“Constable, this is marvellous. You’ve traced the thief too, I take it?”
“Yes, and I have cautioned him about his future conduct!” I smiled.
“You’ll be proceeding to court though?” he queried.
“Not on this occasion,” I told him with all seriousness. “The matter has been dealt with and my enquiries are over.”
“But constable, I am a solicitor, and I know that it is an offence to conceal a felony . . .”
“There was no felony, Mr Christie,” I interrupted him.
“There was a theft . . .” he began.
“It was no felony,” I continued.
“Who took my jacket?” he demanded. “Are you covering up for a local thief or something? This is serious.”
“His name is Arthur,” I said, “and he is a twelve-year-old cur dog.”
Christie paused as if not believing my words.
“A dog?” he grinned suddenly, not sure whether I was joking.
“A dog.” I told him about the insurance scheme which catered for Arthur’s incurable kleptomania.
He laughed loudly in the middle of the street, and slung his jacket over his shoulders. “Well done, constable, well done. Yes, I like it — a nice one. A dog, eh? Called Arthur?”
“Yes, Mr Christie.”
“I don’t believe you!” he chuckled. “But I like your style. Wait until I tell them in London about this.”
And off he strode towards his waiting car. I watched him drive away in a flurry of exhaust fumes and wondered what he would tell his sophisticated colleagues about law enforcement in rural North Yorkshire.
Chapter Four
There are two classes of pedestrians in these days of reckless motor traffic — the quick and the dead.
LORD DEWAR, 1864—1930
In my extreme youth, lady drivers were a rarity and when one witnessed a member of that fairest of sexes driving a motorcar, the sight was enough to make one stand and stare, before broadcasting the sighting to one’s friends. Ladies as passengers were not uncommon, but it is fair to say that the skill of guiding a moving motor vehicle from place to place was usually entrusted only to the male of the human species.
Gradually, however, the ladies began to assume the mantle of masculinity and independence, and in addition to smoking or wearing slacks instead of skirts, they took lessons in the art of driving motorcars. It wasn’t long before ladies were driving all sorts of vehicles but I cannot recall my first sight of a lady behind the wheel. It cannot have been that unusual or important.
Certainly, this form of emancipation occurred long before I joined the police force, consequently by the time I had passed through training school, ladies were frequently seen at the wheel. We were taught diplomacy when asking their age, and admittedly, there was jokes or tales about their driving. One instructor told us how he’d stopped a lady motorist in Middlesbrough for driving at 40 miles an hour in a built-up area, to which she retorted, “Don’t be ridiculous, I haven’t been driving for an hour, and I certainly haven’t done forty miles.”
There were those who hung their handbags on the chokes and wondered why the car engine throbbed and smoked; there were those who pointed at scenic things through open windows and confounded those driving behind into thinking all manner of things which were far from the truth, and there were those who depended upon a man to keep the machine roadworthy after their exertions.
It must be said that there were many ladies who coped admirably with the motorcar and its moods. One lady who thought she fitted into this category was Esme Brittain, a lovely looking woman in her late forties who drove a white Morris Minor. She was blessed with a pneumatic figure, jet black hair and lovely white teeth, all enhanced by dark eyes and gorgeous legs. She had been married but the outcome of that association was something of a mystery because the male half had vanished long ago, leaving Esme with her little cottage and a Yorkshire Terrier. There were no children of the union, and Esme earned her living by teaching pottery and selling her distinctive products to tourists and craft shops.
Esme was a charmer. Of that there was no doubt, and many a hunting male had attempted to change her tyres, check her batteries and clean her plugs but she politely and firmly rejected and resisted all approaches, however oblique. Although she never said so, the villagers felt she’d been let down by her erring husband to such an extent that she trusted no man. It must be said, however, that she never criticised her missing husband, nor did she grumble about his absence. She lived as if he’d never existed and perhaps she had the ability to blot him from her life and memory. I shall never know, but she certainly kept all men at a respectful distance, particularly from her emotions.
