‘No, I couldn’t bear that,’ he said. ‘Not for such a good customer, Mr Rhea, and I must think of her reputation and that of all her relations. The publicity would be terrible in a community of this size.’
‘So how can I help if you do not want official action?’ I asked.
‘I thought you might have knowledge of other methods of prevention, Mr. Rhea. I know shop-lifting is a problem, and I thought you might know of some way I could prevent her, for her own sake really, without resorting to court action.’
‘I could have a word with her,’ I offered. ‘I could try to warn her off. Maybe a lecture from a policeman would help. I could frighten her off, maybe.’
‘She might take umbrage, Mr Rhea, and boycott my store if she thought I’d been making accusations behind her back.’
‘So we’ve reached an impasse,’ I said. ‘You will not confront her with your suspicions, and you will not allow me to confront her either. Really, Mr Wilson, if you do not want official police action, the remedy must come from you. You’ve got to decide either to let her continue, or to ban her from the shop, with all the possible consequences.’
‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘I know that if I do ban her, the others will boycott me, and I could not afford that. There are some very good customers among her relations, Mr Rhea. It seems I must grin and bear it, then.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I only wish I could be more helpful.’
‘Well, I had to talk it over with someone impartial,’ he said. ‘I shall keep a closer eye on her, that’s all.’
And so I left him to his worries. But later that afternoon, as I drove around my picturesque beat, I felt I’d let him down. Even though he did not wish me to take official action, I felt there could have been some advice or help I might have produced. But what?
How could I involve myself in this problem in an unofficial capacity? In some ways, Mr Wilson had placed me in a dilemma too and as I drove around, I passed Miss Carr’s fine house. A magnificent detached stone-built house, it occupied a prime site about a mile out of Crampton and as I drove past, she drove out of her gate in her new Volvo.
Money for Miss Carr was no problem; a confident, fine-looking woman in her early fifties, she paid her way and was openly generous to her nephews and nieces and indeed to others who needed help. The village could tell of many acts of kindness by Mabel Carr. For these reasons, it seemed very odd that she was systematically stealing from this hard-working little shopkeeper. My own instinct was to prosecute her for this unkindness towards him, for I felt it was the only answer. I drove on, and it would be about a week later at lunchtime when I was next in Crampton. Mr Wilson’s shop was closed so I decided to walk around the village, then pop in to see him. And as I walked among the pretty cottages and flowering meadows, I had an idea.
‘Ah, Mr Rhea,’ he beamed. ‘Good of you to call.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Wilson,’ I smiled. ‘How’s things?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ he said. The shop was empty, so we chatted about the weather for a while, and engaged in our usual small talk, and then I asked about Miss Carr.
‘Is she still stealing?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘As bold as brass, really. She got away with a small liqueur on Monday, slipped it into her shopping-bag as quick as lightning. I think she’s getting bolder, Mr Rhea. I do wish I could find a way of halting her.’
‘I think I have an answer,’ I said. ‘Highly irregular, I’m afraid, and very unofficial, but it might work.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll listen to anything.’
‘First, I must ask this, you’re not making it easy for her to take things, are you? Putting temptation in her way? Placing things where she can’t resist them?’
He shook his head. ‘No, the stuff she takes is my normal stock which is regularly on the counters for sale. I’ve always displayed it there, Mr Rhea; in fact, I’ve been trying to make things a little more difficult for her by putting out larger items, like the bottles of liqueur. But after she’d been in, one was missing. She was too quick for me, Mr Rhea; it had gone in a twinkling and she was out of the shop before I realised what she’d done. That’s how she operates; I have kept an eye on her and she knows it, but she’s too quick and clever, a real expert. I can’t clear my counters because of her; besides, that kind of open sales technique is a valuable source of income.’
I knew that his neat and tidy mind would instinctively realise when something had been taken; he’d know if a solitary tomato or roll of mints was stolen from his stock, so organised was his mind and his business.
‘I had to ask,’ I said, ‘because it’s the sort of question that you might get asked by her relations if you implement my little scheme.’
‘Short of banning her, Mr Rhea, I’ve done everything to make it harder for her to steal. So what is your plan?’
‘Her relations, nephews, nieces, cousins and so on, how many of them are your customers?’
‘Most of them who live hereabouts,’ he said, opening a drawer behind the counter. ‘I’ll check for you.’
He lifted out several small red notebooks, each with a customer’s name on the front, and sorted through them. He put several to one side, and then counted them.
‘Seven,’ he said. ‘Seven have monthly accounts with me, these are their books.’
‘And are there others without accounts?’ I asked.
‘Just one,’ he said. ‘Mrs Ruth Newall, Mabel’s elder sister. She pays cash for everything. Why do you ask?’
I side-stepped that question for the moment by asking, ‘And are they fond of their Aunt or Cousin Mabel? They’d not want her to get into trouble with us, the police?’
‘Oh, they love her, Mr Rhea, they’re a lovely family, so close.’
‘Good, so this is what I suggest. I suggest that every time Miss Carr steals something, you add its cost to one of those relations’ accounts. In other words, you make the family pay for her sins through a form of communal responsibility.’
