Constable Across the Moors

by Nicholas Rhea

  She constantly and charmingly admitted her errors and got fined by many magistrates, yet her adventures never made any obvious impression upon her. She never altered her ways or improved her driving, and yet she was never involved in a serious accident. I considered that to be miraculous.

  It is not to say, however, that she was not a danger, because she did occasionally cause people to jump off their pedal cycles or motorists to abandon the road in order to preserve their own lives or safeguard their vehicles. But she avoided most collisions.

  One exception involved three visiting ladies from a Women’s Institute in County Durham. One lovely Sunday morning in late April, a bus load of them had travelled from the pit villages up north, and had ventured south to North Yorkshire in order to visit Rannockdale and its acres of wild bluebells. En route, the coach had stopped at a remote moorland hamlet called Gelderslack so that the ladies could form a queue at the toilet and buy coffee at a local café. The driver told them the break would be for three quarters of an hour, because he’d calculated it was the shortest time that a bus load of chattering women could each visit a single toilet. Such is the wisdom of bus drivers.

  The first three ladies in the loo queue, having achieved their purpose, were also first in the coffee queue and therefore first out of the tiny village café. To while away the time until the last of their kin had taken on coffee and poured off water, they settled on a seat in the village. The seat in question had been presented to Rannockdale by Sir Cholmely Brown, and it occupied a prime site at the eastern side where it overlooked Surprise View. The place was visited by tourists, cameramen and Americans, all of whom admired the stupendous views from this summit. The three satisfied ladies managed to occupy that hallowed place for a few blissful minutes; for them, it represented rural solitude, because here they could sit and admire the view while their friends queued.

  But they had reckoned without Esme and her doubtful driving ability. Through one of those awkward coincidences, Esme arrived in Gelderslack at the same time as that bus, because she was thinking of trading her little Morris Minor in part exchange for a large Humber Snipe. Gelderslack garage had a gleaming black Humber for sale, and so Esme arrived that day to inspect and test it. The benevolent garage proprietor, on seeing the immaculately polished Morris, readily consented to Esme taking the Humber for a test run. She climbed into the driving seat, coped with the starter and the gears, and drove the huge car into the spring sunshine.

  All went well until she reached Surprise View. At that point, she recalled that she was not very good at descending steep hills, so decided to turn around and go the other way. To achieve this about-turn, it was necessary to execute a three-point turn and Esme succeeded in guiding the front wheels of the Humber into the side of the road as the prelude to her change of direction. This meant that the nose of the Humber was a very few inches from the back of the seat upon which sat the three unsuspecting ladies from the County Durham W.I. In their state of happiness, they failed to register any alarm at the proximity of Esme and the big car.

  She stopped without any trouble, placed the gears in reverse and let in her clutch. Sadly, she’d erroneously engaged a forward gear and the huge car nudged forward and touched the rear of the seat. Esme halted its forward rush, but it succeeded in tipping the seat forward and toppling the three ladies into an untidy and ungainly heap on the ground overlooking Surprise View. Highly apologetic, Esme rushed to their aid, returned the seat to its correct position, and dusted down the surprised trio. Rather baffled by this turn of events, they re-settled on their seat and gazed airily across the moor.

  Her apologies accepted, Esme resumed her position in the driving seat and had another crack at selecting reverse. As she let in the clutch for the second time, the car misbehaved yet again and leapt forward to tip up the seat. Once again, the three surprised ladies slid off and crumpled into a pitiful heap with the seat resting on top of them. Esme blushed furiously. She rushed out of the Humber and re-positioned the seat yet again, dusting them down with her hands and expressing her most profuse apologies. She tried to explain about the gears, but they glared at her angrily; gone was their northern bonhomie as they sat heavily upon their precious seat, furious at the indignities they had suffered. One had even laddered her stockings.