Nice as she was, and beautiful as she looked, Esme in a car was a threat to society. She reduced the most innocent of motorcars to the status of a guided missile, and floated through heavy traffic as if she were a balloon which would bounce off obstructions. How she avoided accidents was never known, because her driving ability was appalling in the extreme. She had no idea of road sense, car care or any of the niceties of motoring. She just climbed in and set off, heedless of other road users. Yet she survived.
Such was her reputation that the local people kept well out of her way. The moment Esme was mobile, everyone kept off the streets until her little Morris Minor was safely beyond the outskirts of Maddleskirk. What happened beyond those boundaries was none of their business, and they had the sense not to find out.
The trouble was that Esme’s adventures frequently became my business. Her erratic excursions invariably had a startling conclusion, and if she entered any of the conurbations within striking distance of the village she could be guaranteed to collect a summons for obstructing the highway, illegal parking, lack of proper lights, careless driving or some other trifling traffic infringement. Esme’s trouble was that she never reported to the local police as advised in the tickets which were plastered about her windscreen after such indiscretions, consequently when the distant police traced her through the registration number, I was given the task of interviewing her for her regular and multifarious misdeeds. In this way, I became acquainted with the lovely Esme.
She constantly and charmingly admitted her errors and got fined by many magistrates, yet her adventures never made any obvious impression upon her. She never altered her ways or improved her driving, and yet she was never involved in a serious accident. I considered that to be miraculous.
It is not to say, however, that she was not a danger, because she did occasionally cause people to jump off their pedal cycles or motorists to abandon the road in order to preserve their own lives or safeguard their vehicles. But she avoided most collisions.
One exception involved three visiting ladies from a Women’s Institute in County Durham. One lovely Sunday morning in late April, a bus load of them had travelled from the pit villages up north, and had ventured south to North Yorkshire in order to visit Rannockdale and its acres of wild bluebells. En route, the coach had stopped at a remote moorland hamlet called Gelderslack so that the ladies could form a queue at the toilet and buy coffee at a local café. The driver told them the break would be for three quarters of an hour, because he’d calculated it was the shortest time that a bus load of chattering women could each visit a single toilet. Such is the wisdom of bus drivers.
The first three ladies in the loo queue, having achieved their purpose, were also first in the coffee queue and therefore first out of the tiny village café. To while away the time until the last of their kin had taken on coffee and poured off water, they settled on a seat in the village. The seat in question had been presented to Rannockdale by Sir Cholmely Brown, and it occupied a prime site at the eastern side where it overlooked Surprise View. The place was visited by tourists, cameramen and Americans, all of whom admired the stupendous views from this summit. The three satisfied ladies managed to occupy that hallowed place for a few blissful minutes; for them, it represented rural solitude, because here they could sit and admire
the view while their friends queued.
But they had reckoned without Esme and her doubtful driving ability. Through one of those awkward coincidences, Esme arrived in Gelderslack at the same time as that bus, because she was thinking of trading her little Morris Minor in part exchange for a large Humber Snipe. Gelderslack garage had a gleaming black Humber for sale, and so Esme arrived that day to inspect and test it. The benevolent garage proprietor, on seeing the immaculately polished Morris, readily consented to Esme taking the Humber for a test run. She climbed into the driving seat, coped with the starter and the gears, and drove the huge car into the spring sunshine.
All went well until she reached Surprise View. At that point, she recalled that she was not very good at descending steep hills, so decided to turn around and go the other way. To achieve this about-turn, it was necessary to execute a three-point turn and Esme succeeded in guiding the front wheels of the Humber into the side of the road as the prelude to her change of direction. This meant that the nose of the Humber was a very few inches from the back of the seat upon which sat the three unsuspecting ladies from the County Durham W.I. In their state of happiness, they failed to register any alarm at the proximity of Esme and the big car.