‘They’d know they hadn’t bought the goods in question, Mr Rhea, and query it. It’s almost dishonest …’
‘But that’s the idea, Mr Wilson, to encourage them to query their account. Then you tell them why, you tell them it’s for a bottle of liqueur that Miss Mabel, er, took, without paying. You tell them quite clearly what she’s doing, Mr Wilson.’
‘I think they’d be very upset.’
‘Yes, but that’s where you score because you say that she’s been stealing for many months, that you’ve done all in your power to stop her, and short of taking her to the magistrates’ court, this is your only redress. I’m sure they’ll appreciate your actions in not prosecuting her – after all, she is giving them presents and money … besides, that bottle of liqueur, for example, might well be sitting on one of their own shelves right now …’
‘Yes, I suspect it is, Mr Rhea.’
‘The idea is that the responsibility is placed upon her family; it lifts the burden from you and it means you are not losing money or sleep because of her actions.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ was all he said.
It was several weeks later when he called me into his cottage behind the shop.
‘Mr Rhea,’ he said over a coffee. ‘That system you suggested for Mabel Carr. I thought I’d let you know that it is working very well.’
‘Is it? Then I’m delighted!’
‘I must admit I was uncertain at first, and indeed I ignored it, but then she got away with a full bottle of brandy. I put it on Mrs George Haddon’s bill – George is a nephew, and I explained why. It seems Mabel had given him the bottle anyway! But he called a family conference and they invited me up to the Haddons’ house to explain things to the whole family, without Mabel’s knowledge, of course.’
‘That’s an excellent move, so they took it well?’
‘Yes, very well, they were sorry that she had placed me in such a position, but they fully understood. And they agreed to my actions. Th
ey were pleased I had told them.’
‘And they will be trying to persuade her to stop shop-lifting?’ I smiled.
‘Er, no,’ he said. ‘They do not want to upset her, so we will all allow her to continue, and they will pay for everything she steals. They feel it is a symptom of her time of life, you see, and that she will overcome it eventually. So they’re keeping my actions secret from her.’
‘And does this please you, Mr Wilson?’ I asked.
‘Yes, it does, Mr Rhea, and thank you.’
In the days that followed, I wondered whether the actions of Mabel Carr now amounted to the crime of theft and felt this could produce a marvellous challenge for a defence lawyer if such a conspiracy ever reached court. But it never did. Mabel’s huge complement of relations continued to pay for her indiscretions and I heard no more about it.
Years later, though, I did learn by sheer chance from one of her sisters that, throughout her youthful and indeed middle-aged years, Mabel Carr had conducted a very one-sided love affair with Mr Wilson. And not once had he shown the slightest romantic interest in her – I don’t think he ever knew of, or suspected, her yearnings and devotion.
Maybe her shop-lifting was a last desperate attempt to attract his attention?
5
‘Where is the man who has the power and skill
To stem the torrent of a woman’s will?’
Anonymous
It was Shakespeare who said that a railing wife was worse than a smoky house, and Thomas Moore who wrote in his ‘Sovereign Woman’ that “Disguise our bondage as we will, ‘Tis woman, woman, who rules us still.” Those poets, and the anonymous gentleman who wrote the opening lines at the head of this chapter, must have had some personal knowledge of the awful effect that a nagging wife can have upon the happiness and peace of mind of a husband.
Down the ages, and in spite of modern scientific progress, it has been impossible to stop some women from nagging. One terrible attempt was made by the introduction of the brank; this was an iron framework which was placed upon a woman’s head and padlocked in position. At the front, it had a plate from which protruded a spiked or sharp edge, and this fitted into the mouth of the woman. If she moved her tongue, therefore, she injured herself; if she kept quiet, she was not hurt.
With this upon her head, the scold, as she was called, was paraded through the streets by one of the community officials. This object, known variously as the brank or scold’s bridle, was thought to have been first used in 1623 in Macclesfield, although there are hints that is was used in Scotland as early as 1574. In 1600, it is thought, the brank was used in Stirling to punish ‘the shrew.’
Around the country, some branks are preserved in our museums, and a famous one is linked to the church at Walton-on-Thames. It was presented to the parish in 1632 by a man called Chester because he had lost one of his estates through the actions of a lying and gossiping woman. Mr Chester presented the brank with this accompanying verse:
‘Chester presents Walton with a bridle
To curb women’s tongues that talk too idle.’
It is difficult to ascertain when the brank was last used, although there is an account of one in the early part of last century. At Altrincham, a woman who caused great distress to her neighbours by her ceaseless and malicious gossip was punished by being paraded around the town wearing a brank. But she refused to walk with it on and would not agree to this punishment. As a result she was then placed in a wheelbarrow and wheeled around the principal streets and market place. History assures us that this had the desired effect of curbing her tongue.
