This was shattering news. Never in the political history of the area had a Liberal emerged from anywhere to stand at any election, national or local. Horror was expressed at his decision; Hubert’s standing slumped and there were fears about his sanity. Indeed, there were also fears about the future of the church’s pig-breeding enterprise. Could a Liberal be allowed access to this capitalist venture? For years, nay centuries, the folk of this blissful rural area had always voted Conservative; Churchill and his men were for Britain, and any other political adherent was deemed a dangerous subversive.
Heaven knows what might have happened if Hubert had opted for Socialism, for there would have been worries about nationalisation of the pig-breeding enterprise or whether the Red Flag would be sung in church. As he had opted for Liberalism, however, such events were unlikely, but his new-found creed meant that no one really knew what he stood for. This meant he could canvass around the district without fear of contradiction, and this lack of contradiction made him believe his policies were acceptable. The truth was that no one argued because no one understood his policies.
Inevitably, election day arrived. The school was used as the polling station, and I had to perform a long day’s duty, from seven o’clock in the morning to the close of polling at 10 p.m. My duty was to ensure there were no election offences or breaches of the Representation of the People Act, 1949. I had to make my presence obvious around the polling station, looking fierce and making sure no one used undue influence or threatened any force during the voting. I had to ensure that no bribery was used and that no one voted in the name of any other person. Order had to be maintained throughout and I made friends with the Returning Officer because she was pretty and had brought a kettle.
After my early start, the day wore on, and I noticed that Hubert had really immersed himself in the occasion. He wore a massive yellow rosette and had decorated his old car with yellow banners as he trundled it around outlying farms and houses to convey his supposed voters to the polling booth. I knew they wouldn’t vote for him; a free ride was fine, but voting Liberal was something no one would do.
But I had to admire Hubert. He never gave up. He chattered to potential voters, made countless trips in his car, and gave yellow rosettes to everyone. And all the time he tried to convert rock-hard Conservatives to his new faith.
At ten o’clock, prompt, the polls closed and my job was to oversee the sealing of the ballot boxes, following which I had to escort them to a collecting centre at the council offices. There, the count would take place. En route, we collected many more boxes from other villages and I signed a form to say none had been tampered with.
I got home around quarter past midnight, and was just sitting down for a hot goodnight drink when my telephone rang. Mary dashed through to answer it before it roused the children, and said, “It’s Hubert, he sounds upset.”
“The results won’t be out yet!” I remarked as I trudged through to the telephone.
I picked up the handset. “P.C. Rhea,” I announced.
“Mr Rhea, thoo’ll have to come quick. Real quick.” I recognised the urgency in Hubert’s voice.
“What’s matter?” I put to him.
“It’s my pigs,” he said. “I reckon they’ve caught summat real bad, and wondered if it needed reporting. They look terrible . . .”
“Have you called the vet?” I asked.
“He’s not in yet, he’s out at Brantsford with a calving cow.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I assured him.
Not knowing a great deal about contagious diseases of animals, I nonetheless knew that I would have to do something quickly, so I gulped down my cup of cocoa and hurried on foot towards his farm.
When I arrived, his car, still bearing the yellow banners and flags, stood in the foldyard. Several placards in dazzling yellow stood around the walls, but on the ground the mud was brown and thick. I splodged across to his sties and found him standing near the end wall, looking dejectedly at the pigs inside. As I approached, he heard my squelchy arrival.
“Ah, Mr Rhea, thoo’s come then.”
I halted at his side.
He shone a powerful torch into the sty, and there, grunting in the dazzling light, were a dozen growing pigs. They looked terrible.
“Are they all like that, Hubert?” I asked.
“Aye,” he said sadly.
Then I laughed. “Hubert!” I almost cried with laughter, “They’re not ill! Somebody’s turned them all into little Liberals, that’s all!”
Every one of them had been sprayed with a bright yellow paint.
Next day, it was announced that Hubert had polled four votes, and we never knew who’d perpetrated any of those deeds.
Chapter Two
Ah, when will this long weary day have end,
And lend me leave to come unto my love?
EDMUND SPENSER, 1552–1599
This is the story of a man called Soldier, and because he spent some of his time in prison I will refer to him by that name alone. He was known affectionately as Soldier during his incarceration, and although he lived at Brantsford I first met him at a police station on the south coast of England. It happened like this.
Sergeant Blaketon rang me late one evening at the latter end of summer, and said, “Rhea, there’s an escort job for you. Catch the first train from York tomorrow morning, and go to Brighton. There’s a prisoner to fetch back. Foxton will go with you. He’s got the money for your fares, the warrant and something for a meal on the way. I’ve rung Brighton — they’re expecting you. Make sure the fellow is handcuffed to one of you all the way back. He’s for court at Eltering later this week.”
Sergeant Blaketon gave me the prisoner’s name, and rang off. I called Alwyn Foxton at Ashfordly Police Station and confirmed what the sergeant had told me. It seemed our train left shortly before seven o’clock, and we had to travel in civilian clothes in order to be very inconspicuous. Alwyn would collect me in the morning at six o’clock and would have the necessary warrant to secure Soldier’s arrest by our good selves. There were times when such formalities were necessary.
