Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12)

by Rhea, Nicholas

  ‘Then we could have more expensive paper in the lounge,’ said Mary, smiling at him with all her feminine charm.

  ‘Now I wasn’t quite thinking like that,’ he countered. ‘I mean, there’s little enough in this for us as it is, and so far as the lounge is concerned, I think this one here …’ and he flicked to another in his book, ‘is better than your choice — smaller pattern, lighter background, prettier an’ all, hard wearing, you know, where the kids’ll touch it …’

  ‘We were told not to exceed the sum allocated,’ I said. ‘And our choice does that, Mr Osbourne, even allowing for big repeat patterns and extra rolls …’

  ‘Aye, well, I was just trying to be helpful, you know, not restricting you to that first book, you understand.’

  ‘Thanks, but we are happy with that book,’ I said. ‘We’ve made up our minds.’

  ‘Oh, well, so long as you’re happy,’ and he closed the pattern book with a snap of its pages. ‘Well, if you let me see the rooms, I’ll work out the number of rolls …

  Having been decorated many times, the Force records contained the numbers required because all local police houses had rooms of a standard size and that had already been taken into account in allocating the contract to Mr Osbourne. But we did not object. He went round the rooms, jotting things down on his pad and making a fuss of measuring windows and doors.

  ‘Magnolia,’ he said, tapping a window ledge in the main bedroom. ‘Gloss.’

  ‘Magnolia, in here?’ Mary looked at me.

  ‘It won’t go very well with our bedroom paper,’ I said. ‘Magnolia’s a creamy off-white, isn’t it? We were thinking of something that would be a better match.’

  ‘Magnolia goes with anything, you know,’ he said. ‘That’s why we use nowt else, gloss and matt, emulsion and paint.’

  ‘We’d like a pinkish tint on this woodwork,’ Mary tried. ‘Something that’s more in keeping with the new bedroom paper.’

  ‘Put a pink bulb in your bedside lamp, Mrs Rhea — it’ll give out a lovely glow, and your magnolia’ll look grand. It’ll pick up surrounding colours, you know — get a red sky in the morning and that magnolia’ll look lovely. Blue skies make it look good, even grey skies give it charm, so they say.’

  ‘But I don’t want magnolia,’ she said.

  ‘It’s in the contract.’ He tapped his pad with his pencil. ‘Magnolia on all interior wood surfaces. It says so in writing. It’s been agreed.’

  I had no way of countering that statement and winked at Mary. I said we’d accept it. Magnolia it would be — all over!

  ‘When will you be coming?’ I asked. ‘I need to know so that I can clear the rooms and make them ready.’

  He pulled a tattered diary from his rear pocket and flicked through it.

  ‘Three weeks on Monday,’ he said. ‘Eight o’clock sharp.’

  Mary did a quick calculation.

  ‘That’s the week my mum’s coming to stay,’ she said. ‘Can you make it a week later?’

  He checked his diary again. ‘Right, yes. No problem, I can do a job in Eltering that week. Right. Four weeks on Monday it is.’

  And off he went.

  ‘You shouldn’t have agreed to magnolia all over!’ Mary grumbled afterwards. ‘I’m sure we can choose colours, within the price range.’

  ‘I know, but I’ll have words with the workmen when they arrive. They’ll ignore their boss — he doesn’t paint any more, he just organizes things. We’ll get our pink paintwork, you’ll see.’ I felt sure I could persuade them towards our wishes.

  Mary’s mum came on the Sunday evening a week before the painters were due and said she’d help to prepare the house for them. There were carpets to take up, furniture to remove, paintwork to wash down and so forth, and the painters wanted us to live in one room while they prepared and decorated all the others.

  But at eight o’clock that Monday morning, the painters arrived. I was in bed, having worked half-nights until 2 a.m. A very anxious Mary knocked me up.

  ‘They’re here!’ she cried. ‘The painters. And mother’s here, and you’re in bed and they said they weren’t coming till next week …’

  ‘Tell them to come back next week,’ I groaned.