  Very nervously, Esme re-entered the waiting Humber and with extreme care, and selected reverse. Most gingerly, she let in the clutch but this car was enjoying itself. It moved forward for the third time, and before she could halt its short progress, it once again touched the back of the seat and tipped it forward. For the third time, the W.I. ladies slid to the ground, a miserable, angry heap of feminine wrath. Now, they could endure no more and chased Esme from the Humber. She managed to reach sanctuary in the garage and sought protection from the man who’d loaned her the wilful vehicle.

  But luck was on Esme’s side because the loo queue was dwindling rapidly and the bus driver, who had witnessed the whole affair, had a sense of humour. He tooted his horn and drew his passengers back to the coach, but this did not prevent the aggrieved three from making a complaint. A day or two later, I had to interview Esme about it. Although I submitted an official report against her for careless driving, the Superintendent authorised ‘No action’, his reasons being, I suspect, that any magistrates listening to this complaint would dissolve into laughter and that would be undignified in a court of law.

  Happily, my regular official visits to Esme did not sour our relationship. She continued to regard me as a friendly caller and never once complained about the frequency of my visits, nor did she grumble about the regular fines she attracted. She probably thought all motorists suffered in this way.

  I must admit I liked her. I remember one terrible winter morning when five or six inches of snow had fallen overnight. The roads were treacherous and the small amount of traffic had compressed the snow into a sheet of dangerous ice. Maddleskirk village was blocked at both exits, for there are steep hills climbing out at each end of the village street. The early morning traffic which comprised lorries, bread trucks, tankers, post office vans and commuters’ cars had all come to a standstill because each hill was impassable. I arrived on foot to have a look, and borrowed a shovel from a farmer who lived on the main street. With the shovel over my shoulder, I trudged through the blizzard conditions, intending to spread gravel across the glistening surface, and get the queue of traffic moving.

  As I walked to the base of the western hill, I heard a car engine behind and turned to see Esme in her immaculate white Morris Minor. She halted at my side and wound down her window.

  “Good morning, Mr Rhea,” she breezed, her lovely face wreathed in smiles and framed in a fur bonnet.

  “Hello, Esme,” I greeted her. “You’re not going out today, I hope!”

  “I must get to Leeds,” she said. “I have an appointment at a craft shop this morning and can’t let them down.”

  “You’ll never get through,” I pointed to the queue of patient drivers, all sitting at their wheels or helping to spread gravel.

  “Oh, I don’t worry about snow,” she said. “I pretend I’m on a motor rally and it gets me through every time,” and with that she set her wheels in motion. Two lorry drivers who’d overheard this remark launched into a polite cheer as the gallant little Morris approached the base of the steep hill. No one had climbed it that morning; it was like glass and the skid marks etched wildly across its surface bore testimony to their efforts.

  We all watched and wondered how long it was going to take to dig her out, but the little white car chugged forward and started to climb. Everyone watched in sheer amazement as Esme’s car stolidly climbed that treacherous incline and vanished over the top. Others tried, but all failed.

  To this day, I do not know how she achieved that, but it dawned on me that I’d never seen Esme stuck in the winter. Faith must be a wonderful thing.

  I began to think Esme was invincible. Somehow, she blazed a trail through life in her little Morris Minor and
never seemed to ask help from anyone. Then, one fine morning in May, she called at my office in Aidensfield. She rang the bell, and I answered, very surprised to find her there.

  “Come in, Esme,” I opened the door and she strode in. “You’ve come to produce your licence and insurance again?”

  “No,” she smiled. “No, I’m not in trouble, Mr Rhea. I can drive without getting fined, you know. I’m not one of those silly women drivers who are always in trouble.”

  “Of course not,” I pulled out a chair for her. “Well, what’s wrong?”

  “I am going down to Stratford-on-Avon,” she said. “I’m taking a friend and we are going to see some of the Shakespearian productions at the Stratford Theatre.”

  “You’ll enjoy it,” I smiled, for I’d seen several of their skilled interpretations of the Bard’s works.

