By this time, Sergeant Bairstow was enjoying the situation and had entered the ‘get-Meredith’ field. Having achieved a suitable number of attendees, he rang the Boswell Arms at Brantsford and booked us in for a Friday night; then Bairstow stuck out his neck and told the landlord his name was Meredith Dryden and that he would be meeting the entire bill.
Word of this got around to everyone except Sergeant Blaketon, who lacked humour; we didn’t inform the Inspector either, in case he objected to the subterfuge. To further our aims, we contrived a situation so that when all twenty-four of us were seated, Meredith was seated next to the Inspector’s wife. We knew that would please him and that in such a position, he would be malleable.
Our plans made, we waited for the great night. True to form, Meredith scrounged a lift from a colleague at Brantsford and arrived to find a seating plan at the table. We enjoyed our preliminary drinks, during which Meredith’s were paid for by someone who wished to ensure that he remained completely oblivious of our plans, and eventually we were asked to take our places at the table.
As it was a prearranged menu, there were no choices to be made, although the waitress did ask one of us which was Mr Dryden, whereupon she asked Meredith to choose the wines. He did this with pride, revealing a surprisingly good knowledge which impressed the Inspector. The meal was excellent, the companionship good and the night a huge success. After the meal, we sat around the table completely sated and very content with our liqueurs and coffee. Finally, the landlady came to Sergeant Bairstow with the bill for twenty-four dinners and wine.
It was a discreet move, one which passed almost unobserved by the majority of the diners, but Charlie Bairstow pointed towards Meredith and said, “That is Mr Dryden, he’s paying.”
As she walked towards him bearing the bill on a silver tray, it dawned upon the assembled guests that a historic moment was nigh. The purpose of the night was about to be achieved. We observed the steady progression of the landlady’s approach to Meredith’s chair. He was engrossed in an animated conversation with the Inspector’s wife and failed to notice the impending arrival of the bill.
As the landlady halted at his shoulder, we all watched, hearts beating with anticipation at the arrival of the supreme moment. Meredith Dryden was about to pay for something, for none of us would settle this bill.
“The bill, Mr Dryden,” she eased the tray before him. His face said everything. His brain, so finely attuned to the avoidance of paying, especially for anything which was for the consumption of others, must have told him that this was a set-up. He must have instantly realised that everyone — well, almost everyone — at that table, knew what was happening.
Meredith was fully aware that no one would come to his aid; he was on his own in this crisis. He had been well and truly cornered. Sergeant Blaketon was at the far end of the room beyond his reach, and the only person of substance close at hand was the Inspector. I’m sure Meredith realised that the Inspector knew nothing of this plot and so the Inspector was like an innocent babe as he faced the formidable financial skills of Meredith Dryden.
“Sir,” we heard Meredith say in a hoarse whisper, “I’ve forgotten my cheque book — might I ask if you could pay the bill, and I will settle with you tomorrow when I come to the office?”
The Inspector, a leader of men and a man of substance who suddenly found himself being observed by almost every member of Ashfordly and Brantsford Sections, flushed a deep red, but he pulled out his wallet. It was he who had been skilfully cornered, and so he wrote out a cheque for the full amount. To give the fellow credit, he even gave a £1 tip to the staff.
None of us knew what to make of this, except that it was abundantly clear that Meredith had scored yet again.
“We’ll have to make it up to the Inspector,” I heard Charlie Bairstow say later to Alwyn Foxton. “We all know what it’s about, so we’ll have to have a whip-round. We’ll have to pay our share. The bugger’s beaten us again . . .”
“Meredith won’t pay,” said Alwyn. “The Inspector will finish up paying his share anyway!”
And so it was. We all paid our due amounts into a kitty which was passed over to the Inspector, but we knew that Meredith never paid his share. The Inspector had paid for Meredith’s meal — Meredith the Miser had won yet again and had enjoyed another free meal.
But his success was short-lived. Less than three weeks later, he was transferred to a distant station.
Chapter 7
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709—84
For a large number of British workers, whether male or female, there is a clear distinction between their work and their domestic life. The home, with all its comforts and traumas, is left firmly behind when a living has to be earned and throughout the working day, the pressures of the office or the working environment supersede all but the most severe of domestic worries or the blissful contentment of home. It is right that the domestic life of an employee should rarely intrude into his or her business or work, and so all but the closest of workmates have no concept of a colleague’s home life and circumstances.
But there are those who work either at home or from home; rural doctors and vicars are popular examples, as are the local postmasters or mistresses, shopkeepers, farmers, sales representatives and many village businessfolk. To that incomplete list can be added the village policeman.
For many rural bobbies, the village police house is both home and office. And so it was with me. It was inevitable that there were times when aspects of my domestic life became inextricably intertwined, albeit in the most pleasant of ways, with my professional duties. Apart from being the police office of Aidensfield, my house was also home to my wife and four tiny children, along with all our hobbies and domestic activities. Like all policemen in that situation, I did endeavour to keep work and leisure completely separate, but at times this was impossible.