  ‘The foreman says no, he’s been told to come here now, today. They’re already moving paint pots and all their stuff into your office …’

  I struggled out of bed and went down to greet the invaders. By then, they’d half-filled my office floor with tins of paint and rolls of wallpaper. I succeeded in identifying the foreman.

  ‘We weren’t expecting you. Your boss said you’d come next Monday,’ I tried valiantly. ‘You’re a week early!’

  ‘Well, he was wrong, mister. Our schedule says today, and he said nowt about a change. If we miss today we’ll be out of work a week and we can’t afford no wages, not like you blokes with secure jobs, and if we wait till next week, you might have to wait months because we’ll have to re-schedule our rota, and then Harry’s going on holiday and it’ll cause a right cock-up in our office and things are bad enough there as it is, what with Sandra getting pregnant and being sick every morning, and there’s nobody to order the paper and paint, and the police and fire brigade all wanting houses done, and them nurses’ homes.’

  I began to wish I hadn’t asked.

  ‘Right, you can stay.’ I decided that the sooner we got this job finished, the better. ‘We’ll cope. But can you do a favour for me?’

  ‘Depends,’ he said.

  ‘We’d like delicate pink, blush pink I think they call it, on the bedroom woodwork instead of magnolia.’

  ‘We’ve only got magnolia. It’s magnolia in here, your office that is, and the kitchen and bathroom, glossed walls, matt emulsion wood and ceilings … the contract says magnolia on all woodwork. I’ve got my orders.’

  ‘If I get my own pink paint, could you put it on?’

  ‘We’re not allowed to use other folks’ materials, but seeing as we’ve caused a bit of hassle, I’ll see if we’ve any pink in our warehouse, or red. We might mix red with magnolia …’

  And so they stayed. It was chaotic. To enable them to whizz around the house with brushes flailing, and to give them a clear run in as many rooms as possible, we had to live and eat in one room. The snag was it was a different room each day. As Mary, her mother and the children huddled in one room during the day while I was out in the countryside, the painters slapped on gallons of magnolia undercoat and gloss; it would dry overnight and then they’d use the gloss. But at night, I had to move all our furniture into the room they’d just done, watchful of wet paint, because the next day, they wanted to be in the room we were using.

  Like nomads, we moved about the house to allow undercoating and moved all over again to allow the glossing and then the papering. We lodged in the office, we sat on the stairs, the children cried, our meals were either like picnics or burnt offerings, and the office, newly painted in glorious magnolia, became an overflow second home/granny annexe. The children touched wet magnolia; they got magnolia in their hair and on their clothes; they left their fingerprints on magnolia door pillars, magnolia door frames and the magnolia staircase. But, surprisingly, the house did look better — except for the downstairs toilet. Our predecessor had painted the interior walls with a very dark blue gloss paint, but these men decided that it would have to be magnolia gloss. They slapped on a coat — and the blue showed through, making it a dirty kind of sea-green. It looked like the interior of a grimy fish-tank.

  ‘You’ll be putting another coat on that loo?’ I said.

  ‘No, only one coat of gloss,’ said the foreman. ‘That’s the rule.’

  ‘But it looks awful!’ I grumbled.

  ‘Some folks are never satisfied!’ he said. ‘Free decorating and still they’re not pleased. By gum, I don’t know what the world’s coming to! Craftsman-decorated loos … they’ll be asking for hand-carved toilet seats next …’

  I gave up. I’d paint it myself when they’d gone be
cause it was too ghastly for any of our visitors. It could put them off the purpose for which they resorted to this little room. The last room to be done was the main bedroom, partly because I was on night duty on that final Thursday and Friday.

  I’d be out of the house from 10 p.m. until 6 a.m. While they were completing the decoration of my usual bedroom, I would sleep during the day in the tiny back room with its Snow White and Seven Dwarfs paper. In spite of our reservations, the two weeks had flown and the house was looking much better, even if it did smell of new paint and in spite of having to cope with mother-in-law and four children. In fact, she was an enormous help in keeping them occupied, taking them for walks and helping to organize the ritual shifting of furniture every night while poor Mary coped with all the other domestic chores.

