‘I’ve just come from there, Sergeant,’ I decided to tell him. ‘I did a final search myself, in daylight with the fog thinning. I saw nothing – that was only half an hour ago.’
‘They must have imagined it, Rhea. So, nothing else to report, eh?’
‘No, Sergeant,’ I said with determination.
‘Good, then sleep well,’ and they left me.
It was a long, long time before I returned to Stovensby Airfield and I never ventured there during a fog!
Mind, there were times when I wondered how those wartime pilots had coped with these Stovensby pea-soupers. Perhaps they had never become airborne, pretending instead to fly upon long circuitous missions into enemy territory?
There was another occasion when a duty trip in the little van caused something of a headache, and again it involved a journey which would certainly have caused Sergeant Blaketon to consult his book of rules. Happily, he never learned of this particular mishap.
Like so many memorable incidents, this one happened through a chance conversation. I was on patrol in the mini-van with instructions to deliver a package to a member of the Police Committee who lived on the edge of my beat. The package had come from the Chief Constable via our internal mail system and I was the final courier in this postal routine. I think it contained a selection of local statistics and pamphlets required for a crime prevention seminar in which she was to be involved. She was out when I arrived, but I spotted a gardener at work in the grounds of her spacious home and he told me to leave the mail in the conservatory. She’d find it there, he assured me. He pointed me towards the door and then, eager for a moment’s respite, asked me how my family and I were settling in. I did not know the man, but saw this as yet another example of how the public knows the affairs of their village constable!
As I’d been at Aidensfield for a year or two by this time, I was able to say we were very happy and enjoying both the area and the work.
‘Got the garden straight, have you?’ he asked with real interest, and perhaps a little professional curiosity.
‘Not really,’ I had to admit. I love a well tended garden which comprises vegetables, flowers and shrubs, but I never seemed to have the time to create the garden of my dreams. Mary, however, in spite of coping with four tiny children and a hectic domestic routine, did manage to spend some time tending the garden.
I told him all this and he smiled.
‘Tell her not to be frightened to ask if she needs owt,’ he offered. ‘Cuttings, seeds, bedding plants, that sort o’ thing.’
‘Thanks, it’s good of you,’ I responded.
‘Well, we’ve often a lot o’ spare stuff and t’missus is happy to give bits and pieces to t’locals.’ By ’t’missus’ he meant his employer. ‘You’ve only to ask.’
It was at this point that I remembered Mary asking me to keep an eye open for horse manure during my patrols; she’d mentioned it some days ago and it had slipped my mind until now.
‘That reminds me,’ I said half apologetically, ‘she did ask me to look out for some horse manure. That was ages ago.’
‘Ah, we don’t have any o’ that,’ he said. ‘But there’s plenty at Keldhead Stables. They can’t get rid of it fast enough. It’s free to take away. Just go along and help yourself.’
‘They’re the racing stables, aren’t they?’ I asked.
‘Aye, they get some good winners from there if you’re a betting man. Grand National, Cheltenham, Lincoln, Derby – they’ve won some big races. You can’t go far wrong if you follow them – they’ve often winners at Stockton, Thirsk, Ripon, Beverley and Wetherby an’ all. I don’t mind admitting I’ve won a bob or two on ’em.’
‘So their manure should make our rambling roses gallop along, eh?’ I laughed. ‘Thanks, if I’m ever out that way, I’ll pop in.’
We chatted about other trivia then I moved on. Keldhead Stables was off my beat in another section and it was highly unlikely that I would be able to pop in during a duty patrol, so I made a mental note to tell Mary. Perhaps we’d make a special trip there on my day off.
Then, through one of those flukes of circumstance, I was directed there within a week of learning about their manure offer. It was a Saturday evening in late May and I was making a patrol from 5pm until 1am, being responsible for the entire section in my little van. Shortly after 7pm, I received instructions over my radio to proceed immediately to Keldhead Stables where a prowler had been sighted – by chance, I was the nearest mobile.
This was not uncommon – people did trespass upon the stables’ premises, sometimes just out of curiosity or to see a famous winning horse in its home surrounds. The motives of some, however, were a little more suspect because, at some other stables, there had been attempts to dope horses which were favourites to win. Scares of this kind had led to increased security at all racing-stables (and many existed in our area), consequently reports of such trespassers were fairly frequent.
I rushed towards Keldhead and drove into the stable yard. Waiting for me was J.J. Stern, the noted trainer, and his face bore clear signs of relief at my arrival. After a very brief chat, he pointed towards the stable block and said a lad had seen a man creeping furtively about. By now, something around half an hour had passed and I felt sure any visitor would have left, but I made a thorough initial search of the premises. Stern had already examined his horses without finding a fault and nothing appeared to have been damaged or stolen. With a stable lad in tow to guide me through the complex of buildings, I made a second very detailed examination. It took some time, but I found no one.
Afterwards, I detailed my actions to J.J. Stern and advised him that if other uninvited guests trespassed on his premises, he should take care to record a detailed description of the visitors, and to obtain the registration number of any suspect cars that were around. So many people fail to do this when they see a suspect car – a car number in these circumstances is vital to an investigation and can very swiftly help to trace the culprits.