She stopped without any trouble, placed the gears in reverse and let in her clutch. Sadly, she’d erroneously engaged a forward gear and the huge car nudged forward and touched the rear of the seat. Esme halted its forward rush, but it succeeded in tipping the seat forward and toppling the three ladies into an untidy and ungainly heap on the ground overlooking Surprise View. Highly apologetic, Esme rushed to their aid, returned the seat to its correct position, and dusted down the surprised trio. Rather baffled by this turn of events, they re-settled on their seat and gazed airily across the moor.
Her apologies accepted, Esme resumed her position in the driving seat and had another crack at selecting reverse. As she let in the clutch for the second time, the car misbehaved yet again and leapt forward to tip up the seat. Once again, the three surprised ladies slid off and crumpled into a pitiful heap with the seat resting on top of them. Esme blushed furiously. She rushed out of the Humber and re-positioned the seat yet again, dusting them down with her hands and expressing her most profuse apologies. She tried to explain about the gears, but they glared at her angrily; gone was their northern bonhomie as they sat heavily upon their precious seat, furious at the indignities they had suffered. One had even laddered her stockings.
Very nervously, Esme re-entered the waiting Humber and with extreme care, and selected reverse. Most gingerly, she let in the clutch but this car was enjoying itself. It moved forward for the third time, and before she could halt its short progress, it once again touched the back of the seat and tipped it forward. For the third time, the W.I. ladies slid to the ground, a miserable, angry heap of feminine wrath. Now, they could endure no more and chased Esme from the Humber. She managed to reach sanctuary in the garage and sought protection from the man who’d loaned her the wilful vehicle.
But luck was on Esme’s side because the loo queue was dwindling rapidly and the bus driver, who had witnessed the whole affair, had a sense of humour. He tooted his horn and drew his passengers back to the coach, but this did not prevent the aggrieved three from making a complaint. A day or two later, I had to interview Esme about it. Although I submitted an official report against her for careless driving, the Superintendent authorised ‘No action’, his reasons being, I suspect, that any magistrates listening to this complaint would dissolve into laughter and that would be undignified in a court of law.
Happily, my regular official visits to Esme did not sour our relationship. She continued to regard me as a friendly caller and never once complained about the frequency of my visits, nor did she grumble about the regular fines she attracted. She probably thought all motorists suffered in this way.
I must admit I liked her. I remember one terrible winter morning when five or six inches of snow had fallen overnight. The roads were treacherous and the small amount of traffic had compressed the snow into a sheet of dangerous ice. Maddleskirk village was blocked at both exits, for there are steep hills climbing out at each end of the village street. The early morning traffic which comprised lorries, bread trucks, tankers, post office vans and commuters’ cars had all come to a standstill because each hill was impassable. I arrived on foot to have a look, and borrowed a shovel from a farmer who lived on the main street. With the shovel over my shoulder, I trudged through the blizzard conditions, intending to spread gravel across the glistening surface, and get the queue of traffic moving.
As I walked to the base of the western hill, I heard a car engine behind and turned to see Esme in her immaculate white Morris Minor. She halted at my side and wound down her window.
“Good morning, Mr Rhea,” she breezed, her lovely face wreathed in smiles and framed in a fur bonnet.
“Hello, Esme,” I greeted her. “You’re not going out today, I hope!”
“I must get to Leeds,” she said. “I have an appointment at a craft shop this morning and can’t let them down.”
“You’ll never get through,” I pointed to the queue of patient drivers, all sitting at their wheels or helping to spread gravel.
“Oh, I don’t worry about snow,” she said. “I pretend I’m on a motor rally and it gets me through every time,” and with that she set her wheels in motion. Two lorry drivers who’d overheard this remark launched into a polite cheer as the gallant little Morris approached the base of the steep hill. No one had climbed it that morning; it was like glass and the skid marks etched wildly across its surface bore testimony to their efforts.
