CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘I shall be very happy, Rhea, and I trust I shall enjoy my retirement in a crime-free village, one which is devoid of litter, safe from acts of vandalism and well policed by a dedicated and highly professional constable.’

  ‘And I hope all our letters get delivered on time, that our piles of Christmas cards don’t smother you, that your stamps all stick on as surely as they should, that you have a queue-free post office and that applicants for dog licences don’t bite you,’ I grinned. I hoped he would not consider my remarks facetious, but I knew he concealed a deep sense of humour which could be exploited on occasions.

  ‘I have a lot to learn and coping with it on a daily basis is the finest way of learning, but I am sure we shall get along very well together in our new roles, Rhea,’ he chuckled. ‘After all, we’ve had some good times in the past; I have enjoyed working with you . . . but I must not delay your work. You have an important enquiry to complete on behalf of our colleagues in London.’

  I left Ashfordly Police Station in the knowledge that I had been formally notified by Blaketon that he was about to become my local postmaster. I wondered if Alf Ventress, young Bellamy and the others had been personally given this news? If so, we’d have to organize some kind of farewell event for Blaketon and perhaps a collection for a retirement gift. That would all be done once we had a firm date for his departure, and I made a mental note to discuss it with Alf Ventress.

  In the meantime, though, I had an official reason to call at Rookery Cottage.

  Before calling, I rang Mac and made an appointment to see him. He suggested ten-thirty the following day and promised coffee and biscuits — ‘something to keep out the cold’, he said. At the appointed time, and with the necessary correspondence under my arm, I tapped on his clean, white door and was admitted almost immediately.

  ‘The heating’s gone off!’ were his first words. ‘These spring mornings can be quite chilly, but come in, the coffee’s nearly ready. That’ll warm us up. Black or white?’

  ‘White, no sugar, thanks,’ I responded.

  As expected he was immaculately dressed, as if for a formal meeting — smart jacket, trousers, shoes, collar and tie, with not a hair out of place — and he ushered me into a minuscule lounge with two chairs at each end of a highly polished antique mahogany coffee table. Milk, sugar and side plates along with a selection of biscuits were already in place, but the room was as cold as the North Pole. I noticed the fireplace contained paper and kindling topped by pieces of coal, as if ready to be ignited, but for some reason Mac had not put a match to it. He bade me be seated then disappeared into the kitchen to busy himself with the coffee and so I settled down in the chilly room and placed my papers on the table.

  He returned within minutes bearing two china cups on saucers and placed them on the table. ‘Help yourself to milk,’ he invited, pointing to the matching jug. ‘So, when you rang, you said it was about a reference I had supplied? There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s routine,’ and I explained our system of checking the authenticity of references relating to posts within the police service. He agreed that it was a wise and necessary precaution. As I was explaining things to him I produced my copy of the reference he had supplied for Philip John Westland and asked if he had written the reference; I also checked that it was his signature upon it. He had written it, he assured me; it was a genuine document and so, within seconds, our brief but necessary business was concluded.

  It was over far too quickly — I had not even begun to enjoy my coffee nor had I had time to learn more about the quiet Stuart MacGregor. He seemed happy to extend his hospitality, bringing in his two terriers — Ben and Nevis — for me to pat and stroke, and chatting about inconsequential things like village matters such as garden fêtes and local dances, and the adverse effect of loud pop music on the ears of young people. He insisted I have a second cup of coffee, once again apologizing for the chilly atmosphere and adding that he had called out an engineer to his oil-fired heating boiler; the fellow was expected this afternoon. Mac said he would be in the house all day and that statement made me wonder anew why he did not light his fire.

  I was still wondering when I left to go home to write my report which would form the official response to the Metropolitan Police. At least I could get warm at home! Even if the electrically powered night-storage heater in my office had failed, I knew Mary would have a coal fire in the lounge. Truthfully, I was not too chilled because the walk home warmed me through and the early frost had disappeared, but I must admit I continued to wonder why Mac had not lit his fire.

