Joe told me the horse was called Beggar’s Bridge because it had nothing to do with fish.
‘Has it won much?’ I asked, not being a racing fan and therefore not knowing the reputation of this animal.
‘It hasn’t raced yet,’ he said. ‘It’s due for its first outing later this year.’
‘There’ll be a lot of local interest in it,’ I said almost as an aside. ‘The whole town will be backing it, surely?’
‘They won’t!’ said Joe. ‘No one knows it’s Nathan’s, not even his wife. He hasn’t told her.’
‘You’re joking!’ I cried. ‘Surely he’s told his wife? I mean, it’ll cost a bomb to train and keep . . .’
‘He can’t tell her, can he? She’ll ask where he got the money to buy it and train it. Besides, she’s a big chapel lady and doesn’t hold with gambling. God knows what she’d do if she discovered Nathan owned a racehorse! Nathan will never tell her, Nick. So the fewer folks know about it, the better, then she’s not likely to find out, is she?’
I knew that the code among Nathan’s men friends would never allow Laura to learn of her husband’s investment, but it seemed inevitable that one day she would learn from someone else about Nathan’s secret racehorse.
I thought no more about it until one Saturday in late July. It was a warm, bright day with dark clouds scudding across the sky, interspersed with periods of intense sunshine, so typical of the month. I was working a beat just out of the town centre where I had to supervise the indiscriminate parking of cars by visitors and day trippers. My job was to ensure that all the coaches were left in the official parks provided by the Urban District Council.
This was before the days of yellow ‘No Parking’ lines and traffic wardens, and one major problem was that thoughtless drivers would park all day in the side streets and so block entrances to the homes of the local people. Even shops and other business premises found themselves blocked in with parked cars. We tried to solve the problem by positioning ‘No Parking’ signs at frequent intervals, but some motorists would move the signs so they could park their cars! We hit back by booking them for ‘Unnecessary obstruction of the highway’, but often they had dumped their cars and departed before we could catch them. In those days we did not tow cars away to compounds, and so the poor townspeople often had to tolerate this gross inconvenience. It was a constant battle — the motorists thought we were harassing them, and the locals thought we were doing too little about them.
Over my lunch of salad sandwiches and coffee in the muster room of Strensford’s ancient police station that Saturday, Joe Tapley was chattering as usual, and I was listening to his fund of local yarns.
‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘Who’s having five bob on Beggar’s Bridge today? It’s in the 3.15 at Thirsk.’
I pricked up my ears. This was Nathan’s horse, but how many of the men knew that? I kept quiet but said to Joe, ‘I wouldn’t mind having a crack at it. What’s the price?’
‘I can get seven to one,’ he said. ‘I’ve a friend who can place any bets for us.’
I passed over my two half-crowns and made a silent wish that Beggar’s Bridge would carry them safely home at a profit. And having done that, I left the station and returned to the chore of instructing irate motorists to move their cars.
I had no doubt that when I returned to my beat after lunch, there would be several illegally and stupidly parked vehicles, and that I would spend hours hopelessly trying to find the drivers. We had a pad of tickets for such cases, so I could always stick one of them in each offending windscreen, asking the driver to call at the police office to explain why he had parked in a ‘No Parking’ street.
It was while patrolling one of the Georgian crescents on the West Cliff that I found a car very badly parked outside a boarding house. I decided to locate the driver by asking inside one or more of those boarding houses. After only two attempts, I entered one called Sea Vista and found the landlady in her little kitchen. She was watching television and, as I put my request about the badly parked car, I automatically looked at my watch. It was ten past three — I needed a note of the time if I was to book an offender.
The man, it seemed, was staying at Sea Vista and had just registered; he was upstairs now, having lugged suitcases and bags up several flights, and so I asked her to request him to move it the moment he had unloaded. I went outside and he appeared within seconds, flustered and full of apologies, so I directed him to a convenient car park and decided not to report him for a prosecution. I had no intention of spoiling his holiday, for he was clearly a genuine fellow doing his best for a growing family.
The moment he’d vacated the space, Nathan’s fish van rushed into the crescent and halted in the very same spot. Out he leapt and, instead of opening his van doors, he hurried to the door of Sea Vista, knocked and rushed inside. I wondered if there was an emergency, and so, thinking the car-parking episode would give me an excuse for going back, I followed.
‘Mrs Parkin,’ I heard Nathan say. ‘Can I see your telly? Tyne-Tees? Sports.’
‘Well, Nathan, I was waiting to get my order, but . . .’
The set was already on and tuned into the sports programme, and when she saw me hovering she said, ‘Dunno what he wants, but it must be interesting. Your man moved his car, has he?’
‘Thanks, yes,’ I said, and then it dawned on me! The 3.15 at Thirsk.
‘Can I watch as well?’ I asked her. ‘I’ve a little bet on Beggar’s Bridge. It’s running now, 3.15.’
‘So have I. One of my guests said it was a good bet. Come in both of you. It’s due to start.’
As the horses went to the start, she offered us a cup of tea from the ever-singing kettle, and by the time they reached the start we were all settled in silence before her TV set, the parking regulations forgotten.