Everything was arranged, and so I rose from the warmth of my marital bed at quarter past five next morning to make myself a cooked breakfast. I didn’t disturb Mary or the children as I went about stocking my body with hot food, and I had the sense to make sandwiches and provide myself with a flask of coffee for the long trip. Police know from bitter experience that it is wise to arm oneself with food and drink when away from one’s usual source of supply. Prompt at six, Alwyn arrived in the official car, and we drove through the wilds of Ryedale to York’s famous railway station.
Alwyn Foxton was a jolly, red-faced policeman of indeterminate age, whose thick grey hair and stock figure made him something of a father-figure, even to young constables like myself. Easy-going and affable, he had never sought promotion and was happy to let the big wide world pass gently by. On a long, boring train journey like this, he was good company as he reminisced about his life in the force, and offered words of home-spun wisdom to his youthful colleague.
We reached Brighton before lunch, tired and hungry, and decided to buy some food in town before presenting ourselves at the local police station to collect Soldier. I liked Brighton, except for the beach whose stony slopes are like river beds, and on impulse bought a postcard depicting a pretty part of the resort and posted it home to my mother. I learned afterwards that when she received this missive, bearing the words “Having a lovely time, Nick,” she thought I’d abandoned my wife, family and career to run away to a new life in the deepest south. Such is the penalty for warped senses of humour, however light the act! We spent some time in the town, rather than wait with a prisoner for our return train, and eventually Alwyn and I entered the door of the police station and made our identities known to the sergeant. It was late afternoon by this time, and we had seen the delights of this lovely town.
The sergeant had difficulty understanding our strange tongue, but aft
er showing him the magistrates’ warrant and our warrant cards, he realised we had come to relieve him of Soldier.
He spoke to us in a strange accent and waved his arms, which we interpreted as a request to follow him into the cells. This we did, and Alwyn passed me the handcuffs.
“He’s yours,” he said, and I accepted the handcuffs before I realised what responsibilities I had thus acquired. If Soldier escaped, I would be responsible and liable to disciplinary action.
“Cell Number Two,” chanted the sergeant, and we halted at the locked door. He rattled his bunch of keys in the lock and the heavy studded door swung open on well-oiled hinges to reveal a tousle-haired man sitting on the wooden platform which was his bed.
He stood up as we entered.
“Great!” he said. “Now I can get home.”
“Listen first,” the sergeant ordered him. “These officers have come to arrest you for failing to answer to your bail.”
“I know,” the man said, “and I’m not arguing. I just want to go home, that’s all.”
“Read the warrant to him,” the sergeant ordered, and Alwyn began a pompous recital of the obscure wording of the document in his hands. In simple terms, it ordered us to arrest Soldier and take him to Eltering Magistrates’ Court where he would be dealt with for an offence of housebreaking, committed many months ago. Soldier listened, and shuffled uneasily, wanting only to be out of the cell.
He was a tall man in his middle twenties, with brown hair all tousled and curly; his face, with its hint of freckles and dark brown eyes, bore that unmistakable aura of mischief, and yet it was a friendly face. He was casually dressed in grey trousers and a matching sweater, but his other possessions were in a locker labelled “Prisoner’s property”.
We walked him from the cell into the charge room, where the sergeant formally handed over his belongings, for which he had to sign an official form. There was a small amount of cash, a roll of bedding tied around the middle with a leather belt, a small suitcase and an overcoat.
Our train left at shortly after five and after a farewell cup of tea for us all, the sergeant arranged a car to convey us to the railway station. I asked Soldier to stretch out his arm, and promptly fastened the handcuffs upon him. Having seen that he was right-handed, I fastened the cuffs around his right wrist, so they linked with my left. And so we were handcuffed together with this small, but often valid, precaution. Alwyn folded the warrant, endorsed it as being executed and slid it back into his pocket.
Soldier, and indeed ourselves, were now ready to return to Yorkshire.
We found an empty compartment on the train and jostled ourselves into a comfortable position on the seat, with me sitting by the window and Soldier linked to me by the handcuffs. Since leaving the police station, he had not spoken a word, nor had he offered any resistance. He sat by my side, as good as gold, and watched the passing scenery of Sussex as we gathered speed on our long, tiring journey to the north.
Alwyn sat opposite; he had bought a few magazines and paperbacks for us, offering a glossy magazine to our prisoner.
Soldier accepted it with a ready grin, and bowed his head to read.
I did likewise. Within minutes, we found it necessary to reach a neat reading arrangement because, at first, every time he moved his hand to turn a page, I had to lift mine to go with him, and the reverse happened when I wanted to turn a page. We soon got a system working, as Alwyn sat unmoved with his book. Then Soldier began to speak.
“Now we’re out of that bloody place,” he said, “I can talk. You are Yorkshiremen, aren’t you? I like Yorkshiremen, coppers or not.”
“We are,” I spoke for both of us.
