I paused at a telephone kiosk to make a midnight point and as I stood in the silence, I heard the distinctive swish of oncoming tyres. Another cyclist was approaching — could it be Sergeant Bairstow?
I peered from behind my kiosk and saw the approaching light. It was weaving slightly from side to side as the cyclist pressed towards the conclusion of his journey, and when he passed me, I noticed it was a racing cyclist. He had his head low over the handlebars and was clad in all-black gear, comprising a sweat shirt and shorts, topped by a black cap. The cycle was a racing machine, and I guessed he was clocking himself to compete in a time-trial at some future date.
But as he passed my vantage point, I saw that his back light was not working. As he rode away from me, he was rapidly lost in the darkness and his black clothing made him virtually invisible. The fellow was a risk to himself and to motorists, and I could foresee an accident of a horrible kind. I imagined some motorist running into the rear of this cyclist and killing him, or at the least severely injuring him.
“Hey!” I shouted, emerging from my waiting place. “Hey, stop!”
There was no response. The cyclist kept his head down and tore away into the night.
Not liking to be ignored, and angry that my call had been unheeded, I mounted my trusty old police cycle and gave chase. The heavy machine seemed like a tank, and it took an awful lot of pedal pressure to persuade it to move at speed. But within a few minutes, I was hurtling along in pursuit of the unlit cycle, hell-bent on reporting this thoughtless character for riding without lights.
The thrill of the chase spurred me to great efforts, and I felt as if I was riding in a time-trial, striving to catch up with the chap who would have one full minute’s start on me. But this character had only a few seconds lead, and I succeeded. My own headlight caught the reflection of his pedals and I urged my sturdy steed to even greater efforts as I drew closer.
“Hey!” I shouted. “Police, stop!”
I was panting by this time, but my legs were holding out and I was certainly drawing closer to him. “Hey, you!” I began to call. “Police, stop!”
The fellow did not respond. His head was low over the handlebars as he pressed his pedals and I thought he was trying to get away from me. I called upon my reserves and all my past cycling skills as I forced the old police bike to draw level with him.
“Hey!” I shouted across at him, for I could see his ears now. “Hey, stop. Police.”
He looked across at me and I could see the pain and anguish of competition on his face.
“What is it?” he panted.
“That back light of yours. It’s not working. I’ve been trying to halt you . . . you ignored my orders . . .”
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” and he continued to forge ahead. “I’m in a desperate hurry, officer, can’t you see? I’m breaking a record . . .”
“A record?”
“Doing a fifty,” he said in racing jargon. “I’ve only a mile to go . . . I daren’t stop . . .”
“You’re a danger to yourself!” I shouted, but my cycling days had also taught me the agony of attempting to better one’s own time, and the thrill of breaking other people’s records.
“I daren’t lose precious seconds fixing that light,” he pleaded, head down again. “Please bear with me, it’s not far now.”
“You could get killed,” I snapped, and then I realised I could help him.
“One more mile, officer, then I’ve done it . . . the fifty record will be mine, I’m ahead on time.”
“Right,” I decided. “Keep going. I’ll tuck in behind you, and my light will act as a warning. Keep going, and don’t flag . . .”
And I moved into his slip-stream. I followed him for that final mile, he breaking some record and me urging the old police bike to its utmost speed as I kept pace with the record breaker. Towards the end, I knew he was flagging; I most certainly was, but I think my presence immediately behind helped to keep him going. After all, it would look rather odd if a fully uniformed policeman on a police cycle crossed the line ahead of him, so I reckon I did him a service.
He achieved his record by knocking some 50 seconds off the local record and he thanked me for my help. He fixed his light — the bulb had worked loose and I did not report him. I doubt if I could have spoken the necessary words. It took an age to regain my breath and cool down.
I did wonder how that old bike would have performed over the full fifty miles, but decided against making the attempt. After all, a quick sprint over one mile is exhilarating, even on a police cycle, but it would have been impossible to sustain that pace for much longer. He deserved his record.
* * *
If there was one sport in which I had no interest, it was Association Football. I had played at school but completely failed to understand the offside rule. In my teens, I had never felt inclined to attend Saturday afternoon matches, either of the village variety or at Middlesbrough which was then a top-class First Division team. Consequently, upon my appointment as a constable I had never expressed the slightest interest in playing football for my Division, my Station or the village team. Even if this did promise time off on Saturday, less night duty and more beer swilling, the appeal of the sport in all its facets was lost on me.
Following my first cricket season, therefore, I was somewhat horrified when Sergeant Blaketon sidled up to me one Wednesday morning and asked,
“Rhea, are you busy on Saturday?”
In my mind, this was a loaded question. I was supposed to be on Rest Day, and I knew that Mary was hoping for an outing of some kind; if I said I was busy, he’d ask what it was, and if I said I wasn’t busy, he was likely to put me on night duty.
“Why, sergeant?” I replied with a question, a useful form of defence.
“I need help, Rhea,” I detected the tone of a plaintive cry in his voice.
“What sort of help, sergeant?” I was still being very guarded.
