‘Really, where?’ he asked, turning around to seek PC Rhea.
‘No, sir, I’m PC Rhea,’ I sighed. ‘I’m not PC MacTavish; you called me MacTavish!’
‘Did I really? But you are MacTavish, surely?’
‘No, sir, I’m PC Rhea.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Very sure, sir. Rhea is my surname, I’ve never been called MacTavish.’
‘Oh, well, sorry about that. You do look like MacTavish, though. Remarkable. A most remarkable likeness. You could be brothers, twins even. Astonishing.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know a PC MacTavish, sir,’ I had to admit.
‘So you are Rhea! Well, well, fancy me not recognizing you. You’re the Aidensfield constable, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then where is PC MacTavish stationed? Why did I mistake you for MacTavish? Tell me that.’
‘I don’t know, sir, perhaps he’s new to the area.’
‘Of course! That’s it! A new arrival, he’s been with us a couple of months, a probationer constable, straight from training school. PC Alastair MacKenzie MacTavish, a Scotsman.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘He’s stationed at Strensford. But my goodness, Rhea does look like you, MacTavish . . .’
‘Rhea, sir.’
‘Who?’
‘Me, sir. I’m Rhea.’
‘My goodness, so you are.’
‘MacTavish is the other one, sir.’
‘Yes, you’re right, of course. You really are both so alike, it’s incredible. Now, how’s things otherwise?’
‘Very quiet this morning, sir, no problems.’
And so, after chatting to me for about ten minutes, off he went. I felt he’d left in a cloud of utter confusion but was sure that assertion of my identity, uncertain though it had been, would establish my name in his mind. I was wrong. Whenever he met me in Aidensfield village, or at my police house, he called me PC Rhea, but whenever I encountered him away from Aidensfield, he always called me PC MacTavish.
As this absurdity continued, I decided to find out a little more of PC Alastair MacKenzie MacTavish of Strensford Police. From friends stationed there, I discovered he was a new recruit with a strong Scots accent, but that he was indeed about my height and had my colouring. Furthermore, one of my friends did say he had a partial resemblance to me and, like Pollock, did state we might be taken for brothers. But the most distinctive difference was MacTavish’s voice — he had a very pronounced Scots accent while I spoke with a distinct Yorkshire voice.
It was inevitable that I should meet MacTavish and our first meeting occurred when we were both selected for duty at Redcar Races. This was one of our regular and enjoyable extra duties; every one of us looked forward to duty at one or more of the local racecourses.
In the 1960s, the North Riding Constabulary was responsible for policing several racecourses, including Redcar, Thornaby, Catterick, Thirsk and owing to some accident of geography, York racecourse, although not the city of York itself. Our responsibility was the Knavesmire. For race duties, we were collected at our stations by a small personnel carrier and on this occasion, as we were heading for Redcar, I settled in my seat and found myself next to a young constable with a Scots accent. The number on his epaulette was 557.1 was 575.
‘Are you PC MacTavish?’ I asked, thinking that he did have a look of me. We could indeed have been brothers . . .
‘Aye, Alastair,’ and he extended his hand.
‘Nick Rhea,’ I said.
‘Oh, you’re PC Rhea!’ he grinned. ‘Inspector Pollock keeps calling me PC Rhea.’
‘And he keeps calling me PC MacTavish,’ I smiled.
We exchanged a few tales about Pollock’s inability to tell us apart and then discovered that Pollock was the duty officer at the races. At that news, I reckoned we were in for a fun-laden day. Both MacTavish and I were allocated duties in the car park prior to the first race, and then, once the races started, we were to patrol in the paddock to keep the peace, deter drunks and watch out for pickpockets. Our briefings were given by a local sergeant who had no difficulty with our identities and we proceeded to our places of duty.
