“And who are you?” I put to him.
“Ian Fenwick,” he said with a faint Scots accent. He didn’t look into my eyes, but spent most of the interview contemplating the dusty stone floor of his cell.
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“You’re very small for sixteen,” I said, for he looked no more than fourteen, perhaps even less.
“I’m an apprentice jockey,” he said. “Jockeys are small.”
“And where do you live?”
“Here, I’m with the racing stable round the back.”
I knew the place. It was a successful racing stable on the outskirts of Ashfordly, positioned literally a stone’s throw behind Miss Finlay’s house. Some good winners had been bred here and the proprietor, a big Irishman called Brendan O’Shea, was building himself a useful reputation in this highly competitive field. He employed around a dozen stable-boys and apprentices and inevitably they found themselves in trouble from time to time. But I’d never caught one stealing apples before.
“O’Shea’s place?” I asked, waiting for his confirming answer.
“You won’t tell Mr O’Shea, will you?” He raised his brown eyes from the floor and looked at us both. I recognised a genuine look of sorrow on his face. This was no regular thief.
“Let’s hear your story.” I decided I must know a little more about this curious episode. “Miss Finlay says she caught you stealing apples. That’s a crime, you know, and at your age it could mean a court appearance.”
“Oh, Jesus!” He blanched. “Not that . . . not for apples . . .”
“You must admit it then?” I put to him as we contained him in the shed.
He hung his head.
“I’m sorry, it was for the horse.”
“The horse?” I said. “What horse?”
“The one I ride most, Nature’s Signal. She loves apples and there are times she won’t behave unless she gets one. I didn’t have one so I came over the wall. She was getting stroppy, sir . . .”
“And I was waiting,” came in Miss Finlay. “Caught him red-handed, I did.”
“Did you get any?” I asked the lad.
“Aye, three,” he said. “She took them off me.”
“It is not the first time my apples have been attacked,” she countered. “It seems that some children regard my walls as a challenge, Constable . . .”
“Is this your first time?” I asked the little youth.
He nodded. “We usually have a good stock of apples for the horses, and for Nature’s Signal in particular, but, well, there weren’t any and she was getting stroppy . . . all I needed was four or five . . .”
“If he’d asked, would you have given him some?” I asked Miss Finlay.
“I’d have sold him a pound or two, perhaps,” she said without batting an eyelid.
“You know it’s wrong to steal?” I put to Fenwick, still treating him like a child in spite of his age. His diminutive stature was off-putting.
“I didn’t know whose they were and it was urgent,” he explained. “I’m not a thief . . .”
“I’ve a good mind to tell your boss!” Miss Finlay suddenly interrupted, and I wondered if she was softening a little, perhaps regretting her hasty action and hard attitude.
“Please, no. He’ll sack me, I know he will. He’s tough, sir, very tough with us.”
“If you go to court, it will be all over the papers anyway,” I pointed out, knowing I’d have to interview this youth formally in the presence of some adult if I was to take official action.
“What are you going to do with him, Constable?” I couldn’t help noticing that Miss Finlay’s voice had softened considerably.
“Well.” I decided to put a little bit of pressure upon her. “There are several courses open to me. If you are prepared to attend court as a witness and give evidence, I will take him to the police station. His guardian will be called and charges of larceny will be preferred. He will appear at a juvenile court in due course. That’s one course of action.”
She swallowed, but did not commit herself to being a witness.
“The second is for me to report him for summons. You would still be required as a witness in court during the hearing, but I would not have to arrest the lad. I would simply take his name and other details, visit his guardian’s home. There I would report him for the offence of larceny in the presence of Mr O’Shea.”
“And what will happen to him?” she asked with genuine interest.
“Who can tell?” I shrugged my shoulders. “The maximum penalty for simple larceny is five years in prison, but in this case we would probably proceed under Section 36 of the Larceny Act 1861, which is purely a summary offence with a small fine as the penalty. If this is Ian’s first offence — and it seems it was a sudden urge as he says — the court may let him off with a conditional discharge or probation.”
“Is it really necessary for him to go to court?” she asked and I knew now that she was weakening greatly.
“Miss Finlay, you have arrested a thief, and you have handed that thief over to me, having accused him of a serious crime. I am duty-bound to take official action.” I thought I’d let her stew awhile with those thoughts.
She licked her lips and I saw the lad’s eyes turn away from us. He resumed his worried contemplation of the flagged floor.
“You just happened to be walking past . . .” she began, almost apologetically.
“There is another way of dealing with the matter,” I said slowly and she regarded me quizzically.
“Tell me,” and there was a note of appeal in her voice.
“If you decide not to press charges, it would be possible for me to deal with the matter here and now.” I played my trump-card.
“Really? I wanted him taught a lesson, people must learn that they cannot help themselves to other’s belongings . . .”
“I won’t do it again, I promise . . .” cried our prisoner.
“What must I do?” she turned to me. I knew she’d abandoned the idea of a prosecution.
“You’ve a lot of apple-trees.” I turned and regarded them.
“Sixty,” she said. “All fruit-bearing as you can see.”