  It was particularly puzzling as he’d entertained a visitor. I didn’t think he was short of money, nor was he a miser. The general appearance of his house, albeit small, suggested money was not a problem and in all other respects he had made me most welcome. However, I told myself, the way he lived his life at home was nothing to do with me, so I completed my report and would return it to Ashfordly Police Station during my next visit, from where it would find its way via Force Headquarters to the Metropolitan Police Recruiting Department. I hoped the anonymous Mr Westland would have a satisfactory career with them.

  With Mac’s chilly existence at the back of my mind, it was a week or two later when my delivery of coal arrived. As I boasted a coal shed of considerable size I could accommodate a ton or more and after Ken had emptied the last bagful I went outside to pay him. For a few moments we chatted about inconsequential things then jokingly, I said, ‘You make a better living out of me than you do out of Mac in Rookery Cottage!’

  ‘He never has any coal in the place,’ Ken told me. ‘Not one piece — except a few bits on the lounge fire which he never lights. The outgoing couple laid that fire as a welcome for him when he moved in — that was ten years ago or more — and he’s never put a match to it. It’s just like it was all those years ago. He won’t have a fire in the house, Nick, not an oil lamp or even a candle. Not a naked flame anywhere.’

  ‘Not even in the depths of winter?’

  ‘Never,’ confirmed Ken. ‘He relies on his oil-fired central heating.’

  ‘No wonder the house feels cold!’ and I told him about Mac’s heating problems during my recent visit.

  ‘He’s got it fixed. I saw him a couple of days ago. He’s a nice chap, Nick. He’s not over careful with his money in spite of his name.’

  ‘So why won’t he have a fire in the house? Is he afraid of fire or something?’

  ‘Yes, he is afraid of fire, Nick, well, afraid is maybe not the right word. Very respectful might be a better way of putting it because he is a brave man. He’s no coward. His wife died in a house fire, so I’m told, long before he came here. He did some kind of brilliant rescue; he saved another woman who was in the house with her at the time but lost his wife. A mate of mine told me; he lives near Lincoln, that’s where Mac comes from; that’s where the fire was. It happened before he came to live here. In fact, I think it was his wife’s death that made him want to live somewhere else and Rookery Cottage happened to be on the market. There was quite a splash about it in the papers at the time. Now, though, he won’t risk the same thing happening to himself; he hates the idea of his own house catching fire. So, he never buys coal, Nick.’

  ‘Oh, crumbs, I had no idea,’ and I was pleased I had not mentioned the absence of a warm fire to him. If the poor fellow had lost his wife in a blaze I could understand his reluctance.

  ‘Thanks, Ken, thanks for telling me.’

  ‘He doesn’t talk about it, Nick, so keep it to yourself. Mac did once apologize because he wasn’t buying coal, but that’s as far as it went. He never said he was afraid, but I reckon he just wants to make sure he doesn’t risk another blaze. He doesn’t smoke, he never lights a candle, won’t use an oil lamp, not even in his little greenhouse. In fact, I doubt if he’s got a box of matches in the place, and he never goes into the pub lounge when the fire’s on. He’ll use one of the other bar rooms.’

  ‘I’d never notic
ed that, but it might explain his lack of social contact, Ken,’ I mused. ‘It seems he doesn’t want to visit places where there is a coal fire. And if folks do like to see one blazing away when it’s chilly, he won’t oblige. Do you think the villagers know the circumstances of his wife’s death?’

  ‘I think somebody would have mentioned it if they had known. I’ve never breathed a word, except to you, and I know you’ll be discreet.’

  Having been educated into this aspect of Mac’s life I regarded him with a new respect and was determined not to reveal my new-found knowledge to anyone. But fate, with one of its famous twists, was determined to do otherwise.

  Some weeks later, Mac was enjoying a late afternoon walk with Ben and Nevis on the edge of the moor beyond the village. It was a route they frequently followed; it carried them through the village, over the beck by the stone bridge and up to the moor with wide views across Aidensfield, the railway station and the surrounding landscape. At that late stage of the afternoon the landscape was dotted with lights as houses and farms prepared for darkness. Cars and other vehicles were illuminated too, as they went about their business either in the village or upon its approach roads.

