She swallowed again.
I waited.
“He . . . look, Mr Rhea, I’m not very good at explaining things . . .”
“I’m good at listening,” I assured her. “Take your time.”
She paused, clearly trying to select the right words to describe her ordeal, and all the time my curiosity was increasing. What on earth had happened aboard Merryweather Coaches to create such an effect upon the redoubtable Hannah Pybus?
“He was indecent.” She managed to spit out the word.
“Indecent?” I asked. “How? Did he swear at you?”
She shook that pale gingery head.
“No, it was worse than that. I’m not fussy about a swear-word or two, Mr Rhea. This was worse than any swear-word.”
“Go on.” I was getting interested now. Had he taken a grab at her? Some passengers weren’t slow in smacking the shapely bottoms of conductresses, but I couldn’t imagine anyone being so fuddled as to smack Hannah’s spacious rump regions. Maybe a drunken passenger had done that, or seized her by some other part of her towering frame? The thought was astonishing.
“He exposed himself at me.” She lowered her head and blushed furiously as the words emerged.
“Indecent exposure?” I asked. “On a bus?”
“Yes,” she said, relaxing now she had clarified the situation.
Immediately, my Training School knowledge began to click within the farmost regions of my mind. Indecent exposure was a public nuisance if it was done publicly. If Hannah alone had seen the object in question, it might not be an indictable common law offence. There being no public viewing. The Vagrancy Act, 1824, section 4, offered a possible solution because it created a summary offence for a man to wilfully, openly, lewdly and obscenely expose the person with intent to insult a female. Nothing said what “the person” meant here, but most of us had a good idea. If the fellow intended to insult Hannah, that provision might fit the circumstances. The Town Police Clauses Act 1847 also created an offence of indecent exposure if it occurred in any street to the annoyance of residents or passengers. Arnold’s bus wasn’t a street, so I had to rule out the latter offence. Because the Common Law offence must be proved to be a public display I was left with the Vagrancy Act and its quaint Victorian phraseology.
On a bus? I knew there were no buses when the Vagrancy Act came into force, but happily that old law, still in force, left the situation sufficiently open to cater for such crimes. Besides, the Conduct of Drivers, Conductors and Passengers Regulations of 1936 and 1946 would cope with the fellow, if all else failed. I felt I could proceed with the matter.
“An indecent exposure on a bus, Hannah. Would you say you were insulted?” I had to ask this in order to prove the case, should it ever reach court. It was part of the Victorian wording of the statute.
“Insulted! I was mortified!” she said, hurt at my question.
“I have to ask, as it’s an essential ingredient of the offence. The lady must be insulted if I am to take action.”
“I was grossly insulted!” she stressed.
With her use of words like this, I was reminded of the police recruit who defined Gross Indecency as “Indecency between a large number of persons, 144, I think”.
“Who was the man?” I asked next.
“I don’t know his name, but he got on at York. He was all right until I went for his fare. He got off at that lane end, just before you get into Elsinby from York.”
“You’d know him again?”
She nodded. “Oh yes, I’d know him again!”
“Did you tell anyone at the time?”
“No, I didn’t want to upset the passengers. I told Arnold when we got to the terminus and he said I’d better mention it to you.”
“Certainly. Well, it looks as if he lives on my beat. What’s he like?”
She described a man about fifty years old, with grey hair and an unshaven appearance. He was a small man, she said, wearing a dirty raincoat and heavy black boots. All flashers wore dirty raincoats, I thought. This one fitted the traditional pattern.
Having described him quite well, I had to ask her precisely what he had done. It was important from the prosecution point of view.
She blushed furiously once again and asked, “Do I really have to tell you?”
“I’m afraid so. I must know precisely what he did, Hannah, if I’m to take any action.”
“Well,” she said. “Er . . . his trousers front was open and . . . it . . . his thing . . . it was sticking right out.”
“Did he draw your attention to it?”