“And you pick all that fruit yourself?”
“I pay someone, it’s a long job working alone. Too long when I’m busy.”
Now I turned to Ian.
“Do you like picking apples, young man?”
He didn’t answer. I think he knew what was going through my mind.
“Miss Finlay, if this young man agreed to pick all your apples without payment, would you drop your charges of larceny?”
For a moment, her face did not crack, and suddenly she smiled, showing acres of large brown teeth.
“I think that’s an excellent compromise, Constable. But how can I be sure he picks them?”
“If he doesn’t, we will tell Mr O’Shea what he’s done.”
“And if he does pick them?”
“We do nothing else. We don’t tell Mr O’Shea, we don’t trouble the courts with this, and you will not have to take time off work to give evidence.”
She looked at the shivering lad, still held in the potato-shed, and said, “Well?”
“I’ll start tonight,” he whispered. “I’ll do it — I’ll pick them all for you, honest.”
“Right,” I said. “That’s it. The problem is solved.”
I told the lad to leave us immediately and when he had galloped out of sight I said, “Make sure he does it, Miss Finlay. Make him pick all your apples. If he doesn’t, you must come back to me and I’ll speak to Mr O’Shea.”
“I like your idea, Constable. To be truthful, I couldn’t bear the thought of him going to court . . .”
I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t relish the idea of prosecuting the lad for stealing apples; what the inspector would have thought if I had, I daren’t even consider. I left her garden feeling confident that Ian Fenwick would return to begin the long chore of picking sto
nes of apples.
A fortnight later, I was in Ashfordly again and decided to check with Miss Finlay, just to ensure the deal had been carried out. She was delighted to see me, so much so that she invited me in for a coffee. As I sat at her scrubbed table in the rustic kitchen, she produced a hot coffee in a large mug.
“Mr Rhea, isn’t it?” she asked, as if reminding herself of my name.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Mr Rhea, that apple-picking idea was marvellous. That young man has carefully picked all my apples, and in fact comes round to work in his spare time. I pay him, of course, for this extra work. He’s excellent, and a real nice young man. And that horse — she’s a beauty, a real temperamental filly, and he knows just how to handle her . . . I give him apples, for the horse, you know . . . and he has tea with me sometimes . . .”
And as she prattled on I could see the light of lost motherhood in her eyes. Miss Finlay had become a very happy woman.
* * *
One eternal problem for the police officer is the gang of youths who persist in misbehaving. Such gangs are found everywhere, in all nations and in large cities or small towns. They are often male-dominated although girls are known to join them and indeed the so-called gentle sex can prove formidable leaders.
Even villages produce gangs of youngsters and the effect upon the neighbourhood is the same as that produced by their larger and more violent counterparts in the city. They worry the public. Policemen know that these gangs are inevitable; every year new gangs form as the older ones decline and, in the urban areas, they often call themselves by distinctive names as they compete for power against others of similar background. Such competition is rare in the small villages of North Yorkshire; occasionally, a rival mob from a market town will descend upon a dance in a peaceful village and wreak havoc among the local youths but juvenile demonstrations of this kind of strength are seldom a real threat to the peace and tranquillity of a community. They are little more than a temporary nuisance.
Aidensfield had its own gang. I could see it blossoming as the warmer nights took control. Several youths began to congregate around the memorial seat beside the telephone kiosk and this became their meeting-place. Each evening around six-thirty, six or seven of them would gather, some with motorcycles and others without. Several of them showed their masculinity by smoking and laughing loudly as the citizens passed by, and the gathering was little more than a typical youthful show of collective strength. On their own, these lads were fine, but when placed within a gang they could be led into all kinds of situations, chiefly those of mischief and trouble.
From the policeman’s viewpoint, these gangs are an interesting phenomenon. Every year, the pattern repeats itself — youths gather, dress alike, act alike, make a lot of noise, ogle girls and upset older folks. They make noise and laughter, leave litter and beer-cans around and within two years disappear as their maturing members make their way in the greater world. Then another gang takes its place; younger youths begin all over again and the pattern is repeated . . .
Head-shrinkers and clever people attempt to find reasons for such assemblies, but I’m sure it is a natural phenomenon among the youths; they meet their own kind for social reasons; they show off, brag about their strength and powers, challenge adults and the law, and generally let off steam. If vandalism creeps in, then it is part of the charade of youth and never a serious threat to society, albeit, very annoying at the time.
It is part and parcel of a police officer’s duty to deal with such gangs and it can be a shade daunting for a young officer to confront a fierce and threatening gathering of youths in order to curtail their more effusive outflowings. As a young bobby, before coming to Aidensfield, I had had my share of such gatherings and somehow managed to escape unscathed. In those days, people did not physically attack policemen and the gangs of youths nurtured a grudging respect for the policeman who moved them along or who compelled them to pick up their waste chip papers or empty bottles.
My early days of coping with rebellious urban youths was excellent training for the time I might have to cope with similar problems at Aidensfield. Sure enough, the occasion did arise.