“I note you are on Rest Day, Rhea,” he said, his eyes swivelling towards the duty sheet which was pinned to the wall, “and I thought if you hadn’t anything special to do, you might come to my rescue. After all, I did allow you to play cricket.”
“If it is something serious, sergeant,” I heard myself saying, “I’ll be only too pleased to help.”
“It is very serious,” he informed me sternly. “You’ve heard of the Ashfordly Veterans Club Football Team?”
“No,” I said truthfully, not being a football fanatic.
“I thought you were a sportsman, Rhea?” he put to me. “All this cricket and that cycling of yours.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a sportsman, sergeant,” I admitted. “What’s this got to do with the Veterans?”
He coughed. “I am playing for the Veterans this season,” he flushed ever so slightly. “In fact,” he smiled weakly, “I’m captain.”
“Congratulations.” I didn’t know what to say, or what I was expected to say.
“This Saturday is a very important game,” he went on. “We are playing in the final of the Ryedale Veterans League Challenge Cup, here at Ashfordly Sports Ground. It’s against the Brantsford side.”
I wondered if he wanted me to write up an account of the match for the local paper, or to act as linesman maybe?
“You’re playing too?” I smiled.
“I’m in goal,” he said proudly. “My old position. When I was a young man, Rhea, I was a crack goalkeeper. My height was useful and I kept for the Force on twenty occasions; indeed I was short-listed for the British Police Football Team, as goalkeeper.”
“Then your team will have no trouble winning,” I beamed at him. I had no idea that he’d been so skilled and he must have been outstanding to have been short-listed for the British team.
“We’re a man short,” he said quickly. “Full-back. I wondered if you would play for us?”
“Me?” I laughed. “Sergeant, I’ve never played football since I was at school. I hardly know one end o
f a pitch from the other.”
“I can’t find anyone. We’re short as a general rule, but this weekend it’s desperate. Two of our members have gone down with rheumatism, and one’s got flu. We can’t play unless we turn out a full team.”
“But I’m not a veteran!” I protested. “I’m only twenty-six.”
“Anyone over twenty-five qualifies,” he beamed. “That’s a rule, I checked before asking you.”
To put it mildly, I was talked into playing for Sergeant Blaketon’s creaking team. Mary laughed and said she would attend the game, for she could do with a good laugh. The thought of me running around a football pitch, however amateurish the game, was more than a giggle — it was hilarious.
That Saturday afternoon, therefore, I reported to Ashfordly Sports Ground and found Sergeant Blaketon prancing up and down in a dark blue jumper and white shorts. My kit was in the changing room, and it was the same colour. As I changed, I felt awful; the men around me, most of whom were in their forties and very fit, were clearly addicts of the game and I hoped Oscar Blaketon had acquainted them with my total lack of know-how. If youth was on my side, experience was not.
I remember where full-backs were supposed to play, having dredged that fact deep from my school memories and I swotted up something of the game in one of my reference books. I also learned that Blaketon’s team had conquered all competitors prior to this game. This was the final. The thought that the fate of the League Challenge Cup lay at my feet was horrifying. I had agonised for hours before the game, worrying myself sick as to why he had selected me and what I’d done wrong to find myself in this awful position. The duty sheet told me — the three best footballers of the Section were all on duty, and Oscar could hardly change their duties to play when he’d been so critical of the cricketers and their time off. Local police politics were very much in evidence on this occasion. None of the civilians in town were interested in the game — they were too busy watching professional matches or doing their own Saturday things. Such a lot depended upon me.
In the changing rooms, he rallied his team and welcomed me to the game, never mentioning my amateurism. He punched a few pieces of advice at them, and spent time telling them about his favourite moves, his tactics, the weaknesses in the opposition and the strengths of their forward line. He did a good job, I felt, for he managed to demoralise me totally. I stood with the others, goose-pimples on my legs and a lump in my throat, as the clock’s pointers ticked irrevocably towards two thirty.
Then we were running on to the pitch. I kicked a spare ball around, and leapt up and down like the others. I tried to head one or two practice shots, but missed the lot and before I knew what was happening, we were lining up for the kick-off.
I was nicely out of the way in my full-back position, but the opposing team looked ominous and threatening. Brantsford Veterans had the reputation of being a formidable side, and as we lined up, they galloped noisily around the pitch in their bright red strip, threatening us with total annihilation. Sergeant Blaketon won the toss and elected to play into the wind, hoping they would tire themselves out by the time they had to do likewise. Then he made his way between the clean white goalposts, there to defend the reputation of Ashfordly Veterans.
I noticed that everyone was trotting on the spot so I did the same, then the whistle blew. It shrilled loudly, and I started to run about knowing that in the very near future, I would have to attempt to stop the onward rush of the opposition. I was the last line of defence before the goal, and Oscar Blaketon was in goal, I couldn’t let him down. I daren’t let him down.
The first half went rapidly. I kicked the ball several times which made me feel moderately useful, and I didn’t appear to do anything that caused groans and contempt from the others. In fact, one of my shots landed right at the feet of our centre forward and he raced towards the goal, being narrowly defeated on his run. I was congratulated because I had almost made a goal, and I felt proud. I could see Mary on the touch-line, mingling with the handful of spectators, and she applauded that piece of skill. Suddenly I felt confidence flowing through my veins.