He thanked me and said he would issue instructions to his staff to follow my advice. Then he asked if I’d like a coffee. It was at this point that I remembered Mary’s wish for some manure – and at this very moment I was surrounded by a huge amount of surplus horse muck.
I hesitated to ask, but he had guessed I was about to make a request of some kind. He must be plagued with people asking for winning tips, but I was not seeking this kind of information …
He smiled as if not to discourage me.
‘Er,’ I began. ‘While I’m here, I was told you had some horse manure to get rid of.’
‘Manure? Tons of it! Want some, Mr Rhea?’
‘I wouldn’t mind some, not a lot … I’ll pay,’ I offered. ‘I can help myself …’
‘Nonsense. It’s free to any good home! We just want shot of it. Look, you’ve earned a coffee for your advice, so come into the office and I’ll get young Christine to pop some in your van. Are the rear doors open?’
‘I’ll unlock them,’ I said, and I did, leaving them standing open.
In the office, he picked up the intercom telephone, dialled an extension and a girl answered.
‘Christine,’ he said. ‘There’s a police van in the yard. Pop some manure in the back, will you? The doors are open.’
She agreed and he replaced the phone. ‘She’s new here,’ he said. ‘Only sixteen, but she’s mad on horses. It’s only her first week, so it’ll do her good to see what goes on.’
He organised a cup of coffee, asking if I would like a touch of Scotch with it, but as I was on duty and driving, I declined the latter offer. The coffee would be fine.
We chatted for about quarter of an hour, he telling me about his life in horse racing, and me trying to explain a little about the work of a rural constable. He was a charming man, I decided.
Just as I stood up to depart, his telephone rang so I excused myself and left him to deal with his caller. When I got outside, the van doors were closed and there was no sign of Christine; I
had never even seen the girl and could not even thank her for her trouble.
But when I opened the driver’s door, I was horrified. The stench that met me was appalling, and as I stared into the rear compartment, I saw that it was full of hot, fresh horse manure. It was neatly spread across the width and along the length of the back of the van.
She had filled every space, but she had not bagged it; she had simply shovelled muck into the back of the van, as a farmer would have shovelled muck into a cart. I could have died on the spot. What on earth could I do?
I thought fast, closing the door to shut off some of the stink; if I returned to complain to J.J. Stern, he’d probably fire the girl … and it would look as if I was rejecting his generosity … I decided to drive away.
Gingerly, therefore, I climbed into the malodorous interior, already feeling itchy as flies were buzzing around, and began the trip home. The weight in the rear was enormous and it affected the steering, making it dangerously light as I took to the winding lanes to avoid being seen.
I opened all the windows and found that the flow of fresh air did keep some of the powerful pong at bay, but it was a terrible journey. My uniform and hair would reek of the stuff when I emerged.
After radioing Control to say I had searched Keldhead Stables but had found no intruder, I decided to sneak home and remove the muck. But on the way, I got a call to a road traffic accident about two miles from Aidensfield. Groaning, I could not avoid this duty; happily, it was not serious and no one was hurt. A farm lorry and an old Ford Cortina had collided on a junction near Briggsby, but the lorry had been carrying farm manure too, several tons of it. Due to the accident, it had been catapulted from the lorry and had almost smothered the car and peppered both drivers.
The Cortina, a battered old vehicle, had been carrying a drum of waste oil on the back seat. The oil drum had overturned inside the car, resulting in a terrible mess to both the car and its driver. The fulsome smell surrounding this scenario was dreadful, so much so that the contribution made by my uniform and van was of no consequence. After dealing with the accident and arranging for the load, the vehicles and the mess to be removed, I chugged home.
There is no need to explain the effects of this combination of events upon my person and upon the little van, save to say that Mary and I spent the next three hours frantically trying to remove the muck and then attempting to rid the van of the lingering effluvium.
But the manure had filtered into every possible crevice; try as we might, we never did remove it all.
I bathed and changed my uniform for the second half of my patrol, but the miasma remained; I cleaned the rear several times afterwards, using all kinds of disinfectants and smelly things, but it seemed that for ever afterwards, the mini-van smelled of horse muck. Some of the other drivers, including Sergeant Blaketon, did from time to time refer to the redolence; I said it had come from dealing with the accident to the muck-carrying lorry, some of which had penetrated our official vehicle. I’m sure he did not believe me, but he never questioned me further. After all, it was I who had to live with the unwholesome results of my manure venture.
In spite of everything, we should not criticise that young girl – after all, she had obeyed her boss’s instructions to the very letter. However, the incident did teach me that orders must be precisely and clearly given if they are to be properly obeyed. And so Mary got her muck and the garden did benefit from it.
On another occasion, another car landed me in trouble, but it was not a police car this time. It was my own.
Even though we had been issued with our little van, the faceless powers-that-be felt it was prudent that, from time to time, we patrolled on foot.