I had watched the growth of the Aidensfield gang soon after my arrival. The summer nights brought them out and these teenage lads began to assemble near the memorial seat, as generations of previous lads had done. They did nothing alarming, although one or two elder folk did express concern. This was inevitable — a collection of high-spirited lads in outrageous clothes kicking a football about the road or chasing empty beer-cans to the accompaniment of loud shouts and curses was a little disconcerting, albeit harmless.
Their ages would be from fifteen to seventeen or eighteen, chiefly schoolchildren or sometimes those unable or unwilling to find work. Boredom brought them together and bravado compelled them to elect a member to visit the pub in an attempt to buy cider or beer. The landlord knew them and refused, so they drank lemonade or bottled shandy.
The problem was what to do with them. If they were not checked, their boisterous fun could lead to trouble. From a policeman’s point of view, his duty is to maintain law and order and when assemblies of big lads begin to cause alarm he must do something about it. Inevitably, there are complaints from the residents if the situation gets out of hand, and occasionally the parish council sounds off by writing to the Press or to the Chief Constable. But what can a policeman do against a pack of cunning lads who behave when he’s there and who promptly retaliate the moment his back is turned?
Some police officers have started youth clubs, others have created sporting clubs for football or cricket and all kinds of youth organisations have grown in an attempt to keep bored teenagers off the streets and away from situations of conflict with society. Such schemes had been running in and near Aidensfield for some time. There was a very good youth club in Ashfordly, a billiards club in Maddleskirk, several football and cricket teams, and still the lads congregated in villages with noisy bikes and foul language.
I had words with them; I even threatened to take them to court and for a time peace reigned. But the moment I was away the villagers began to complain. The lads were playing football in the street, upsetting motorists and kicking balls into gardens. Beer-bottles and waste paper were left around or smashed on the footpaths, old folks were jeered and vandalism began to materialise. On two occasions, car aerials were broken and windows smashed . . .
This was now serious. I decided to take a hard look at the members of this troublesome set-up. Most of them were ordinary decent lads, somehow caught up in the relentless pressure put on them by more senior and more forceful characters. Each time I patrolled Aidensfield, I noted the names of the lads gathered in the village street, sometimes stopping to talk with them and sometimes merely passing by. If I became too strict with them and too niggardly about their behaviour, they would react against me and cause even more trouble when my back was turned. So I had to find another way. And my earlier days at Strensford helped.
There was one youth in the Aidensfield gang who was clearly the leader. Every gang has its leader and this was a dark-haired youth of striking good looks but whose personality was defective in some way. He was always at the centre of trouble, I noted, always making a noise, always shouting the loudest. I learned that his name was Alan Maskell.
I wanted to learn more about the lad. Over the next few days, I learned he lived in a council house, that his father had run off with a bus-conductress from York and that his mother spent her money and her time in the pub. Alan had gone to the local secondary school and had achieved moderate success in spite of his background, but at the age of sixteen there seemed no real future for him. He had no desire to leave the village and no real chance of a worthwhile job here. He could become a labourer on a building site, or a washer-up in a local hotel, but little more. It wasn’t a bright future and his rebellion could be understood.
Tall and good-looking, he was a powerful lad. His active eyes told me he had a natural inte
lligence, if no great academic qualities. I could imagine him displaying a manual skill of some kind — bricklaying perhaps, or metal-work of some sort. When I talked to him man to man, alone and without his audience of adoring youngsters, he was fine. I liked him and in some ways felt sorry that his family background had let him down. With help and encouragement, this youth could do well. But who was to spend the necessary time and energy sorting him out?
I learned he was fond of animals and that he bred white rabbits; alone at home as a younger child, he had spent his spare time with his rabbits and now had a very good collection. At home, with his rabbits, he was a totally different character. Gentle and loving towards them, he worshipped the creatures and it was difficult to link this gentle lad with the toughie who ruled the others in the village street.
During that summer, I had repeated complaints about the conduct of the lads, and indeed the gathering was growing. Others from afar came to join them and I knew that if I wasn’t careful I’d have serious trouble on my hands. The matter came to a head late one August evening.
I was on duty in Ashfordly and was unaware that some two dozen lads had congregated in Aidensfield, many with motorcycles. They had started to race up and down the street and this bit of fun had developed into a noisy and dangerous battle. Cheering, drinking and shouting abuse at the villagers had developed and the incoming bunch had virtually taken over. The local lads were jealous of their hard-man image too and so a battle of pride developed.
I received a telephone call about it; someone in the village had telephoned Mary who managed to trace me in Ashfordly and I drove in the section car to my own village. When I arrived, Alan was still there with the local lads, and one or two outsiders remaining, chortling at my presence.
My first job was to check all driving licences and insurance for their motorcycles, and then to check the machines themselves for noisy exhausts and other legal defects. Next, I warned the motorcyclists about the illegality of dangerous driving, careless driving and racing on the highway, and threatened court action against anyone found in the future doing any of those actions. And a court appearance could lead eventually to disqualification of their hard-won driving licences. I made a list of all their names and addresses, motorcycle registration numbers and their own appearances. I then told them I would circulate those details to all my colleagues in the district — any more motorcycle problems would result in heavy penalties against the offenders.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 58