Don was prominent in my mind for further reasons because (a) he was a very staunch supporter of anything that happened in Rannockdale village hall and (b) he lived in Rannockdale. He worked Peat Hag Farm, which was a small hill farm providing a very modest income from a large flock of moorland sheep and a few sturdy beasts, some Scottish Highland cattle being among them. His farm was at the top of the dale, at the far extremity of that drystone wall.
Another of his quirks was that he never drove anywhere, having never passed a driving test; his wife did drive and she would sometimes drive over to Whitby or Eltering to do her shopping, but Don always walked.
I decided he was the man to watch.
The raffle was drawn at the interval, but no one left the hall until the end of the whist drive, and I made sure I was concealed in the darkness as the players departed. Sure enough, Don emerged and I saw he was carrying a bottle of gin. It was cradled in his arms like a baby. As he said his farewells and began the long walk back to Peat Hag Farm, I remained in the shadows and began to follow him. I was wearing my crepe-soled boots — these were known as Brothel Creepers within the police service because they enabled us to move in total silence. And so I began a long walk, always maintaining a safe distance behind Don by making full use of shadows cast by trees, houses, haystacks and the drystone wall itself. And then, as Don approached a stile which formed part of a public footpath across the dale, I saw him stoop against the wall.
I heard the sound of glass against stone and knew he was concealing the bottle of gin. I waited until he was out of sight and earshot, then recovered the bottle from a hole in the wall. Sure enough, it was the bottle which had been a raffle prize earlier that evening; the counterfoil of the winning ticket was still stuck to it. I decided to take it back to the police house with a view to paying Don a visit tomorrow.
Next morning, I rang Peat Hag Farm and Mrs Ledger answered.
“It’s PC Rhea,” I announced. “I thought I’d come out and sign Don’s stock registers this morning about elevenish. I wanted to check he was in before I drove over to Rannockdale.”
“He’ll be in,” her response was short almost to the point of curtness. “I won’t, I’m going shopping to Eltering. I’ll tell him to expect you, I’ll leave the ’lowance out ready.”
Before leaving, I placed all the recovered items in a box in the police van and when I arrived, I found Don pointing a wall to one of his outbuildings and he welcomed me, inviting me into the spacious kitchen where, as promised, Mrs Ledger had left out some scones and cakes. Don made a pot of coffee and we settled down for our ’lowance, as the mid-morning coffee break is called hereabouts.
Following the introductory chatter about nothing in particular, I checked and signed his stock registers, then decided to ask about the raffle prizes.
“Don,” I began somewhat tentatively, “In the back of my van, I’ve got a box full of groceries, drinks and things. Raffle prizes, I believe.”
“Won summat, have you?” he smiled with just a hint of guile.
“Not me, it’s not often I win raffles,” I told him. “No, these are odds and ends folks have handed to me in recent weeks, folks like hikers, ramblers, passers-by and so on. Very honest folks I might add. The stuff was found in holes along the length of a dry stone wall, the wall that runs up Rannockdale almost to this farm; when we got the stuff handed to us, naturally we thought somebody was hiding stolen goods, Don, but now I know different. It’s not stolen, it’s not the proceeds of crime. It’s raffle prizes. I reckon the stuff belongs to you.”
“Aye, it does, all on it, ivvery bit,” he said without hesitation. “Cheeky buggers, eh? Nicking my stuff . . .”
“They wouldn’t know it was yours, Don,” I said. “I mean, to find a whole bottle of whisky or a pack of 200 cigarettes in a hole in a wall is quite a discovery. So it can’t have been all that well hidden. So they’re yours, eh?”
“Aye, and Ah know what you’re going to ask next,” he laughed. “Why did Ah felt it like that?”
“Exactly,” I said, knowing that “Felt’ is an old Yorkshire word for ‘hide’.