  “I do have a problem,” she lowered her voice. “I need directions to Stratford, I cannot work out my own route.”

  “That should be no trouble,” I pulled a road atlas from the bookshelf in my office. “I went a couple of years ago, and know the route well.”

  “Oh, I know the route,” she said, pausing for effect.

  “You do?”

  “You’ve not heard of my problem?” she asked me solemnly.

  “No.” I wondered which problem she meant. “What problem?”

  “I’m surprised no one has mentioned it to you,” she continued to talk in a low voice. “And I’m surprised you have not noticed for yourself, Mr Rhea. I thought policemen were supposed to be very observant …”

  “I haven’t been here long,” I began to make an excuse.

  “My driving,” she said. “It’s the way I drive.”

  “Oh, yes.” I thought of all the catastrophes she might create between Aidensfield and Stratford, and wondered if I should warn all constabularies en route.

  She laughed and appeared able to read my thoughts, for she said, “It’s not my parking problems, Mr Rhea, or my reversing difficulties.”

  “No?” I could not think of anything else right now.

  “It’s my inability to turn right,” she said, pausing for the awesome implications of that remark to sink into my skull.

  “Turn right?” I questioned.

  “Yes, I cannot turn right off a road. I go everywhere by making left turns,” she told me in all seriousness. “I can cope with right turns off one-way streets, but not on ordinary roads. Surely you’ve seen me coming home different ways?”

  “I had no idea that was the reason,” I said. “So you are telling me you intend to drive to Stratford-on-Avon without ever turning right?”

  “Yes, that’s why I came to see you. Last year, I set off to go to Harrogate to the theatre and things went fine until I came to a new one-way street in Ripon. I got hopelessly lost …”

  “What happened?” I asked, suppressing a chuckle.

  “I got to Middlesbrough, miles from where I intended, and had to get a train back. It’s all very embarrassing, Mr Rhea, and I cannot help it.”

  “I don’t know whether I’m capable of producing a route for you all that way, Esme; I wonder if there are other people like you?”

  “A cousin of mine could never go around a roundabout,” she said. “He always took the right-hand route instead of the left and got into no end of bother from the police. He blocked the whole of Newcastle upon Tyne one Saturday morning because he hit a bus on a roundabout. He was fine if he drove on the continent.”

  I did not want to let her down and promised I’d do my best to find a route to Stratford-on-Avon, a distance of some two hundred miles, without her having to turn right. She was going in a fortnight’s time, she told me, so there was no great rush.

  With Mary’s help, I settled down to work out a route and it was not as difficult as I had anticipated. Working along the main roads, I could plan the basic route bearing in mind one must make huge circular tours from time to time, and that the exits from motorways are all to the left anyway. The tricky bits were the towns, especially Stratford itself on the final lap, although I did suggest she parked on the outskirts and caught a bus into the town centre.

  I calculated the length of this circuitous journey and felt she would travel at least twice the true distance, but on the appointed day she sallied forth full of confidence with a grey-haired lady passenger beaming hopefully from the front seat.

  She allowed herself two days to reach her destination, and I was somewhat surprised when she rang me from Penrith in Cumberland, and then from Chester, to find out where she’d gone wrong. But she arrived safely three days later, having covered nearly eight hundred miles in large circular routes.

  My plan hadn’t helped because she’d missed several turnings and I’d not counted a new one-way system in Leeds. I couldn’t remember including Leeds in my route, but did not argue.

  I did wonder how she’d get back.

  She returned a fortnight later and in the following days, I received twenty-five requests from police forces to visit her and report her for parking infringements, one-way street offences and careless driving on that trip, and they included places as far apart as Lancaster, Lincoln, Huntingdon, Warwick, Chippenham and Gateshead. But her Morris Minor hadn’t a scratch, and neither had she.