  And so, on that final Friday morning, I returned from my tour of duty at 6 a.m., had a light snack and climbed thankfully into bed.

  The decorators would be here at eight and I would rise around 2 p.m. or so. As I climbed into my warm bed in the back room, Mary and the children were in our marital bed, with mother-in-law in the middle room, and I did not disturb them. Mary, the children and her mum would get up early to ensure everything was ready for the men to finish their work today and, by tonight, the house would be ours again. It would be smart and clean, fresh and new, albeit smelling of paint.

  But I must have been shattered because I overslept. During the day, I’d been vaguely aware of movements on the stairs, of painters working and children trying to be quiet. Those disruptions and my night without sleep had conspired to keep me in bed until five o’clock. I woke in the knowledge that I was on nights again at 10 p.m. that night, but would cope easily after my restful sleep. But now the house was quiet. I peeped out of the bedroom window and saw that the decorators’ van had gone, as had their ladders and other equipment. I smiled as I walked to the bathroom, but decided to inspect our lovely new bedroom.

  It was covered with magnolia paint.

  It looked awful against the colour scheme we had selected and I groaned. With officialdom, the little man can never win. I’d do it myself within a week or two … when I had time. As I sat down to my evening meal with the scent of new paint all about me, I said to Mary,

  ‘Darling, promise me one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When we get a house of our own, promise you’ll never grow magnolia in the garden, that we’ll never buy a house called Magnolia House and we’ll never use magnolia paint in any of our colour schemes.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she smiled. ‘I quite like it, now it’s on.’

  *

  Being the wife of a policeman is never easy. There are the pressures of a unique kind of work, with the added menace of danger, and there are the unsocial hours that must be tolerated. If a policeman’s tour of duty is scheduled to end at a given time and then, minutes before he is due to finish work some urgent task crops up, then he must attend to it. Unlike so many jobs, we cannot walk away from work when the hooter sounds. And, fortunately, police officers do maintain a sense of responsibility towards the public and will continue to work when needed.

  This means that many officers work very long hours, especially those who serve in the CID: they can’t cease their inquiries just because it’s five o’clock and time to go home. Happily, many police wives understand this necessary commitment, and Mary was one of them. She knew that I had a responsibility to the public whom I served even if, at times, this did mean sacrificing a normal social life. It was very difficult to make definite plans for anything.

  Even when I was off duty, in the evenings or at weekends, or perhaps having friends in for a meal, the public was not to know this, and if people came to the house I had to deal with them. If a man knocked on the door while I was enjoying time off and said he’d just been involved in a traffic accident in the village, then I couldn’t ignore him.

  It was a similar story even when I was not at home. If I was out on patrol, the police house remained a police house. Its continuing role was announced by its blue POLICE sign in front of the adjoining office and noticeboard. So when people wanted help, they would come to the house even if the sole occupant was a young, untrained woman with four tiny children. And, like me, Mary could not ignore anyone with a genuine, urgent problem. In such cases, she was always a tower of strength, always operating as my devoted unpaid assistant. From time to time, while I was away on duty, she’d coped with callers in trouble — like a woman who complained of rape, a man who had found a house on fire and a dead man inside, a lorry driver who had run off the road, victims of petty crime and all manner of other routine chores. In all cases, she’d coped with calmness and efficiency.

  But the wife of a country policeman receives no pay or reward for her supportive work, save that her efforts are appreciated, coupled with the knowledge that the public hold her in high regard.

  It follows that there were times when it was difficult for both Mary and I ever to be free from such responsibility. The only way to avoid continuous duty was to get away from the house altogether during my leisure hours. Mary and I therefore did our best to take time away from home during my days off, even when those days off occurred mid-week. I was always aware of the difficulties this caused, particularly when the children started school, and Mary’s tolerance meant that I endeavoured to compensate her whenever I could. In spite of the demands on us, I liked her to go out alone, to get involved with village events, to drive into town or to have a life of her own.