“Yes, he did!” she snapped.
“How?” I asked.
“He placed his fare on it, for me to take.”
“His fare?” I almost doubled up with laughter at this latest technique, but managed to keep a straight face.
“Yes, he spread the money out, right along it.”
“And how much was his fare?”
“A shilling,” she said. “He laid it out, right along his thing.”
“What sort of coins were they?” I was fascinated now.
“Pennies,” she said calmly. “Twelve pennies.”
My mind boggled. Side by side, they’d cover a large area, but twelve £.s.d. pennies laid out in a line covered an enormous distance, nearly fifteen inches. I made her repeat this. I had to be sure I got it right. Who was this man, I wondered? It looked as if we had a world record-breaker in the locality.
“And?” I asked.
“Well, I refused to accept them . . .” she said pertly. “I made him collect them himself and pay his fare.”
“And did he?”
“Yes, he did!”
“And then he put it away?”
“I don’t know. He was all alone on the back seat and I didn’t stay a minute longer.”
If my report of this event reached Force Headquarters, the place would be in uproar and every member of the police service would be jealous. I could imagine a stampede to check the veracity of this claim, but one’s constabulary duty must be done.
“Thanks, Hannah. I’ll make enquiries and I’ll let you know how I get on. You go home now and have that cup of tea with Arnold.”
She left the office and, as the bus rumbled out of sight I collapsed in a fit of laughter. I’d never heard anything like this before and felt sure Hannah had made a mistake. What had she seen? I racked my brains to identify the fellow and then I realised who it was.
Poor Hannah!
But, first, I had to check my theory. I jumped aboard the little Francis Barnett and chugged over the valley to Elsinby. Through the village, I turned left along a rough lane until I arrived at Bankside Cottage. I knocked, for I knew old Bill Firby was at home. Smoke was rising from his chimney. Soon the green door was opened and Bill stood there, his jacket open and his face registering surprise when he saw me.
“Hello, Mr Rhea.” He stood back to invite me in. “You’re a stranger at my door.”
“Aye,” I agreed, entering his cosy home. “It’s not often I have cause to call on you.”
“Summat up, is it?” He led me into his sitting-room where a cosy fire burned, and pointed to an armchair. I settled with my crash-helmet on my lap.
“Bill, you’re going to laugh when I’ve finished this tale, but I need your answers first. Were you on the bus out of York today?”
“Aye,” he said. “Yes, I was.”
“And Hannah was conductress?”
“She was.”
“And did you pay your fare all in pennies?”
“Aye, I hadn’t a shilling piece, so I used pennies. Nowt wrong with that, is there?”
“No, there isn’t.” I laughed now. “You’ve cleared up a massive problem for me.”
“I have?”
The truth was that Bill had only one hand. His left hand was missing at the wrist, and that arm terminated in an irregular fleshy stump. He wore no covering and no false hand. On the bus, his fare had been in his right-hand pocket and in order to c
ount it he had pulled up his left sleeve to expose his arm from his elbow down to his wrist. To gain stability for his stump, he had placed his elbow on his lap, tucking it firmly into his groin, and he rested his wrist on his right leg. He had then laid out the coins for Hannah to count, placing them along his arm.
Hannah, poor unmarried woman, had totally misunderstood this innocent action.
When I told him the essence of her complaint, he laughed until tears rolled down his eyes and asked if I was going to tell her the truth.
“Yes, of course,” I assured him.
“Nay, lad, don’t do that. Think of my reputation if she spreads that tale around. I’ll be the envy of all the blokes for miles around!”
But I had to tell Hannah the truth. I did and she listened intently; happily, she laughed when I explained Bill’s fare-paying technique. Whenever he travelled by bus or paid in a shop, he always used that system, I explained.
“Oh,” she said. “Silly of me. I’m sorry to have troubled you Mr Rhea. I will apologise to Mr Firby when I see him.”