I think this idea came to them because there were, inevitably, occasions when two rural beat constables were on duty at the same time, when both simultaneously required the official van.
Clearly, we could not patrol together, consequently when our duties overlapped in this way, one of us was scheduled to work a foot patrol, perhaps for four hours or even for eight. Now, in a city or town, this is a splendid idea and there is no finer way for a constable to meet the public and for them to meet him. But it does not quite operate the same way in rural North Yorkshire.
For one thing, villages or centres of population are several miles apart. Another thing is that such centres may contain only six or eight houses and a telephone kiosk, added to which many of the farms which created our work were located some distance away from these little villages. Furthermore, our patrols were governed by the location of telephone kiosks because we had to stand beside a nominated kiosk every hour on the hour in case our superiors wished to contact us, or in case there was an emergency.
How we would have travelled to any emergency was never discussed, but this system meant that we spent about an hour walking along deserted country lanes between villages, following which we stood beside a telephone kiosk for five minutes. After that, it was time to walk to the next village which meant we never had time to meet people or time to perform any duty of more than a minute or two’s duration.
To my simple mind, it seemed very silly to spend periods of almost one whole hour beyond communication with the public. Virtually the only companions I had upon those long country walks were the beasts, birds and insects of the fields and hedgerows. Cars carrying people did flash past and occasionally one would halt to ask whether I required a lift anywhere, but such occurrences were rare. More often than not, I simply left one village telephone kiosk and walked to the next without meeting a solitary person.
From a purely selfish point of view, it was marvellous. It meant I was getting paid for regularly taking a most enjoyable walk through some of England’s most beautiful countryside, a pleasure for which many were prepared to pay considerable sums or to travel long distances. But from a police efficiency point of view, it was ridiculous. The amount of official time wasted was considerable and besides, what aspects of police work could I engage upon in such circumstances? The answer was nil, other than a spot of musing upon aspects of the profession.
I had a word with the Inspector about this ludicrous situation, but his response was simply. ‘If it says foot patrol on the duty sheets, then that’s what you must do.’
I attempted to defend my logic by saying that an hour spent in every village en route would be far more beneficial than an hour spent plodding along an empty road; if I spent time in a village, I could meet the people and undertake the traditional role of a village constable.
There were always enquiries to complete about local crimes or happenings, investigations to be made and contacts to be established. But my reasoning fell on deaf ears. Foot patrols were foot patrols and there must be no arguments against the system. Try as I might, I could not persuade anyone to change the useless ritual. Then, one foul and rainy day, I hit upon a solution.
Rather than endure many hours walking to nowhere in the pouring rain, I decided to use my own private car to transport myself between the villages. I would not claim anything by way of expenses from the police authority; I would quietly drive between points for my own convenience and peace of mind. This would enable me to spend the best part of an hour in each of the villages upon my route, so giving me a greater opportunity for solving crimes, meeting people, getting acquainted with the locality, absorbing knowledge about the area and its personalities and, in fact, doing all those varied jobs a police officer should do.
None of my superiors knew about this little scheme, and so when I was next detailed to undertake a foot patrol of this kind, I decided I would once again use my own car to transport me between points. Upon arrival in each of the villages, I would conceal it well away from the telephone kiosk, just in case the Sergeant, the Inspector or the Superintendent called on me and objected to my enterprise. So far as they were concerned, I was still spending all my time on foot.
I almost fell foul of the Superintendent on one occasion because I arrived in Elsinby by car, only to find him standing at the telepho
ne kiosk, awaiting me. And he was a witness to my arrival in this very unofficial transport.
With some apprehension, I parked and walked towards him, throwing up a smart salute upon my approach. He chatted amiably for a while and then threw in the barbed question,
‘Why are you using your private car, PC Rhea?’
‘I’ve a firearms certificate to renew, sir, at Toft Hill Farm. It expires this week. It’s a mile and a half out of the village, and I wouldn’t have had the time to do that, and then walk to my next point on time.’
It was true, as it happened, and he accepted my excuse.
‘Well, so long as you don’t do this regularly, PC Rhea. Remember this system is designed as a foot patrol.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I had become too wise to argue and quietly determined that I would studiously ignore this instruction, albeit with the knowledge that he would inform the Inspector of my transgression. But I could easily conceal the car in countless hiding places at every village I visited. And so that is how I conducted my foot patrols.
Then, on a damp, cold and foggy evening one November, I was performing yet another of these marathon patrols. This one, whether by accident or design I am not sure, took me to the more remote corners of my patch. I had started at 5pm, and was due to patrol, on foot, through those remote lanes until 1am with a refreshment break around mid-way.
In my view, to patrol on foot along unlit roads in the foggy darkness was rank stupidity. It was both dangerous and futile, and so I decided to use my own car. Things went well until I arrived at my 8pm point in Ploatby; in that time, I had managed to call at local inns, to chat to residents and to conduct a miscellany of minor enquiries. And then, as I stood beside the lonely kiosk in the thickening fog, the Inspector arrived in his official car.
Constable Through the Meadow Page 4