By half-time, I was feeling even better. My patrol duties and my cricket during the summer had kept me fit and the exercise was not too strenuous. Age was on my side and I found I could outrun most of the Brantsford team members, although I must admit their skills were infinitely greater than mine. But I enjoyed the first half and walked off the field feeling very pleased. I waved to Mary as I entered the changing room for a drink of orange and a towelling.
The score was nil-nil at this stage, and everything depended upon the second half. We were now playing with the wind, an undoubted asset and I could sense Sergeant Blaketon’s confidence as we took to the field for the second half.
We were certainly the fitter team. In that second half, we ran rings around their men, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I raced up field with the ball and kicked it to our own men time and time again, our efforts being thwarted only by the anticipation and good luck of their goalkeeper. Time and time again he saved powerful shots, and then one of their men fouled our centre forward.
It was a dirty foul, the action of a desperate man, and our player fell to the ground in agony as his shin took the force of a well-aimed kick. My team exploded with anger because our man had been racing towards the goal as the goalie had come forward to vacate his position. We couldn’t fail to score — then we were fouled. The referee awarded a free kick, not a penalty and I didn’t know enough about the game to worry about the difference, but it angered our lads. Shouts and cat-calls filled the air and Sergeant Blaketon had a difficult job calming them down. The tension was intolerable.
But Blaketon succeeded. As our centre forward hobbled off the pitch with his leg bleeding nastily, we were compelled to continue with ten men. There were no substitutes. We had about thirty-five minutes to play before full time, and while our earlier efforts should have produced results, it was now doubtful whether we could maintain that pressure. The centre forward, a butcher called Andy Storr, was a gallant and skilled team member and he would be missed. Their viciousness had hit us where it hurt most.
When all the fuss had died away, the game resumed and quite suddenly, I had the ball. I have no idea how it arrived at my feet, for I was still angry about the foul, but I thought of Sergeant Blaketon and the honour that could be his. Forgetting I was a full-back, I side-stepped a player who tackled me and tore down the right wing with the ball bouncing at my feet. I felt the thrill of the chase as players milled around and tackled me; I saw Mary on the touch-line, her hands waving and her voice calling to me, and I flew across the grass. Nothing could stop me now; I was on wings of happiness and success.
Someone attempted to intercept me, and I did a quick body-swerve to deposit him on the ground as I continued my racing run. Never before had I experienced such a thrill and I could hear the cheers of the spectators as I raced towards the goal. I beat all comers; I was in a haze as I switched into skills I never knew I possessed. I thought of Sergeant Blaketon and the cup, my eyes filled with tears of happiness as I raced those final yards to the goal. I was unstoppable. Then a hush descended. The ground bore an air of expectancy and I knew it all depended on me.
I was before the goalkeeper; he crouched between the posts and my misty eyes could distinguish his dark figure with arms outstretched as I took my careful aim.
I have never kicked a football with such power and accuracy. It flew from my right foot and the goalkeeper didn’t stand a chance. He dived across the goalmouth in a desperate bid to beat my shot, but the driving ball crashed into the net with a resounding thud of leather against netting.
I wiped my eyes. I had done it. And me a full-back too!
“What the bloody hell are you doing, Rhea?” cried Sergeant Blaketon as he picked the ball from the back of the net. “This is our goal!”
He didn’t ask me to play again, for his team lost by that solitary goal, and I daren’t ask him for time off to play cricket the followi
ng year.
He retired from football after that game, and I must admit I felt sorry for him.
I hope he didn’t think I’d done it on purpose.
Chapter Seven
If you want to win her hand,
Let the maiden understand,
That she’s not the only pebble on the beach.
HARRY BRAISTED, nineteenth century
As I settled in my office to compile the quarterly return of farms visited and inspections of stock registers, I discovered I had omitted one busy establishment. According to the record maintained in my office, my predecessor had called there at least once a quarter and I had been lax in not continuing the practice.
On that May morning, therefore, I decided to rectify matters. I began my journey on the little Francis Barnett with the fresh breezes of May stirring the blossomed trees and the growing grass along the lanes. May must be the most beautiful of the English months for the landscape is bursting with fresh life, with flowers, leaves, insects and birds, all enjoying the warmth that comes from the strengthening sun. To be paid for patrolling through such splendid environs is indeed a bonus, and I enjoyed my ride across the valley.
I was heading for Slape Wath Farm, a lonely homestead buried deep in the moors over by Whemmelby. I had to consult my Ordnance Survey map before leaving the house, but established that I had to descend the steep 1-in-3 hill into Whemmelby, drive out towards the summit of Gallow Heights and turn left about a mile before reaching the Heights. This took me along an unmade track which climbed across the heathery landscape before descending dramatically into a small valley. Deep in the valley lay the homestead called Slape Wath Farm, so named because the track crossed the mountain stream near the farm, then wound its way across the moors, eventually leading to the main road from Eltering to Strensford. In our Yorkshire dialect, slape means slippery and a wath is watersplash or a ford, so the farm was aptly named. The crossing would be treacherous in winter.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 73