“He’s not worried,” I said. “There’s no need to bother yourself any more about it.”
“Thank you, Mr Rhea,” she beamed and I left her comfortable house.
On reflection, that little episode raised more questions about Hannah’s past than it solved. Until then, we had assumed she had never had a man friend, but perhaps she had.
We all wondered who it might have been.
Chapter Seven
Crabbed age and youth cannot live together;
Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564–1616, The Passionate Pilgrim
It has been said that the duties of a police officer do not include social work. In theory, there are skilled professionals to undertake such responsibilities, but in practice the work of a police officer does include a whole range of jobs which could be classified as social work. The conscientious constable visits the sick, the lame, the infirm and the aged because one of his basic functions is to protect life and property. If he can call upon those in need of help, he might save a life or prevent damage to property. His presence is often reassuring to the lonely and frightened.
The rural bobby in particular spends a good deal of his time, on and off duty, visiting the aged upon his beat. I was no exception.
During my daily tour I would drop in, unannounced, upon many pensioners and have a cup of tea with them. I think Sergeant Blaketon frowned upon this; he never said so because I had pre-empted any criticism from him by stressing that I considered this to be an important part of a rural constable’s work. He suffered my cups of tea in silence and I got the impression he resented my free tea rather than the time I spent indoors chatting for no apparent constabulary purpose. Sergeant Blaketon was one of the old school; he liked policemen to be seen and he liked them to be always asking questions about unsolved crimes or seeking criminal information from likely sources. He failed to appreciate the very basic social requirements of the job.
While law-enforcement is a vital part of the constable’s task, it is no more important than the welfare of those under the constable’s care, and I made certain he knew how I felt.
Gradually, I learned of the whereabouts of the lonely aged on my patch; I was not too concerned about those who lived with their families, or even those with families living nearby. I needed to know about the widowed and lonely, the isolated person with no relatives to call upon. These were my concern — they might be suffering from illness, or they might have fallen and hurt themselves; they might be plagued by stupid vandals or be the butt of confidence tricksters . . . all kinds of social evils can befall an elderly person living alone and I wanted no villainy against those residing on my beat.
Visiting these marvellous old folks was a wonderful experience. There was a man of ninety-two who had made ornamental buttons for Queen Victoria; a lady of eighty-seven who recalled seeing Queen Victoria when she visited the district in 1900 and a man of eighty-three who fell down an apple-tree and who pleaded me not to tell his wife how he’d hurt his back. I liked the man of eighty-eight who was ill and, when I asked if he wanted me to tell anyone, he asked me to notify his schoolteacher, a Miss Wilkinson. She’d taught him as a boy in primary school and, thinking he was senile, I checked — she was still alive and enjoying the sunshine in Eltering, aged 98!
Yorkshire folk are noted for their contemptuous attitude to old age. It is merely a nuisance to them, something like a nagging illness. No self-respecting Yorkshireman will admit to being ill. They fight illness by pretending it doesn’t exist, and will continue working through ailments that would fell lesser mortals.
This stubborn attitude is shown in a lovely tale about a young lady newspaper reporter who called to see a Yorkshire villager. He had reached 100 years of age and was inside his house as the reporter talked to his daughter.
“You must be very proud of your father,” the reporter commented.
“Oh, Ah don’t know,” replied his daughter. “He’s done nowt but grow old, and look how long it’s taken him to do that!”
The elderly crack jokes among themselves, such as “Awd Sam’s refusing to die because it saves funeral expenses”, while another in his nineties commented, “When Ah was a lad, Ah used to get oot o’ bed ivvery morning at five, but now Ah’s gittin on a bit, it’s very near six before Ah stir.”
Those with a literary turn of mind might consider the words written by the poet Edward Spenser which so aptly sum up the feeling of creeping senility. He wrote:
The careful cold hath nipt my rugged rind,
And in my face deep furrows old hath plight;
My head besprent with hoary frost I find,
And by mine eyes the crow his claw doth wright;
Delight is laid about and pleasure past;
No sun now shines, clouds have all over-cast.