  But among all that blossoming illumination Mac noticed a different sort of light: it was flickering, and it came from within a moorland cottage which was otherwise in darkness. At first, he thought it was light and shadow cast by the coal fire, but quickly realized the effect was far greater than any domestic fire. He knew that the cottage was on fire and, judging by the glow from the window, it seemed to be confined to the living room-cum-kitchen. In these moorland homes people lived in their kitchens, which was really a lounge with cooking facilities: either a coal fire or an oven tucked into one corner. Mac also knew, by dint of his regular walks along this route, that it was the home of an 84-year-old semi-invalid widow called Ada Pickard. From his position, high on the moors, he realized he was a considerable distance from Ada’s lonely home and his immediate dilemma was whether to seek help first or run to her house first. He chose the former on the grounds that, if the house really was on fire, the presence of the fire brigade was crucial. So, Mac ran as fast as his legs could carry him, first to a telephone kiosk on the edge of the village where he gasped out his story during a 999 call, and then to Ada’s house.

  I know all this because, after the event, I had to obtain a written statement from him to account for his part in her rescue. But I am leaping ahead at this point. When Mac arrived at Ada’s cottage — and he was first on the scene — he could see from the outside that the downstairs interior was well ablaze, but there was no sign of Ada. He knew she lived downstairs. Her semi-invalidity meant she could not cope with a staircase. She’d have been cooking her tea either on the fire or on the stove . . . maybe she’d gone to sleep, and the fat of her frying pan had caused the blaze?

  But in those desperate moments he cared for none of that kind of speculation, that was for later. He knew the dangers of opening her front door, it would create more draughts which would fuel the flames, but there was no alternative. He had to get into the house, he had to see if she was there and the door was his only point of entry.

  Pausing only to drench himself from head to toe from a bucket of cold water outside the door Mac burst into the house, taking the bucket with him, slammed the door shut behind him and began to look for Ada. When he entered the kitchen, her chair, curtains and carpet were ablaze, with flames roaring up the chimney and the tell-tale frying pan lying in the hearth. Her hair and clothes were alight too, and she was lying on the mat unable, or too frightened, to move. Making best use of his limited supply of water he threw the contents of the bucket over her, rolled her into a large clip rug, which was scorched but not burning, and began to drag her from the flames, away from danger and out into the cold, dark, night. He could not carry her; she was a heavy old woman and he was a little man, but, in his anxiety, he produced unexpected strength from somewhere and managed to drag her unceremoniously to safety outside of the house. After making sure she was free from flames he tried to quench the blaze in the house. He had the bucket, there was a trough of water outside and there were taps inside, so he began to throw useless bucketfuls into the house, through the window that had smashed in the heat and through the open door whose cavity now meant nothing to those rampant tongues of fire.

  As he laboured mightily the fire brigade arrived, rapidly followed by Dr Archie McGee from Elsinby, myself and several villagers who had seen the fire appliance hurtle through the village towards the fierce glow in the sky. Everything seemed to be happening at once, as it does on these dramatic occasions, but out of chaos came some kind of order and the house was saved from further damage.

  Ada survived, although she was badly burnt and had to spend a long time in hospital, after which she was admitted to a nursing home. Later, we learned she had placed a pan of fat on the fire, to make herself some chips for tea, but had fallen asleep and the fat had caught fire. Her house was not totally destroyed, but the kitchen area was severely damaged and required complete renovation; a job for Ashfordly Estate, who owned the property. But the hero of the moment was Stuart MacGregor. He tried to hide from the press, who wanted to interview him afterwards, but they found him and photographed him and elicited his story; partly from bystanders and partly from the reluctant man himself.