There is no doubt that the police house at Aidensfield ranks among the most beautifully located in Yorkshire, and possibly in England. Built in the 1960s on a superb elevated site, it is stoutly constructed of local yellow stone with a red pantile roof. It boasts a lounge with panoramic views, a dining-room and tiny kitchen, with three bedrooms and a bathroom. The garage adjoins and there is a through-passage which separates the house from the garage; off that passage there is an outside toilet and a wash-room. These outbuildings, small as they are, did help to accommodate that awesome range of bulky objects that young families accumulate, such as tricycles, prams and pushchairs. At the other end of the house, the west end, is the office. This is a spacious room with a solid wooden counter and separate entrance. In my time, it was furnished with an official desk, chair and telephone.
The hilltop site, which isolated us from the village below, was enhanced by a steep, mature and well-stocked garden. To the back and front of the house were panoramic views across the North York Moors, the Wolds and the valleys below. In the summer, it was a delight; in the winter, it could be a nightmare because, at times, the winds were so powerful that the garage doors could not be opened, while the carpets and rugs rippled like snakes as powerful draughts invaded our home and rattled the windows. At times, we were very prone to being snowed in; a fact which created frequent notes of disbelief among senior officers who sat in warm offices in distant, low-lying towns.
I must admit there were times when I was sure they thought I was inventing the snow to avoid a winter patrol on my motorcycle. On one occasion, it took me four hours to dig my way out of the garage, after which I was subjected to a telling-off for being late on patrol . . .
But, winter apart, it was a lovely place in which to live and to rear a family. By comparison with many other police houses, it was, and still is, a gem. At that time, of course, the privilege of having an officially provided house was of immense value, especially on a constable’s meagre salary with a growing family to support.
Perhaps,
at this point, it would be of interest to learn how a young constable qualified for his very first police house. The Aidensfield house was not my first, but in order to progress through a range of police houses, one had to qualify for the first: once into the system, it was a simple matter of being transferred from one to another. The first hurdle was the most difficult.
In my own case, we had married some five years before we were posted to Aidensfield and we began our wedded bliss in a flat at Strensford. We rented this accommodation independently of the police but after three months in that second-floor flat I was summoned to the Superintendent’s office.
“Rhea,” he said with a glow of benevolence on his face, “a police house has become vacant in the town; it’s an end-terrace house with three bedrooms and is not therefore, one of our standard houses. It’s a modern house, by the way. But as our most recently married member, you might qualify to occupy it. Now, are you in a position to furnish a house?”
Quick as a flash, in spite of our solitary bed, our dining-table, two fireside chairs and clip rug, I said, “Yes, sir.”
He wasn’t to know that my scant furnishings would barely fill the kitchen, let alone a complete house, but I did not want this opportunity to evaporate. A modern three-bedroomed house, rent free, was a godsend.
“And do you intend remaining in the Force as a career?” was his next question.
“Yes, sir,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster.
“And what about a family, Rhea? You have none, have you?”
“No, sir, not yet.”
“And your wife is working is she?”
“For the moment, sir, yes. She’s a secretary at the council offices.”
He chatted about my future, and about the responsibilities of occupying a police house, and then he said it was mine. I could have the keys next week.
When I told Mary, she was delighted, for our new home was a modern, brick-built house with up-to-date kitchen fittings and beautiful decor. It had a small, pleasant garden and it overlooked the harbour at Strensford with magnificent views of the abbey and old town. It ought to be said, however, that the railway station and some sidings did lie between us and that water. But that was a minor blemish.
When the tide was high, the views across the wide, upper reaches of Strensford harbour were delightful, but when the water was low, it revealed a narrow channel among acres of shining black mud littered with junk which had been deposited over many years. But the house was lovely.
The fact that it was not a standard police house did not worry us. Standard houses were constructed so that when a police family moved from one to another (as they did with staggering frequency), their furnishings and carpets would fit. As a theory, it was fine, but some standard lounges were three inches shorter than others; some bedrooms were narrower or longer than others, and there were many minor variations which made nonsense of the system. Even in standard houses it was difficult to make the furniture fit, and another problem was that the decor which pleased some families was horrific and bizarre in the eyes of others. But it was nice to know that the authorities had our interests at heart.
Our house had been rented by the local police because of a shortage of standard houses in Strensford, but luxuries like fitted carpets or full bedroom suites did not concern us. We hadn’t any. Happily, the decorations and exterior paintwork were in good repair.
At that early stage of marriage, we would have had difficulty filling a caravan with our belongings, let alone a semi-detached mansion. Happy with our new home, we settled in and were very content. A few weeks later the Superintendent met me during a patrol.
“Rhea,” he said, “I intend carrying out my house inspections and will be starting next week. I shall be calling on you. What is a convenient time?”
I performed some rapid mental gymnastics because I wanted him to come when the tide was full. I knew the harbour view would impress him, so I said, “Next Wednesday, Sir? Would 3 p.m. be suitable?”
He checked his diary and agreed.
When I told Mary, she grew flustered. I had to explain that his visit was not to check upon our cleanliness or her housekeeping ability, but to ascertain whether any repairs or other work were required on the house, either externally or internally.
