . .”
“You?” asked Ken, the newsagent.
I nodded and grimaced at the unwarranted publicity, but he just laug
hed. “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.
“No overnight break-ins? Car thefts? Broken windows not discovered?”
“No, Sergeant,” and my answer must, by this time, have sounded quizzical. He was going on a bit, I felt, certainly more than usual. In normal circumstances, my “All Correct” speech would have been sufficient, but he was probing now. I realised he was leading up to something; judging by the expression on his face, it was something serious. I began to wonder if a crime had been reported or if some incident had occurred. If so, I was not aware of it and that could infer that I had neglected my duty.
Somewhat worried by his attitude, we made a brief perambulation of the market square and I noticed that the crowd was now dwindling as the people finally went to their places of work.
“If you have been so vigilant, Rhea, and have had such a positive command of the situation, how is it that you have found the time to be entertained by a radio programme?”
“Sergeant?”
He came to a halt in a quiet recess near the town hall and we stood together as he mustered his speech. “The sugar, Rhea. There am I, sitting at my breakfast-table, when I learn that one of my constables has heard a plea for sugar from this lot here, these broadcasting people. That alone indicates that the constable in question must have been neglecting his duty, that he was failing to work his beat in accordance with instructions . . .”
“I . . .” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“And furthermore,” his voice rose to stifle any comment I might make, “there is the question of the misuse of police vehicles, that is, the use of an official motorcycle and fuel, to say nothing of police time, to convey the sugar from the police office to these broadcasting people, and there is also the question of the ownership of the sugar, eh Rhea? Was it yours to give away? Was it your personal property? Or was it sugar which belonged to the Police Authority? Was it sugar from a fund of some kind?”
“But, Sergeant — ”
“And on top of all that, Rhea, how do you think the public will react to this? Will those listeners, those thousands or even millions of them out there, think that Ashfordly Police have nothing better to do than to act as delivery men for the BBC? We will be the laughing-stock of police forces, Rhea, we will be the butt of jokes from our city counterparts who are coping with murders and mayhem. They will now believe that we occupy our duty time by running cupfuls of official sugar from police stations to broadcasting people who then announce it to the world . . .”
Sergeant Oscar Blaketon was on top form. All his prejudices and formal police attitudes were emerging as he stood there in the recess near the town hall, giving vent to his concern.
“But, Sergeant . . .”
“And Rhea, let us now suppose that the Superintendent or even the Chief Constable himself was listening to that programme! What are they to think about it all, Rhea? How am I to justify your actions; your highly unofficial and thoughtless actions; your neglect of duty in this very public manner; your misuse of police property . . .”
“Sergeant, I thought — ”
“I don’t care what you thought, Rhea. What I do care about is what you did. And what you did could amount to a breach of the Discipline Code with the severest of repercussions for you and for the Force . . .”
I must admit I had not for one moment thought of that aspect. Anyone else, in any sort of job or profession, would have done the same, so why should the police be any different? But, according to Blaketon’s interpretation of the Police (Discipline) Regulations, it did seem that I had fallen foul of those rules, and I knew him well enough to realise that he would have checked the provisions of that code before coming to speak to me. He was not the man to leave such detail to chance.
As he continued his diatribe, I visualised the punishments that could be imposed for such breaches of the Discipline Regulations. There was dismissal from the Force, with an alternative of a requirement to resign; there was reduction in rank (which didn’t apply to me because, as a constable, I was at the bottom of the scale); a reduction in pay; a fine; a reprimand or a caution.
I began to feel pale and sick and started to worry about my future, both in the immediate and long term. I knew the Discipline Code was strict and that some supervisory officers reinforced it to the letter . . .
“So, Rhea,” said Blaketon as he concluded his lecture, “you will submit a report about his incident. In triplicate. And it will be on my desk not later than twelve noon today.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” I said, with evident meekness.
Having delivered his lecture, he strode away, grim-faced, awesome yet somehow majestic in his unassailable attitude. With my mind ranging across the problem I had now created for myself, I watched the BBC technicians begin to dismantle their equipment and decided I was no longer required. I went across to my motorcycle and mounted it.
A voice called to me from the assembled BBC personnel. “Thanks for the sugar, Officer!”
“Cheers!” I responded with a wave of my hand and knew I dare not tell them of Blaketon’s reaction or of my impending ordeal. Communication with journalists about internal police matters was another disciplinary offence, so I left it at that. Dejected and worried, I started the Francis Barnett and motored slowly back to Aidensfield.
Over breakfast, I told Mary all about it and she thought it was a ridiculous attitude, but at ten o’clock I settled in my office to type the report. I knew it must be totally factual and that I should not try to make excuses; I therefore decided on a plain, simple and honest account of my sugar mission. I would set it out in chronological order.
At twenty minutes past ten, my telephone rang.
“PC Rhea, Aidensfield,” I announced.
“Just a moment,” said a woman’s voice at the other end of the line, “I have the Chief Constable for you.”
I nearly fell off my chair. The Chief! I saw myself being summoned immediately to Police Headquarters to account for my actions. I saw myself writing out my resignation and looking for another job. My heart thumped as I waited for the great man to speak.
I tried to marshal my thoughts in an attempt to justify my actions. I clung to the telephone, nervous and worried, as his secretary connected me.
“Chief Constable,” I heard his crisp response.
“PC Rhea, Aidensfield, sir,” I answered.
“Ah, Rhea. I have been in touch with your Divisional Headquarters
and they tell me that you were the constable on duty at Ashfordly this morning.”
“Yes, sir,” I admitted, quaking.
“And am I right in thinking that you were responsible for supplying some sugar to the BBC during that morning broadcast?”
I swallowed. So he had been listening, just as old Blaketon had feared.
“Yes, sir,” my voice must have sounded faint and weak as I croaked my reply.
“Bloody good show!” he said. “That was an excellent piece of public relations, Rhea. It gave the police a sympathetic and human image, and I was delighted it was my force which had done it. Excellent, well done. I just wanted you to know that I was delighted, and so was the Government Inspector. He heard the broadcast too and was delighted. He has just called me.”
And so, in one single moment, all my worries and tensions evaporated.
“It’s good of you to ring, sir . . .” I managed to splutter.
“Not at all. It’s the least I could do. Keep up the good work, Rhea,” and he ended our conversation.
I sat in my chair as a feeling of release swept over me. Now, I had the perfect ending for my report to Sergeant Blaketon.
To conclude it, I added this sentence, “At 10.20 a.m. today, I received a telephone call from the Chief Constable who had heard the broadcast in question. He congratulated me on my actions and stressed the public relations value of the publicity. The HMI also expressed his pleasure in similar terms and had conveyed his appreciation to the Chief Constable with a request that it be transmitted to me.”
At half past eleven, I signed my report and drove into Ashfordly with it. Sergeant Blaketon was on the telephone as I walked into the office, so I placed my report on his desk and walked out.
Never again did he refer to the matter.
On another occasion, it was the police who needed assistance and I found myself involved in that episode too. The ingredients were an ancient ruined abbey, a religious service, some severe car-parking problems and a stubborn Yorkshire farmer.
CONSTABLE ALONG THE LANE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 7