  In communities as small as Aidensfield, Maddleskirk and the like, there is usually one eccentric motorist whose deeds are widely known to the local people, and they contrive to keep well out of the way when the said eccentric is in motion. But these villages had Esme and another. Two of them in such a small area seemed destined to bring chaos.

  Cedric Gladstone was the other’s name, and he lived in a nice bungalow on the edge of Aidensfield with his lovely wife and two spaniels. Cedric was a retired motor engineer, a short, tubby gent with rimless spectacles and a bristling white moustache who had, in his working life, been something of an expert at his craft. In his retirement, he spent a lot of time in his workshop, making objects which no other craftsmen would tackle due to the time and patience needed. He fashioned objects like keys for grandfather clocks or winding handles for gramophones, small tools for specialist tasks and knick-knacks for household use. He did this for fun, although he was not averse to accepting gratuities in the shape of bottles of whisky as payment for his craftsmanship.

  Cedric ran an old Rover car, a lovely 1949 model in a delicate shade of tan with darker brown mudguards, and this was his pride and joy. He had spent years with this car, having bought it new, and upon his retirement had managed to acquire a comprehensive stock of spares. By this prudent advance planning, Cedric was able to keep his car on the road when others fell by the wayside or ended their life on waste tips and scrap metal dumps.

  I liked Cedric. I loved to chat with him in his workshop as he filed and soldered precious little pieces of metal together to create some implement useful for an obscure task. Even in his advancing years, a pride of creation and inventiveness remained. He showed me some of the things he’d produced – trowels, a ball-point pen, thousands of keys for hundreds of jobs, a toasting fork with a shield to protect the hand from the heat of the fire, all sorts of gadgets for working in car engines, a rack for shoelaces, a toothbrush holder and so forth. It’s fair to say I spent many a happy hour watching him at work in his hessian apron and battered old flat cap.

  But in that beautiful car, Cedric was a changed person. His big problem was drink, and I must admit it was a long time before I realised he was an alcoholic. I might have guessed because his home was stacked with an infinite variety of whiskies, collected over many years from the Highlands of Scotland, and drunk deeply every day by a thirsty Cedric. He was a frequent visitor to the local inns where he happily drank their whisky, or the whisky of anyone who would pay for the pleasure of seeing it vanish down Cedric’s throat.

  It is difficult to recall exactly when I became aware of this black side of Cedric’s character. Certainly, his lovely Rover was at large most days, always immaculately polished and chugging beautifully along th
e lanes or through the villages as Cedric and his wife, Amelia, went about their business and pleasure. I had often seen the car during my patrols, and there was never any reason to halt it or to check the driver for illegalities. It had always been carefully driven, then one spring morning, some time after arriving at Aidensfield, my professional attention was drawn to the car.

  It emerged from the drive of Cedric’s house and someone was grating the gears. There was an awful noise as metal fought with metal, the gears doing their best to mesh under some intolerable handicap. I stared at the immaculate little car, wondering if it was being stolen, but saw that Cedric was driving.

  I watched in considerable horror, wincing at the thought of unseen damage as the lovely vehicle emerged on to the road to groan its way into the village. As I was on foot, I was not in a position to chase him, although I did follow its path, listening to the clonking noises and the agonising screeching of the protesting gears. The din ceased somewhere along the village street.

  Minutes later, I found Cedric’s car. It was in the car park of the Brewers Arms, neatly parked and driverless. I checked my watch – it was ten thirty, opening time. I decided to pop in to see if Cedric was ill or in need of help and found him perched on a bar stool chatting amiably with Sid, the resident barman. He looked very content and relaxed, and in his hand was a double Scotch.

  “Ah, Mr Rhea, can I tempt you?” he held the glass high, his grey eyes glistening with evident pleasure as he scrutinised the bronze contents.

  “No, thank you, Cedric, not when I’m on duty.” I couldn’t face a whisky or any alcohol at this time of morning.

  “I’m having a coffee, Mr Rhea,” Sid offered. “There’s some in the pot.”