Beggar’s Bridge was No. 8, which showed up clearly on the black-and-white screen, and we all sat in total silence as the starter’s flag went up. Then they were off. Nathan started shouting ‘Come on, come on,’ and I found myself watching him as much as I was watching the race.
In seconds it was all over. Nathan’s horse had won by three lengths. It was a good, substantial win. As Beggar’s Bridge crossed the line, Nathan leapt out of his chair, hugged Mrs Parkin and gave her a huge, smacking kiss, then rushed outside and came back with her order.
‘Mrs Parkin,’ he said with tears of joy streaming down his weathered cheeks. ‘You’ve made me a very happy man today. Take this fish as a gift, a memento of today. I love everybody!’
She was lost for words and looked at me in total amazement.
‘What got into him?’ she gasped.
‘I don’t know,’ I smiled, and after thanking her too, I followed him down the steps and out to his van. He had closed the doors and was walking round to the driving seat as I arrived.
‘Well done,’ I said.
He studied me for a few moments and then smiled a long, slow smile.
‘You had something on him, then?’
‘Five bob,’ I said.
‘Good,’ and he prepared to drive away.
‘You didn’t go to Thirsk to watch it run?’ I put to him.
‘How could I?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What could I tell Laura?’
‘What can you tell her now?’ I countered.
‘Search me,’ he said.
‘You’ve another problem looming as well, you know,’ I whispered to him, man to man.
‘What’s that?’ There was a genuine look of curiosity on his happy face.
‘Mrs Parkin,’ I said, indicating her bow window with a sideways nod of my head. She was gazing out at him, and there was the fire of love and longing in her eyes. ‘How are you going to cope with her next week?’
Chapter Eight
The man’s desire is for the woman.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772—1834
A heady summer-time mixture of sunshine, sea, fresh air and freedom invariably gives rise to nature’s desires among h
ealthy young people. That summer at Strensford also affected healthy older people. Perhaps it was the sight of bikini-clad beauties reclining on the sands that provided the necessary stimulus for the older chaps. But whatever the cause, it certainly brought more than a sparkle to their eyes because their wives seemed to spend all their time cooling down their husbands’ obvious ardour instead of nurturing it for their own enjoyment.
Perhaps they knew that any nurtured love would not be channelled in their direction? The sexual adventures of the mature British male are fairly well documented in books, magazines, the News of the World and the divorce courts, so it is perhaps wise for middle-aged wives to keep a tight rein on their holidaying middle-aged husbands. Memories of a rampant youthfulness can be dangerous in advancing years. St Matthew summed it up succinctly when he said, ‘The spirit is indeed willing, but the flesh is weak.’
During my early constabulary years, it was not considered seemly for young ladies to make overtures to young men, at least not in a way they would be noticed, although it must be stressed that, so far as cleverness and cunning are concerned in the eternal search for love (even if it is for a mere five minutes rather than something earth-shattering and eternal), the female sex leaves the masculine far behind.
For all, therefore, whether young or old, male or female, a holiday at the seaside is like a second spring. There, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of young women, and an older man’s fancy heavily turns to thoughts of older women, middle-aged women and younger women. In those days, it was not considered normal for a young man’s fancy lightly to turn to thoughts of other young men; consequently, when such thoughts developed into positive action, it was very illegal.
For ladies to fancy other ladies, however, and then to take practical steps to achieve their desires, was not unlawful. This was due not to the efforts of early feminists but to Queen Victoria. I have been assured that when a statute, which would have outlawed lesbianism, was presented to Her Majesty for the necessary royal signature, she refused to believe that such disgraceful things happened and promptly crossed out the relative sections of the Act. Thus lesbians won some kind of privilege — which to this day they still enjoy in spite of apparent sexual equality.
When faced with a seaside resort full of randy young men and available young women, the coastal constable had to be very aware of the provisions of the Sexual Offences Act of 1956 which legislated for many curious facets of human behaviour. We learned to recognize prostitutes (purely for future action which might have to be taken in the course of our duty!) and to know what constituted indecent behaviour or exhibitions.
There were the mysteriously named ‘unnatural crimes’ which our instructors failed to describe adequately, and a curious set of laws about indecent exposure of what is euphemistically called ‘the person’. There were many legal discussions which tried to define precisely what our Victorian legislators meant when they made it illegal for a man indecently to expose his ‘person’; we noted there was nothing in that Act which made it illegal for a woman indecently to expose her person, whatever that would have meant. Such were the privileges of our ladies. But we never did find out what a ‘person’ was, and the name ‘flasher’ was given to those pathetic fellows who performed this curious public display.
There were ‘peepers’ too, sometimes called ‘pimpers’. These were seedy men of all ages who spied on ladies undressing, either on the beach or in their homes, hotels or boarding house bedrooms. It is amazing how many women insist on undressing before a lighted window without curtains, and this attracts many men with binoculars. They are attracted to the light as moths to a candle flame. This activity also brought complaints from the neighbours, which was how we became involved. As a result, we frequently offered ‘suitable advice’ to the ladies in question — we told them to close their curtains properly when undressing.