“It’s t’wife,” he grinned. “She was brung up as a strict Wesleyan, an’ there’s nowt wrang wi’ that, but she dissn’t like gambling. She hates me buying raffle tickets, thoo sees, Mr Rhea, she counts that as gambling, but, well, ‘cos Ah’m a big supporter o’ t’village hall, Ah likes to pay my whack. So Ah maks sure Ah allus gits a ticket or two. T’snag is, Mr Rhea, Ah wins ivvery tahme. Ah can fair guarantee Ah’ll win summat.”
“I don’t. I buy hundreds of tickets and rarely win anything!” I grumbled.
“Well, mebbe Ah’s got somebody caring for me from above, so Ah dissn’t like refusing and Ah can’t give ’em away late at night, so that’s why Ah felt yon things, nut very well it seems. It’s so as t’wife nivver sets eyes on ’em.”
“But if you hide them like that, you must intend to retrieve them later?”
“Oh aye. Ah gives ’em all away, fresh raffle prizes, them that’s not takken bi other fooalks, an Ah gives ’em ti t’awd folks, needy families, hospitals, that sooart o’ thing. Yon bits was nivver there very lang afoor Ah gat rid on ’em, Mr Rhea. Usually Ah’d given ’em ti somebody within a day or two.”
“But you must have wondered where they were going? Those that disappeared?”
“Nay, nut really. There’s mair tourists aboot these days so it’s a fair bet some o’ them things’d be found. And that dissn’t worry me, Mr Rhea, if they’re gahin ti help some deserving case. Ah mean, Ah deearn’t want them things, so other folks might as well ’ave t’use of ’em. That’s way Ah sees things, Mr Rhea. Onnybody that taks things Ah’ve felted is welcome tiv ’em.”
“It’s very kind of you, Don.” I had to admire him. “It’s very generous. So, I’ve got a box full of things in my van, what shall I do with them?”
“What aboot t’Orthopaedic at Brantsford? Dis thoo ivver git doon there?”
“My wife’s doing some voluntary work there, on a part-time basis,” I said. “It keeps her up-to-date with medical matters and she loves working with patients. So, yes, she can take the things to them, they’ll be welcomed.”
“Right. Thoo’ll nut tell oor missus?”
“No,” I assured him.
“Then t’matters owered. More ’lowance, Mr Rhea?”
“I wouldn’t say no to another of those scones,” I said as he refilled my mug.
* * *
Perhaps the most impressive indication of the power of a woman over a man was revealed to myself and the other constables of Ashfordly Section when Mrs Blaketon refused to let Sergeant Oscar Blaketon watch the Cup Final.
When the inspector at Eltering arranged our duties for that auspicious day, Sergeant Blaketon found himself quivering with frustration and disbelief. He had been put on duty on the afternoon of Cup Final day and there was no other supervisory officer on duty with whom he could exchange shifts. It was 1965, the year that Liverpool played Leeds — and Sergeant Blaketon was a staunch Leeds supporter.
Once his initial anger had subsided, he had promised himself that, whatever happened, he would not miss the match. He would watch it on television.
As he made his plans, there is no doubt that Sergeant Blaketon was very suspicious about the way the duties had been allocated by the inspector — he knew the inspector was himself a keen soccer supporter as was Sergeant Bairstow and the other sergeants at Eltering. Poor old Oscar guessed there had been some collusion in fixing their duties so they would not miss the match. The fact they had all gone to Wembley on the same bus trip did add some weight to his suspicions.
But in spite of the gloom, there was a slight glimmer of hope. Sergeant Blaketon’s responsibility that day, in the absence of the others, was cover duty. That meant he was on call for the entire day — he was allowed to take time off in between parts of his shift as long as he was always available. He reasoned that if he worked that morning and evening, he could have the afternoon
at home; if he sat at home that Saturday afternoon to watch the Cup Final, then he would be on call within easy reach of the telephone and therefore available to attend to any occurrence. Once he’d overcome his initial disappointment, he did seem happy to go along with that arrangement and I knew he would pray to his favourite god there was no call-out incident of any kind during the match.
But a major problem did arise. It was one he had never foreseen. There was an old romantic film on the other channel that same afternoon, a real Hollywood weepie; it was a blockbusting tear-jerking drama of world-wide appeal, one which produced floods of tears among the world’s women.