One wonders what he knew about old age, because he died in 1599 at the ripe old age of 46.
In reality, however, I found the aged had minds of their own. Their opinions, which had been nurtured over many generations, were so firmly established that no amount of argument or discussion would shift them. I had to accept this as a fact of life. Change is not welcome in the land of the aged. Memories of loved ones do feature in this tough, inflexible attitude and can lead to a softening manner or even a change of opinion. Such a case involved old Mrs Ada Flanagan of Aidensfield and her easy-chair.
* * *
The chair was nothing special to look at. It was of simple design and rather old-fashioned for it had wings at the back and castors beneath which squeaked every time it moved. The upholstery was dull grey but this lack of glamour was concealed by a faded cover of deep-blue material, offset with a floral design. Mrs Flanagan had made the covers herself some ten or fifteen years ago and was undoubtedly proud of her handicraft. She called it Bill’s chair.
That the chair needed a new cover was obvious to me, but I sensed it was imprudent to even suggest it. Although she’d asked me not to sit in that chair, I think she welcomed my visits for she would make me a cup of tea when I called, usually around eleven o’clock on a morning. In respect for her wishes, I would never sit in that chair to drink it, always using a dining-chair at the table. Bill’s chair was always in the same position, I noticed, just to the right of the fireside. There it was close enough to the mantelpiece for Old Bill to have reached out for his pipe or tobacco, or his racing papers.
Through those regular visits, I learned all about Bill’s chair. He had occupied it every evening after work and in retirement had used it during the day as well. He liked it exactly where it now stood, and she was determined that it should remain there.
I whiled away many hours drinking Mrs Flanagan’s tea and listening to her constant chatter as she either ironed or baked on the table before me.
She would talk about her childhood in Ireland and how she went potato-picking on her father’s farm. I knew it had been a struggle to ea
rn a living; then, when she was twenty, she had married Bill Flanagan. He’d always wanted to go to Scotland — and so he had, with his young wife.
That old chair had been one of their first possessions as man and wife. Sometimes she would laugh as she told me how they would both use it — they would sit in it together because they had nothing else! She would sit on Bill’s knee and they’d chat together as only a young couple can; this chair had been their joy until they could afford more furniture.
In Scotland, their fortunes had improved and Bill had found a good job on a farm; gradually they built their little home, with this chair always occupying the prime position near the fireside.
As my first year as the village bobby passed, it seemed as if I was an old friend to Mrs Flanagan. Perhaps I was because I knew all about her wishes, hopes, sadnesses and past history. We knew each other very well, I felt. I also felt I knew Old Bill; although he’d died long before I came to Aidensfield, her stories had made him live anew. Sometimes I could almost see him in that battered old chair, so vivid were her memories.
Then, quite unexpectedly, Mrs Flanagan started to go out to work. I was quite surprised, but she told me she did this to occupy herself and to earn a few coppers. Her new part-time job was to cover chairs and furniture, or make curtains. She told me she used to do that sort of work when she was younger but in those days her skills had been confined to the family or for the benefit of close friends. She’d never thought about doing it professionally, but had seen an advert in the local paper.
It had been placed by a department store in Ashfordly who sought a seamstress capable of covering chairs and making curtains on a part-time basis. The work entailed some travelling to take measurements in the homes of customers, all of whom lived locally, while the actual sewing could be done at the seamstress’s home.
For Mrs Flanagan it was the ideal job and she was appointed. I could see it was the making of her.
Then, quite suddenly, I noticed the chair had gone. One morning as I called, I could see that Old Bill’s chair was no longer before the hearth and in its place was a modern chair with slender wooden arms. I’d seen this one before, in Mrs Flanagan’s front room when I’d been in for sherry and Christmas cake.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 55