It is men of that propensity who hang around car parks, beauty spots and picnic areas, there to observe the events of nature which occur when courting couples are engrossed in their overtures to one another. Because this behaviour terrifies ordinary folk, we had to patrol in an attempt to deter these nuisances.
Armed with this knowledge, therefore, the constabulary set about keeping order among the frisky holiday-makers. It is true to say that this aspect of our duty did keep us busy. We received many complaints about men indecently touching women on buses and in queues, of men using the pay-telescope on the clifftop to watch women struggling to undress decently behind deckchairs on the beach, of pimpers galore and flashers by the dozen.
It was with the purity of the town in mind that the Superintendent was alarmed to learn that a newly formed local Working Men’s Club had hired a belly dancer as the finale for the entertainment scheduled for its opening night. He was rather worried about the town’s image in case this turned out to be a stripper, but he was also worried that the police could be criticized if they failed to take any action to stem this flow of overt sensuality.
Because such clubs had rather tight membership rules, he and his advisers considered it was impossible to smuggle a local police officer into the club as an undercover agent to observe the proceedings. This meant that subterfuge was called for. As the club was a new one, the Superintendent decided that I and another young constable called Dave Carter would join the club, with the sole purpose of infiltrating that entertainment. We had to observe the proceedings in detail and report back to the Superintendent through our immediate superiors.
Both Dave and I were unknown to the committee, so we applied for membership, giving our lodgings as our addresses and stating we were employed by the Ministry of Agriculture as Contagious Diseases of Animals Inspectors. We were accepted without question and provided with membership cards. The Superintendent was delighted, and on the evening of the big event we dressed in civilian clothes and he took us aside to outline our final brief.
We were not to reveal our identities; we merely had to sit through the rumoured ‘indecent performance’ and take copious notes about the bodily actions, general behaviour and suggestive words or actions used by the belly dancer. We had not to arrest anyone or report anyone for summons — that possibility would be left for a decision by senior officers when they had carefully studied our report. We were there simply to report the facts. We said we knew what to do, and we were looking forward to this duty.
We were admitted without a second glance from the doorman and went to the bar, where we each purchased a pint of beer with our official expenses. Then, after half an hour, we were asked to take our seats in the big room for the evening’s entertainment. We found a discreet table close to one of the exits, just in case we had to make a hurried departure. I noted that the audience comprised men and women.
There were speeches of welcome from officials, who outlined the club’s future policies and who listed some forthcoming attractions later in the year. These included noted northern comedians, singers and entertainers. After the announcements, there followed a bawdy comedian who had us falling about with laughter. Very efficiently, he warmed up the audience. A male singer did a spot, then a trumpet player, who was followed by a group of singer-musicians with guitars. Finally, it was the turn of the belly dancer. She was top of the bill and had two spots; the audience, suitably mellow after the earlier acts, eagerly awaited her turn.
Our moment had come, but we daren’t take out our notebooks. That would be too obvious — we decided to observe events and then jointly compile our report by relying upon our memories and powers of observation for the details.
A grand piano was pushed onto the side of the stage, and to resounding cheers the dancer’s pianist emerged. He was a young man in evening dress, and he took his seat with elegance and style. A hush descended as he began to play. To my surprise, it was a piece of classical music, and everyone sat in a hushed silence, awaiting the delights which were to follow. There was a ripple in the curtains at the side of the stage, and as they parted, a tall, lithe young woman emerged. S
he was as thin as bean pole, and she was dancing divinely — but she was performing a sequence from the Nutcracker Suite.
There was a momentary buzz of curious anticipation from the audience, but they settled down and watched her. She was graceful and beautiful, and she completed her first spot with charm and undoubted skill. But everyone was waiting for her suddenly to switch into a dramatic and sensuous belly-dancing routine.
After her first spot, which comprised several well-known ballet routines, she went off to polite applause, following which there were some urgent movements behind the curtains. They parted and the club secretary hurried onto the stage. We felt he looked rather sheepish and embarrassed as he caught us before we dispersed for a five-minute break.
‘Lads,’ he said. ‘There’s been a mistake. Sorry about it. I rang t’agency in London to book a belly dancer, but they don’t understand English down there. They’ve sent us this slip of a lass, she’s a ballet dancer . . .’
‘Bring t’lass back on!’ shouted somebody from the audience. ‘She’s worth watching.’
And this was followed spontaneously by a loud cheer. So after we’d replenished our glasses, she came back to complete a dazzling ballet routine. She was cheered to an encore and won more affection from that audience than any of the other turns. She was given a right good Yorkshire welcome, and I was proud of my fellow club members. She would remember her visit to Strensford, just as I would remember my first spell of covert police work.
* * *
Flashers are probably the most harmless and ineffective of men and yet, by their peculiar behaviour, they are regarded as ogres, sexual maniacs or dangerous, evil monsters. These unfortunates are likely to be sexually inadequate so far as mature women are concerned and would probably flee home to the safety of mother if a woman responded to their weird form of romantic advance.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 12