MacTavish, being new to the chore of racecourse car parking, was positioned on the entrance to our car park, which offered the simplest of our duties. Inside there were me and several other officers; we operated at the end of each row of cars, filling in the gaps by a well-tested system of hand-signals. We had to guide the cars in at a rapid rate and park them in herring-bone fashion to facilitate a smooth and swift exit once racing was over. MacTavish’s job was simply to keep traffic moving towards us and to help in preventing queues of cars forming in the town on the approaches to the racecourse. But, as the sergeant told us, ‘Change places from time to time, Rhea and MacTavish; Rhea, you give young MacTavish an opportunity to do the herring-bone parking . . . help him, though, we don’t want a cock-up.’
As MacTavish was waving his cars towards me, Inspector Pollock passed by the youngster and I heard him ask, ‘Everything in order, Rhea?’
‘MacTavish, sir. I’m MacTavish. Rhea is over there, parking the cars in rows.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Well, carry on, things are going smoothly.’
Pollock then came to me and beamed. ‘You’re Rhea, aren’t you? MacTavish is on the entrance?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I smiled. ‘You’ve got it right this time!’
‘Yes, I can tell you apart now. Well, no problems? The drivers are behaving? Obeying your signals?’
‘Yes, sir, they’re very experienced at this anyway, well, most of them, that is. The newcomers can cause hold-ups, but nothing serious. We’re coping very well.’
Half an hour later, MacTavish and I were told to change our places. I was on the entrance now, waving in the never-ending stream of cars, and MacTavish was having his first real attempt at herring-bone parking. He was coping quite well when Inspector Pollock arrived at my point.
‘Well done, MacTavish, you’ve learned this very well.’
‘Rhea, sir. I’m PC Rhea. MacTavish is over there, parking them in rows.’
He looked into the ranks of cars and shook his head. ‘But I thought Rhea was there . . .’
‘No, I’m here, sir, we’ve changed places. Sergeant’s orders.’
‘I ought to memorize your number, MacTavish . . .’
‘Rhea, sir.’
‘So you are 575, Rhea.’
‘Yes, sir, and MacTavish is 557.’
‘That’s not going to help, is it?’ he grumbled, shaking his head. ‘Well, I’d better go and see how MacTavish is getting along.’
By the time he returned for his third visit, we had swopped places again, and the confusion continued; it was even worse when we left the car parking to assume our duties in the paddock because in there we were free to roam anywhere and were not restricted to fixed points. But as the afternoon wore on, Inspector Pollock, being an office of superior intellect, found a compromise. He ceased to address us by name. He merely addressed us as ‘Constable’.
And he did this thereafter. Thus I had lost my identity and the next time he saw me at Ashfordly, he asked, ‘All correct, Constable?’
‘Yes, sir, all’s quiet.’
‘That was a very good report you submitted about the careless driving incident,’ he said. ‘Seeing it was the first traffic accident you’ve had to deal with, you did a very good job. A very well-presented file.’
‘That wasn’t me, sir,’ I smiled. ‘That would be PC 557 MacTavish.’
‘Aren’t you MacTavish?’
‘No, sir, I’m Rhea.’
Sadly, about a year later, PC MacTavish was asked to resign from the force because, under the terms of his probationary period, it was felt he would never make an efficient constable. I have often wondered if I had done something wrong or sloppily which might have been entered in his personal record by error and which might have soured his chances of being accepted as a constable in our force. B
ut I never knew the reason for his early departure. Then, about two years later, a Scotsman stopped me in Strensford to ask directions to the harbour side.
‘You’re Jock MacTavish’s lad, aren’t you?’ he suddenly asked as he looked into my face.
‘No,’ I said. ‘My name is Rhea.’
‘Are ye sure?’ he grinned. ‘You’re not pulling my leg?’
‘No,’ I spoke in a strong Yorkshire accent. ‘I’m the one with the Yorkshire accent.’
And he went away, shaking his head. ‘I think you’re kidding me, Alastair,’ he said. ‘Your dad said I’d find you here, at Strensford . . .’
And to this day, I have no idea what became of Alastair MacKenzie MacTavish; if his father did not know where he was, then clearly there was a mystery about that ex-constable.
And, on reflection, I don’t know the identity of the Scotsman who thought I was Alastair MacKenzie MacTavish, but for a long time after the departure of MacTavish, Inspector Pollock continued to call me ‘Constable’.