We all watched and wondered how long it was going to take to dig her out, but the little white car chugged forward and started to climb. Everyone watched in sheer amazement as Esme’s car stolidly climbed that treacherous incline and vanished over the top. Others tried, but all failed.
To this day, I do not know how she achieved that, but it dawned on me that I’d never seen Esme stuck in the winter. Faith must be a wonderful thing.
I began to think Esme was invincible. Somehow, she blazed a trail through life in her little Morris Minor and never seemed to ask help from anyone. Then, one fine morning in May, she called at my office in Aidensfield. She rang the bell, and I answered, very surprised to find her there.
“Come in, Esme,” I opened the door and she strode in. “You’ve come to produce your licence and insurance again?”
“No,” she smiled. “No, I’m not in trouble, Mr Rhea. I can drive without getting fined, you know. I’m not one of those silly women drivers who are always in trouble.”
“Of course not,” I pulled out a chair for her. “Well, what’s wrong?”
“I am going down to Stratford-on-Avon,” she said. “I’m taking a friend and we are going to see some of the Shakespearian productions at the Stratford Theatre.”
“You’ll enjoy it,” I smiled, for I’d seen several of their skilled interpretations of the Bard’s works.
“I do have a problem,” she lowered her voice. “I need directions to Stratford, I cannot work out my own route.”
“That should be no trouble,” I pulled a road atlas from the bookshelf in my office. “I went a couple of years ago, and know the route well.”
“Oh, I know the route,” she said, pausing for effect.
“You do?”
“You’ve not heard of my problem?” she asked me solemnly.
“No.” I wondered which problem she meant. “What problem?”
“I’m surprised no one has mentioned it to you,” she continued to talk in a low voice. “And I’m surprised you have not noticed for yourself, Mr Rhea. I thought policemen were supposed to be very observant . . .”
“I haven’t been here long,” I began to make an excuse.
“My driving,” she said. “It’s the way I drive.”
“Oh, yes.” I thought of all the catastrophes she might create between Aidensfield and Stratford, and wondered if I shou
ld warn all constabularies en route.
She laughed and appeared able to read my thoughts, for she said, “It’s not my parking problems, Mr Rhea, or my reversing difficulties.”
“No?” I could not think of anything else right now.
“It’s my inability to turn right,” she said, pausing for the awesome implications of that remark to sink into my skull.
“Turn right?” I questioned.
“Yes, I cannot turn right off a road. I go everywhere by making left turns,” she told me in all seriousness. “I can cope with right turns off one-way streets, but not on ordinary roads. Surely you’ve seen me coming home different ways?”
“I had no idea that was the reason,” I said. “So you are telling me you intend to drive to Stratford-on-Avon without ever turning right?”
“Yes, that’s why I came to see you. Last year, I set off to go to Harrogate to the theatre and things went fine until I came to a new one-way street in Ripon. I got hopelessly lost . . .”
“What happened?” I asked, suppressing a chuckle.
“I got to Middlesbrough, miles from where I intended, and had to get a train back. It’s all very embarrassing, Mr Rhea, and I cannot help it.”
“I don’t know whether I’m capable of producing a route for you all that way, Esme; I wonder if there are other people like you?”
“A cousin of mine could never go around a roundabout,” she said. “He always took the right-hand route instead of the left and got into no end of bother from the police. He blocked the whole of Newcastle upon Tyne one Saturday morning because he hit a bus on a roundabout. He was fine if he drove on the continent.”
I did not want to let her down and promised I’d do my best to find a route to Stratford-on-Avon, a distance of some two hundred miles, without her having to turn right. She was going in a fortnight’s time, she told me, so there was no great rush.
With Mary’s help, I settled down to work out a route and it was not as difficult as I had anticipated. Working along the main roads, I could plan the basic route bearing in mind one must make huge circular tours from time to time, and that the exits from motorways are all to the left anyway. The tricky bits were the towns, especially Stratford itself on the final lap, although I did suggest she parked on the outskirts and caught a bus into the town centre.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 68