And, for the life of me, I can’t remember its title.
However, Oscar Blaketon’s blissful dream came to an end when Mrs Blaketon announced she had invited some friends around for the afternoon to view the weepie; tea would be served between bouts of tears, crumpets would help to appease the agony of thwarted love, beating hearts might even be assuaged with a glass or two of sherry and, all in all, the lovelorn ladies of Ashfordly were determined to have a marvellously sad time enriched with Mrs Blaketon’s hospitality amid severely alternating bouts of tender emotion and fiery passion. Their desires marked the effective end of Oscar Blaketon’s Cup dream.
By chance, I had popped into Ashfordly police station to leave some correspondence and was in the office just when this news had been presented to Blaketon by his wife. I could hear him pleading with her; through the door which linked his house to the police office, I could hear his desperate voice pleading with her to view the film at the house of another of the invited women. Mrs Blaketon steadfastly refused.
“Don’t be silly, Oscar,” she retorted. “Their husbands are all watching the Cup Final. You can’t watch it, you’re working so that’s why we decided to watch the film here. They can watch their silly football in peace while we’re all here.”
I could hear his pleas as he said, “The husbands could all go to one of the other men’s houses, there’d be a spare set if they did that; you could all go to that house, the one with the spare set.”
“Our arrangements have been made, Oscar,” she said.
“But,” he persisted, “I’m sure some of the men will be viewing together, you know, with a few bottles of beer. There’s bound to be an empty house or two. If you found out which house was empty, you and your ladies could all go there, and then that would leave our television free for me . . .”
“No, we can’t do that, their friends aren’t the same as our friends, some of the men are having their own friends in, from different families. It’s not at all easy, Oscar, arranging social get-togethers like this. It’s impossible to change things now, everyone’s made their arrangements. I’ve made my plans for eats and drinks, I’m not changing anything, not now, it’s too late. So that’s final. No more arguments. Besides, you’re on duty that afternoon so I can’t see why you are making such a fuss.”
“But I want to watch the Cup Final,” he pleaded. “I’m on cover all day, I’ll be on call. I just need to be near a telephone. I can take time off at home, you see, but I can’t go to some other house like they can. Surely, you could make some changes in your arrangements, just for me, just this once; those men and women are not on call, you’re not on call, you don’t have to sit near your telephone in case of a call-out . . .”
“I have made my arrangements, Oscar, and I am not going to change them. I’ve already told you that. And that’s final.” When I heard his footsteps approaching the door, I busied myself with some papers and watched his unhappy return. His face said everything; it oozed misery.
“Something wrong, Sergeant?” I ventured.
“Women, Rhea! That’s what’s wrong. Women. Fancy wanting to watch a nauseating old romantic film instead of the year’s most famous football match. And it’s Leeds and Liverpool . . . silly old cow . . .” and he went into his office.
When I looked at the duty rota, which was made up a fortnight in advance, I saw that I was off duty on Cup Final day. It was my long weekend off, i.e. Friday through to Sunday inclusive, which meant I could view the game on television. Had I wished to and had I known in advance, I could even have gone to Wembley to watch it live. But I am not a particularly keen football fan and have rarely, if ever, watched a match. But I enjoy the Cup Final and always try to watch it, just as I watch the Grand National, the Derby, the Boat Race and other major sporting events. And so I decided that I would watch the match.
And because I would be off duty and free to watch the game, I knew what would happen. Whoever was patrolling the area on duty would find a reason to visit my police house while the match was in progress . . . and so I did expect an influx of one or two officers; somehow, they would wangle a visit. At least one officer would be patrolling in the Eltering subdivision and another would be touring the Brantsford area.
From Ashfordly Section, there would be Phil Bellamy. Phil would surely arrive, for I saw he’d been allocated a 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. duty that afternoon and he was a keen soccer fan. But Bellamy’s duty was not a cover duty and so he should not officially sneak time off to watch football — but if he did, he should take care not to be caught doing so. I’ve no doubt he banked on Blaketon’s own desire to see the match — if Blaketon was watching the Cup Final, he would not be out on patrol, trying to catch young officers skiving off duty!