Another device for dealing with scolds was the ducking-stool; this varied in detailed construction but was based on something akin to a long plank, rather like a see-saw, which had a chair or seat at one end. It was positioned with the chair over a pond or river, and so the scolding woman, after being tied into the chair, was lowered repeatedly into the water to cool her tongue. This punishment usually attracted a crowd of local folks who came along for the so-called fun.
One account dated 1700, written by a Frenchman upon a visit to England, says, ‘The way of punishing scolding women is pleasant enough,’ and he then describes the ducking-stool, after which he adds, ‘They plunge her into the water as often as the sentence directs, in order to cool her immoderate heat.’
Like the brank, the ducking-stool’s last known use occurred in the early years of last century, probably in 1809 at Leominster. The lady was called Jenny Pipes and the first thing she did upon release from the stool was to utter a string of foul oaths as she cursed the magistrates.
Of these two methods, contemporary reports said that the brank was better than the ducking-stool because ‘the stool not only endangered the health of the party, it also gave her tongue liberty ’twixt every dip.’
The nagging woman has been a topic of writers, poets and comedians for years, and remains so. I like the story of a man who called his wife Peg, when her real name was Josephine. Someone asked him why he called her Peg and he said, ‘Well, Peg is short for Pegasus; Pegasus was an immortal horse and an immortal horse is an everlasting nag.’
There is also a view that nature has given man the apparatus for snoring to compensate for the woman’s capacity for nagging. She nags him during the day, so he retaliates by snoring at night, for which she nags him during the day …. and so a type of noisy if uneasy balance is achieved.
But not all naggers are married to snorers and not all snorers are married to naggers, which means that many innocent people suffer from vitriolic and poisonous tongues while others must tolerate nights of oscillating and very tuneless olfactory muscles.
One would hardly expect the village constable to become involved in marital battles of this kind, but in fact all police officers, whether rural or urban, do find themselves involved in what the police call ‘domestics’. These are breaches of the peace which generally occur among families; if the battles remain behind closed doors, we are not too concerned, but when warring women spill into the street armed with frying-pans, rolling-pins and sharp tongues, then we are sometimes called in to quell what could otherwise develop into a breach of the peace in a public place. As a rule, we try to avoid these because the moment the peace-making constable arrives, the sparring partners both turn upon the unfortunate constable. But at least that stops the quarrelling and perhaps personifies the constable’s unsung role in maintaining public tranquillity. He keeps the peace while being attacked from all sides.
It would not be possible in this book to list all the ‘domestics’ in which I became officially involved, but they did conform to this pattern and few terminated in court. They were usually settled by a stern talking-to or threats of having ‘binding-over’ orders levelled against the parties, for most were of a sudden and temporary nature.
But there were cases when nagging wives caused domestic upsets of a more permanent kind. One involved a man called Joseph Pringle who had a wife called Roberta. They lived in a neat little bungalow in Aidensfield, just off the Elsinby Road, where it nestled cheerfully among trees with a fine view to the south. With no children, the Pringles were a quiet couple who rarely involved themselves in village matters. Mrs Pringle’s socialising was done in York.
I first became aware of Joseph when I noticed his car halting outside the Brewers Arms at Aidensfield around seven each weekday evening. He always popped in for a swift half of bitter on his way home from work, and sometimes I came across him when I was on official business in the pub. If I had any confidential enquiries to make of any landlord, I would pop in before the customers filled the bars. And so I became acquainted with Joseph Pringle.
Aged about forty with a balding head of greying hair, he was one of those insignificant men who are hardly noticed among a crowd of three. Of average height and average build, he wore average clothes and drove an average car at an average sort of speed. He lived in an average house on an average income, but, as I was to learn later, he suffered from a higher-than-average
amount of nagging. He had married a true virago, a real warrior of a woman who constantly and cruelly nattered him during his every moment at home. She never gave him a moment’s peace; she nagged and nagged and nagged.
Roberta Pringle was a loud-mouthed, energetic and very forceful woman who played hell with everyone; good-looking in some ways, she was approaching forty and had a fine figure topped with an equally fine head of dark hair which framed a handsome, rather than pretty, face. Slightly taller than her husband, she was always very well dressed, but went about her daily routine playing hell with the postman, the dustman, the milkman, the paper-boys, the butcher, the grocer, the vicar, the policeman, her neighbours and anyone else with whom she had any dealings. And of course, when they were not available, she played hell with Joseph.
Because most of them learned, by experience, to keep out of her way, Joseph bore the heaviest burden. He was continuously told off because of the government, the rates, the parish council, the state of the nation, the cost of living, the sloppy work of builders, plumbers, electricians, motor mechanics, doctors, dentists and nurses; she played hell about the roads, snowploughs, weather forecasters, British Rail, bus timetables, canteen ladies, rubbish bins, cafe proprietors, village shops, the post office, tinned beans, the telephone system, television, women’s fashions, men’s trousers, hotel beds, the water supply, long grass, bruised apples, cold Yorkshire puddings and fatty ham.
And she never stopped complaining and nagging, which meant that her range of subject-matter was never exhausted. Indeed, it expanded, with the meek Joseph having his ears lambasted during all his precious moments at home.
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