* * *
Another occasion when Inspector Pollock became confused occurred when the Strensford Police football team won the Chief Constable’s Cup and decided to hold their celebration party at the Aidensfield Arms. It was a Friday night and the team had booked a supper at the pub; George had applied for an extension of hours and promised to make a superb ham buffet, Arnold Merry weather’s bus had been booked to convey the team to and from Strensford. The party promised to be a happy occasion.
Although the party was for team members and their spouses, the captain, Bob Oliver, did invite me to pop in. He also extended his invitation to the officers of Ashfordly section. When the day of the party arrived I was dismayed to find that I was on duty, and so were Alf Ventress and Phil Bellamy, both of whom were keen football fans. But the fact that Phil was on duty that night was not necessarily a drawback — he said he might just pop in and so I said likewise. It would be churlish to avoid the party, we felt.
On that Friday night the heavens opened and the rain poured down. In my little van with its radio crackling in the comfort of the cab, I found nothing to do. I chugged around the moors and dales but found nothing to occupy me; everyone was sheltering from the storm but I had to patrol until midnight. I found myself getting utterly bored — and then I remembered the party at the inn. I had an invitation, but I was on duty — I decided I would pop in, as invited, but would not, of course, drink alcohol. I might be tempted to a soft drink or two, and some sandwiches. I convinced myself that I was not doing wrong because pub visits were part of my duty.
And so, at about 10.30, I parked my minivan at the rear of the pub under a carport and entered. Inside, the place was heaving with large off-duty policemen with their wives or girlfriends, and the regulars were there too. Among the packed crowd, I spotted the familiar shape of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass; his dog, Alfred, was dozing before the fire. And then I saw two police uniforms. At first, I thought the team was organizing some kind of joke, but I quickly realized that the uniformed men were Phil Bellamy and Alf Ventress. As I pushed through the crowd towards them, somebody thrust a pint of beer into my hand and disappeared before I could refuse it. Clutching the pint high above my head to avoid spillage, I managed to reach Alf and Phil.
‘What are you two doing here? I thought you were on duty!’
‘We are, we’ve sneaked over here for some supper,’ grinned Bellamy.
Alf added, ‘There’s nobody about, the town’s dead and we’ve got to close the police station for several hours a day now, part of the new plans, so me and Phil thought we’d drive out to this party. We were invited . . .’
‘What about Blaketon? Won’t he wonder where you are?’
‘He’s on his long weekend off, he’s gone away to the Lake District.’
‘So who’s in charge?’
‘That dopey new inspector,’ grinned Alf. ‘Pollock. And he won’t even know where to find the pub, let alone find us. Relax, Nick, we’ve left the car outside the back window with the radio on full volume; look, the window’s open at the bottom, we’ll hear our call sign if we’re wanted for anything urgent.’
I could see the rear bar window was open a few inches, but the rain was not entering. And I could see the bodywork of their official car just outside. It meant that two official police vehicles were parked at the rear of the pub. There is a saying within police circles that a good policeman never gets wet, so we were helping to perpetuate that myth. We all knew, however, that if we got caught, we should be in serious trouble for being absent from our beats. That did not necessarily apply to me, of course, because I was on my beat and I could claim that I was performing a routine pub visit. Normally pub visits lasted two or three minutes, but this one would last all night!
The snag with radios in official vehicles was that every thirty minutes, at quarter to and quarter past the hour, we received a request from Control to state our current location. This meant that either Alf or Phil had to rush out of the pub every thirty minutes to respond to ‘locations’, as we termed the call. And in response to each call he gave a vague response such as ‘Patrolling Ashfordly area’ or ‘Patrolling the A169 heading south’ or ‘Thackerston Moor, intend Elsinby and Crampton’ or ‘Rannockdale towards Whemmelby’. And so, in the minds of Control, the Ashfordly car appeared to be busily patrolling the district in pouring rain when in fact it was parked behind George’s busy inn at Aidensfield. I could quite easily respond to each call by saying ‘Patrolling Aidensfield and district.’