“If he looks in all the rooms, there’s nothing . . . we’ve two empty bedrooms, nothing in the dining-room . . .” She began to worry about our lack of furniture, and whether we would be asked to vacate it.
I must admit that this did bother me too, particularly as I’d recently assured him I could furnish a home. To cut a long story short, we borrowed from friends a dining suite, a three-piece suite, two single beds, two wardrobes, rugs, carpets and some sundry furnishings. The result was that on the day of the house inspection, our little home looked almost luxurious. All the young constables did this; we regularly borrowed each other’s stuff on such occasions.
Because Mary was at work at the appointed hour I stayed to show him around. When the Superintendent arrived, I took him into the lounge, now fully furnished and smelling heavily of polish. A vase of flowers occupied the window ledge and pictures hung from the walls, but he was only interested in the lovely view. It was a fine sunny day and the full harbour glistened in the brilliant light. He rhapsodized over the scene which spread before him and chatted about the yachts and small boats on the water as he admired our superb maritime view.
Then he asked if any maintenance work was required and I said, “No, sir, it’s in good repair, inside and out.”
“Good, well, as you know, Rhea, we decorate internally every three years and externally every seven. That will be done automatically. If you need urgent work done, such as plumbing leaks, washers on taps and so on, submit Form 29.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you keep a nice home, Rhea. Give my congratulations to your wife. It’s nice to see things looking so well — and you’ve a nice taste in three-piece suites. PC Radcliffe has that design on his suite too, you know.”
Then he smiled and left. The Superintendent was very astute, I decided, and Mary was pleased that he did not venture any further than the lounge. Our impressive view had kept him in one room.
And so we started as occupants of several police houses. We bought more furniture when funds permitted and produced a brood of infants within surprisingly few years. By the time we arrived at Aidensfield, we had, of necessity, to furnish all the rooms to accommodate the six members of our family.
Once again, we were fortunate to be provided with a lovely house and a lounge with a view, even if it did mean regular house inspections. In addition, we had local government bureaucracy to contend with when maintenance or improvements were necessary. This led to several battles. My first concerned the outer passage and washing-room. The passage had a door at each end, and just off it was the room which housed the clothes washing facilities and which also acted as a storeroom. It sounds most convenient, but neither the passage nor the washing-room had windows or lights. In the passageway, an open door would provide light during the daytime, but the wash-room could have served better as a photographer’s dark-room.
So I made application, on Form 29, for a light to be fitted in the windowless washing-room. Then we would be able to use it for that purpose. The Superintendent rejected my request on the grounds that it was an ‘improvement’; improvements to police authority houses needed special approval from up high, from bodies like the Standing Joint Committee and the County Architect. To reach them, my application would have to proceed via Headquarters’ departments and the Chief Constable himself! For reasons he did not explain, the Superintendent refused to forward my report to them; our local ‘official channels’ terminated upon his desk. There seemed no way to by-pass that blockage.
I did try by explaining that it was impossible to work in that room and that, in its present form, it was useless for its intended purpose, or indeed any other. He continued to utter ‘improvement’ as his excuse for refusing to allow
my report to reach other decision makers. I grew more determined and renewed my campaign by tackling it from another angle.
My next Form 29 suggested that an outside light was necessary to eliminate possible danger to callers at the police house. I suggested that its best position would be above the passage’s north-facing door. It would then shine along the passage at night (if the door was open) and would also shine along the entire frontage of the house. I thought it might even shine into the washing-room if two doors were left open!
That was rejected too, again by the Superintendent. Now even more determined. I re-applied for a light to be fitted outside the office door. This time, my Form 29 pointed out the possible danger to the public who might stumble over the steps and who might then sue the Standing Joint Committee for damages or compensation . . .
This time, I got an external light fitted — but it was over the door of the police office and its welcome light did not shine into the passage or the wash-room. When eventually I left the police house at Aidensfield, that washing-room and passage were still without a light. We had to squeeze our washing-machine into the tiny kitchen, no mean feat when it daily washed mountains of nappies.
Also under the heading of ‘improvement’ was my suggestion that some radiators be run off the little domestic coke boiler.
This tiny furnace was installed in the kitchen and its fierce heat filled the room and heated the water; even in summer, we had to keep it stoked up to cope with masses of baths, nappies and kiddy clothes. We lost gallons of perspiration and I reckoned it would keep two or three central heating radiators well supplied. But because this was an ‘improvement’, it was not permitted. My Form 29 was rejected.
Then the pipes of this boiler began to make frightening noises. Narrow pipes connected the boiler to the mains water supply and to the hot water tank upstairs, and they began to rattle and vibrate as the heat intensified. In time, I grew very alarmed and rang the Superintendent’s office about it. He returned my call to say that such noises were normal in the plumbing world. He expressed this opinion without hearing the racket they made. I felt the noise was far from normal but realised that once again, I was battling against bureaucracy. I waited for a while and the noise grew worse; a friend said the pipes sounded as if they were blocked, a common occurrence in hot water pipes hereabouts because the lime deposits from the local water furred them.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 29