  What none of us knew, until a glamorized account of his actions appeared in various local papers, was that Mac was a hero even before attempting to rescue his wife and her friend from that earlier fire. During the war, he had saved the entire crew of an armoured tank from certain death when it had caught fire following an enemy attack. Mac, then a captain in the army, had dragged out the crew, risking his own life to haul them from the blazing vehicle and getting severely burnt himself; oddly enough, his face and head had been unscathed, probably due to a helmet he’d been wearing, but his body had been badly scarred for life. Which, I reasoned, was why he always wore long sleeves and formal attire. But he had been awarded the Military Cross for his bravery during that incident, later being promoted to major.

  I had to go back to Rookery Cottage a couple of days after Ada’s fire to obtain a long and detailed statement from him. Much to my surprise, the lounge fire was burning as he showed me into the tiny room.

  ‘Things come in threes, Nick,’ he smiled. ‘I’ve survived three fires, so I reckon I’ll not encounter another. It does make a house nice and warm, doesn’t it? A cosy feel, and so comfortable.’

  ‘You’re not frightened of your own house catching fire, then?’ I smiled.

  ‘I’m not frightened of fire, if that’s what you were thinking. But I have great respect for it and I never tempt fate. But things do come in threes, Constable, and my three fire events have come and gone. If a fire does happen again, in this house, I shall cope,’ he said. ‘But look, I don’t want a fuss making over this, I just did what anyone would have done.’

  ‘Someone else might have panicked; someone else might have thought it was a bonfire in the darkness and done nothing; someone else might have made the blaze worse; someone else might not have done things in the right sequence . . . you did all the right things, Mac, so your contribution was rather special — and most important so far as Ada was concerned. So, come on, talk to me. I need the full and factual story.’

  ‘How about a glass of whisky to warm us up as I talk?’ he smiled.

  ‘I don’t normally drink on duty, but I think I can make an exception on this occasion,’ I said, realizing you never knew who or what was behind closed doors.

  Chapter 2

  One of the most intriguing houses in Aidensfield was the one known as Kirkside. It had been given this name because it stood in its own walled grounds, very close to All Saints Anglican Parish Church. It was a handsome house of considerable size and stature, and one could have been forgiven for thinking it had been a former vicarage, but that was not the case. It had never been the residence of any Aidensfield vicars; indeed, the owners were Catho
lics and had been for generations. Nonetheless, it boasted the very distinctive appearance of an imposing Victorian vicarage and one story was that the gentleman who had commissioned its construction around 1860 — a man called Groves — had always wanted to live in a house which was comparable in stature, size and appearance to the home of the local reverend Anglican gentleman. As a Catholic layman, Mr Groves had felt he was equal to any Protestant minister under whatever guise he appeared. As a consequence, Kirkside had materialized in all its splendour, right next door to the church. It was an extremely spacious and beautifully proportioned house of local stone with a blue slate roof and lots of windows enjoying far-reaching views of the dale. It was surrounded by lawned grounds full of shrubs, trees and soft fruit and there was also a vegetable patch. Internally, it boasted seven bedrooms, a massive lounge, morning-room, dining-room, kitchen, wine cellar and sundry other rooms, one with a piscina. All were served by a grand oak-panelled entrance hall containing a gallery landing above a wide and elegant sweeping staircase. None of it would have looked out of place in a cardinal’s residence, an Anglican archbishop’s palace or even a royal household.

  The problem with this wonderful place, however, was that the present owner, unlike his illustrious and wealthy ancestors, could not afford to maintain it. In spite of its undoubted style and evident past splendour it was always shabby. There was a sad and perpetual air of dusty neglect about both the house and its once-pleasing grounds. The windows never looked clean, the curtains looked dirty, the external woodwork was always in need of a fresh coat of paint and the gutters around the roof needed to be cleared of weeds and leaves that had gathered over the years. The forecourt and paths around the house were in dire need of weeding too, while the large and once fine garden was overgrown and neglected. Much as I would have longed to own such a place I realized that my very modest police salary would never allow me such a privilege, and it was equally clear that the present occupant of Kirkside had neither the money, the time, nor the inclination to lavish the necessary care upon it.