So, on that awful night, our cars remained at the inn while we talked football, had our suppers and socialized with the victorious Strensford team. The extension of hours had been granted until midnight and by half past eleven the entire football team was well fed and watered. I must admit I had sipped from the pint which had been earlier thrust into my hands, but had restricted myself to that one alcoholic drink, although I did have a whopping big supper, several soft drinks and copious cups of coffee. Alf had sipped one pint of beer too and had then turned to orange juice, but Bellamy, not driving, had weakened — he had dealt with several pints and enough food to satiate a family of five.
And then I heard the distinctive sound of the Ashfordly car’s official radio. It was Ventress’s call sign, but it was not ‘locations’ — it was a duty call!
‘Alf, Phil,’ I said, ‘you’re wanted. Division’s calling you up!’
Alf rushed out to the rear of the premises to respond. The rain was cascading from the skies in a ferocious downpour and in the few seconds that it took to reach the car door he got drenched. He came back and said, ‘That was Inspector Pollock, he asked for my location.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Phil, now very nervous.
‘Well, he said he’d been checking our locations all night, driving to the places I’d mentioned hoping to rendezvous with us, and had missed us every time.’
‘Oh God,’ groaned Bellamy.
Ventress continued, ‘He wants to know where the hell we’ve been! He wants an explanation — he said we could not have driven from Thackerston to Whemmelby without meeting him and if we’d been in Elsinby, he would have seen us . . .’
‘Where is now?’ I asked.
‘Aidensfield,’ and the expression on Alf s face told us that his ruse had been rumbled. ‘He’s parked right outside the front door of this pub!’
It meant the three of us were trapped inside. Our police vehicles were at the back and there was no way out other than by the main entrance. We knew that Pollock would wait outside the pub. He was not as daft as we’d thought. We were in trouble.
‘I’ll check,’ I said.
I rushed up to the first landing of George’s staircase and peered through the window that overlooked the street; sure enough, Pollock’s car was parked right opposite, its lights shining in the pouring rain. I could see him in the driver’s seat, his white shirt collar gleaming through the damp window. We were in a dilemma now . . . we had to find a logical reason why we had b
een here all this time, Alf and Phil had to find a reason to explain their mysterious non-tour of the district . . . and the fact that the pub was full of off-duty policemen would make any excuse sound very feeble. But, as the Bible says, ‘In the multitude of counsellors, there is safety.’
And there were lots of counsellors in the premises. I returned to the bar to impart my bad news to Alf and Phil, whereupon George approached me.
‘Trouble, Nick?’
I explained our dilemma, urging George to be sure to close the premises on time, having regard to his extension of hours, of course, because Pollock was lingering outside. George said, ‘This lot are leaving early, some have got to be on duty at 1 a.m., they were given three hours off for this. They’ll be on their way before we have to shut.’
‘That’s not my real concern, George,’ I said, ‘We need a good reason for being here now, Alf, Phil and me.’
‘Well, it’s a foul night, Nick; nobody with any sense would be out in this weather, you’d never turn a dog out on a night like this!’
‘That’s it!’ I had the answer. ‘Dogs! We’ve been doing a humanitarian act, we’ve been out looking for Claude Jeremiah’s dog. Claude told us the dog had got lost and he was worried, so we’ve been looking for it. How’s that for a story? Claude will co-operate, surely?’
‘It might cost you a few free pints for him, but you’re not wet!’ said George. ‘Your uniforms are all dry!’
‘Then we must go outside and stand in the downpour until we look wet . . .’ I said.
‘And Alfred’s as dry as a bone, Nick, he’s been lying near that fire all night, he’s as clean as a whistle . . .’
‘Then we’ll have to wet him, we could bath him!’ I said.
‘Bath him? You’re not using the hotel bathroom to bath that flea-ridden mongrel!’ snapped George.
‘You’ve an outbuilding and a bucket?’ I asked.
‘There’s an old tin bath hanging inside that bottle shed round the back,’ said George. ‘You can use that if you want . . .’
And so the urgent plot was hatched. In the few minutes that remained, and as the football team began to sing their final song, I asked Claude Jeremiah if we could borrow Alfred.
CONSTABLE BENEATH THE TREES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 13) Page 20