“Good, then you’ll see sense. My name’s Soldier. They called me Soldier inside, ’cos of the way I walk. Soldier this, and Soldier that. I did the tobacco baron bit inside, fixed things for the others, you know. Got the screws to unbend a bit, made life easier. They liked me, the others did. Captain of the cricket eleven I was, just because I come from Yorkshire. They don’t know how to play cricket do they, those who live outside Yorkshire? I taught ’em a thing or two, with my googlies and off-breaks . . .”
And so he rambled on, spilling out the words in a rich tapestry of mixed prison jargon and a Yorkshire accent. I listened enthralled, but Alwyn pretended to continue reading, although I knew he was listening. But Alwyn was not going to admit to being tricked into anything ridiculous like listening to the half-truths of a convicted prisoner. But I found myself warming to this voluble man.
“What are you in for?” I asked.
“Passing dud cheques,” he grinned. “Lots of ’em. I had a real time, I tell you.”
“In Yorkshire was it?”
“No, all over. Well, you know how it is, Constable. The job got me down, there’s the wife and a kid and no money. All work and worry . . . it just got me down. So I nicked a cheque book and had a bloody good spend.”
“They caught you?”
“In time. I nicked a few more cheque books and stayed at posh hotels. Bought a car an’ all, and sold it. Easy money it was, Constable. Dead easy. Better’n working. Too easy, really. I got daft.”
“What is your job — when you’re working?” I put to him.
“Labouring. Building sites and that. Mucky work, heavy sometimes.”
“So they caught you. Who caught you?”
“Liverpool police. I was in this flat, and they found out it was me. Raided the place and caught me with the cheque book. I got sent down for eighteen months. I've done a year, behaved myself, so they’ve let me out.”
“And now you’ll be going straight?” I smiled.
“I am, honest. No, I mean it. You know what I wanted in there? All that time?”
“No.” I let him tell his tale.
“A tea party at my own house. I wanted to get home, see the wife and my little lass, and have a proper tea with a white cloth and nice cups. That’s what I’ve wanted all along. Tea like that, done proper.”
“And your wife? She’ll be waiting for you?” I visualised the happy domestic scene.
“Yeh,” he said with some nonchalance. “Yeh, she will. I wrote you see, said I was coming home today and told her to put a white cloth on.”
“Did she say she’d look forward to it?” as we chatted, I warmed to this likable fellow.
“She hasn’t replied.” There was a suggestion of sadness in his voice. “Mind you,” he added, “she wouldn’t have time to write back. I mean, they didn’t tell me I was going home till a couple of days back, and then I wrote straight away so she’ll have just got my letter . . .”
“But this arrest? You knew we’d be coming?”
“Oh, aye, I knew that. I didn’t answer bail for something way back — housebreaking I think — and the screws said you fellers would be waiting with that warrant. They brought me here. I didn’t mind — I mean, I get a free trip home under arrest, and I was going anyway. I’m dying for Yorkshire, you know, I really am. Just dying to see my wife and our kid . . .”
“And that white table-cloth?” I smiled.
“Aye, and that.”
Unwittingly, we had caught a slow train to London, and during that journey, Soldier chattered to us like a friend. He was so open, so friendly, so in love with his wife and child, whose name I learned was Susie. He told us of his wishes, his loves, his pranks and dodges in prison, and his escapades with the stolen cheque books. As he chattered, Alwyn Foxton joined in, now relaxing in his role as senior police officer in charge of our prisoner.
“I’m not going to run, you know,” Soldier said eventually. “You can take those cuffs off.”
Automatically, I glanced down at the chromium plated chain that linked us. There were no passengers in our compartment and Alwyn sat opposite. Soldier’s only way of escape would be to jump through the window and risk death by falling on to the line or alternatively to make a dash for the corridor. Both were unlikely.
I made the decision to release him.
“
No funny business then!” I said rather inanely.
“Don’t be bloody silly, Constable,” he said, “I’m going home. I want to go home, don’t I?”
I didn’t answer, but located the handcuff key in my pocket and loosened the cuffs. I removed them and slid them into my pocket. Alwyn looked askance at me, but said nothing. After all, Soldier was my responsibility. He rubbed his wrist and said, “Now that’s better. I’m not going to run, you know. I won’t — honest. There’s no need.”
Somehow, I believed him. He produced a paperback from his bag and began to read.
“Agatha Christie,” he said. “Good stuff, eh?”
And he lapsed into a long reading session. At various stations along the route, people entered and left our train, some joining us in the compartment but none guessing we were two police officers escorting a prisoner north for a court appearance.
Due to the slowness of our train, we were very late arriving at Victoria, and as we slowed at the end of that part of the journey, Soldier put his book away and asked the time.
I remember telling him, although I cannot recall the precise time save to say that Soldier said, “Then we’ve twenty minutes to get across London. Our train home goes in twenty minutes, Constable. If we miss it, we won’t get home until the early hours.”
“We can’t make it across London in twenty minutes!” Alwyn cried.
“We can — I know the way!” chirped Soldier.
“There’s tickets to get at the tubes,” I said, “there’s always a queue at the window . . .”
This was before the days of those handy ticket machines, but Soldier said, “You don’t need tickets in the tubes if you’ve got British Rail tickets. Just show ours — they’ll do.”
“Will they?” I asked.
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