  I was delighted, therefore, when she was asked by the ladies of Aidensfield WI to attend one of their monthly meetings and talk about her life as the wife of a village policeman. I knew she would do a good job, even if she felt some reservation about speaking in public, and I persuaded her to accept the challenge. When the secretary suggested a date, I checked with my advance duty roster and found I was scheduled to perform duty from 10 a.m. until 6 p.m. on that day. Mary’s talk was to begin at 7.30 p.m. in the village hall and so I could return home in time to baby-sit. The meeting was still two months away and so I could ensure I’d be off duty; if my duties were re-scheduled, I could ask a colleague to swap shifts if necessary. But my duties were not tampered with and Mary’s big day arrived.

  ‘You’ll be sure to finish on time?’ Mary requested as I prepared to leave home that morning.

  ‘I’ve nothing pressing today,’ I assured her. ‘I’ll be home at six.’

  ‘But sometimes we’ve had to cancel things, dances, dinners and so on, when you’ve had to stay on to deal with a sudden death or an accident or something …’

  ‘There’ll be other men on duty this evening,’ I said. ‘If something happens last minute, I’m sure I can get somebody to take over from me.'

  The fear of some unexpected occurrence was always present on such occasions and I could understand Mary’s concern: we’d had to cancel so many outings because of last-minute changes to my duty or through last minute official dramas …

  But that day, I set off with confidence, manoeuvring my little van onto the road. My first job was to visit the Section Office in Ashfordly to collect any waiting correspondence, and then I would drive to Crampton and Gelderslack to deal with several applications for renewals of firearm certificates. It was going to be a gentle routine day of non-urgent duties.

  And so it was — until quarter to five.

  My official radio crackled into action as I was ordered to attend a traffic accident on the road between Ashfordly and Brantsford. Initial reports suggested that a van had emerged from a side road directly into the path of a fast-moving car.

  I groaned.

  ‘Ten four,’ I acknowledged. ‘Will attend. Any report of casualties?’

  ‘Negative,’ said Control. ‘It is a minor accident. A breakdown vehicle has been called and is en route. What is your ETA?’

  ‘16.55,’ I said, calculating that it was a ten-minute run from my present location at Crampton.

  When I arrived
at the scene, I found a small grey van in the ditch and a Ford Cortina on its side nearby. The two drivers were waiting, their anger long spent, and neither was injured. It seemed the van driver was at fault, thinking he’d had the time to emerge from a side road ahead of the oncoming car, when in fact he had not. The car driver had taken swift evasive action, but in spite of his efforts, had collided with the front nearside of the van, spinning it around and hurtling it off the highway. Neither man was hurt but each of their vehicles was badly damaged.

  I obtained details including a statement from each, and decided that consideration would have to be given to prosecution of the van driver for careless driving. I told him in the formal jargon of the Notice of Intended Prosecution and was pleased when the breakdown truck arrived. It lifted the car onto the rear platform and hoisted the van onto its front wheels, then departed with both. The drivers went too. They would make their own arrangements to get home.

  The immediate necessities of the incident were over; my typing of the report, my production of a scale plan of the scene and my preparation of the case papers could wait until tomorrow. It was now five minutes to six — I’d be a few minutes late booking off duty, but at least the job had been completed in good time. Mary would get her night out. I radioed Control to up-date them on the outcome of the accident and reported that the matter had been dealt with. I concluded by saying I was en route to Aidensfield to book off duty.

  I’d only covered three miles when the radio burbled into action once again. This time it was urgent.

  ‘Control to All Mobiles in Ashfordly/Brantsford/Eltering district. Urgent. All mobiles and foot patrols to rendezvous at Ashfordly Police Office immediately,’ was the instruction. ‘Await further orders there. Acknowledge. Over.’

  I groaned aloud. I couldn’t believe it! My heart sank as I wondered what on earth had happened, but I did recognize that the voice of the Control Room operator carried a note of real urgency. I responded by giving my call-sign and saying I was en route and would arrive within ten minutes. Mary’s night out was in jeopardy once again but I could not intrude on the airwaves to ask what it was all about. I’d be blocking valuable transmissions. I would have to wait to find out more when I arrived at Ashfordly. I turned the van around and hurtled through the lanes.