In the days following my discovery of Blaketon’s predicament, I began to notice that he was very considerate towards me, more so than usual; he would chat for longer periods in a very friendly manner, he would say that if I ever had problems, I should not be afraid to ask for his advice or help. Then, on the Thursday evening he met me at nine o’clock. I was due to go off duty at ten.
“A thought’s just occurred to me, Rhea,” he smiled; I thought it was a rather devious smile.
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“My wife and friends are viewing a corny old romantic film on Saturday afternoon. Would Mrs Rhea like to join them? I’m sure I could arrange it.”
“Saturday? No, thanks, Sergeant, I think we’ll be going shopping,” I said, having already guessed his intentions.
“Oh, well, I just thought she might like an outing . . .”
“She’s not really into old tear-jerkers,” I smiled.
“But you’re off duty tomorrow as well, eh? You know, Rhea, whenever I had a Friday off, I liked to get my weekend chores done on the Friday, then I had the Saturday clear. The shops aren’t so busy on Fridays, you can get parked easier than Saturdays . . . Fridays are a very good day for shopping, Rhea. You ought to try it sometimes, I really think you’d enjoy shopping on a Friday.”
“Yes, but some of our children are at school, you see, so we’re tied to weekends . . .”
“Oh,” he said, obviously not appreciating the dictates of a family with tiny children. “I like going to watch Leeds, you see . . .” I don’t think he was listening to me now. “Do you know they’re in the Cup Final this year? Playing Liverpool? At Wembley?”
“No, I had no idea,” I lied. “It should be a good match. Are you going to see them? Isn’t there a bus trip down to Wembley from Eltering? I heard the inspector was going.”
“Yes,” he said. “But sadly my duties didn’t work out in my favour, I’m on call that day. I’m hoping to see it on television though. It’s live coverage.”
“Oh, that’ll be exciting,” I beamed at him. “But I’m no football fan. Cricket yes, because that’s a Yorkshireman’s game, but apart from that, I’m not much of a sports fan.”
“You won’t be watching the match then?” I knew he was struggling to induce me into offering him an invitation to view it, but he did not wish to make an overt request.
“I’m not sure, I might watch,” I said flippantly. “If I can get Mary and the kids out to the shops and back again before kick-off, then I’ll watch. But I’m not going to break my neck to rush home just to view some footballers. Besides,” I added, “It’s not easy watching television with four lit
tle children galloping about the room.”
He went away with his problem unresolved and I heard later that he’d mentioned the match to the other constables who would be on duty that afternoon. As in my case, he had never made a direct request to watch the match on their televisions, but his intentions had been very clear. Poor old Oscar . . .
I must admit I began to feel sorry for him because his dilemma became a subject of fun among the constables; they were all determined to make him miss the match.
In my own case, I had no intention of going shopping with Mary and the children; she and her friends had decided to have a joint expedition to York, leaving all the multitude of several families’ children with a nursery minder, and thus making available the television sets for the whims of their husbands. Thus I had my own set all to myself. I decided to obtain a few bottles of beer, some crisps and a pork pie and then to savour the atmosphere of the game with whichever of my colleagues managed to arrive.
At 2:30 that Saturday afternoon, as the TV set was warming up with pre-match scenes from the ground, my telephone rang. It was Phil Bellamy.
“Nick,” he said. “I’m ringing from the kiosk in Aidensfield. Any chance of a coffee? I’m on a job on your patch, report of an escaped prisoner, I thought I’d call in . . .”
“Escaped prisoner? That’s a likely tale! You mean you want to watch the Cup Final?” I laughed.
“Well, if it happens to be on when I’m there . . .”
“Sure,” I said. “Drop in.”
By three minutes to three, Phil and two motor patrol constables from Strensford were settled on our settee each with a mug of coffee as the excitement at Wembley rose to a crescendo and then, as the moment of kick-off approached, the doorbell rang.
“Pretend you’re out!” shouted Phil.
CONSTABLE AROUND THE GREEN a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 9