In time, though, we began to notice a certain flavour to her reports. It is perhaps prudent at this stage to describe Mildred. A tall, very slim and rather plain woman with a reddish face that never smiled, she had grey hair permed in the style of the 1940s and wore thick stockings, flat-heeled brown shoes with buckles and cheap frocks which concealed any semblance of a figure she might have had. Plain was a word often used to describe her.
A pair of round spectacles graced a face which had never seen make-up in its life and her only adornment was a necklace in the form of a thin gold-coloured chain bearing a locket. None of us had any idea of the contents of that locket. No earrings, lipstick or other adornment ever came her way and it was difficult to imagine her ever being a young woman or a girl. I doubt if true romance or passion had ever stirred her emotions in spite of her courtship and marriage to Hubert. It seemed the sole object of his passion was flowers.
The absence of heart-pounding desire in her marriage could explain her fixation with Sergeant Blaketon. His manly figure, stern voice, powers of command and decisive leadership, position of authority within the town and, of course, his extremely smart uniform, had apparently combined to produce within her love-starved breast, the rapidly beating heart of someone very much in love. It must be said that she never openly declared or revealed that love — not that she ever would, of course, being a respectable married woman of some standing in Ashfordly. But even married ladies like Mildred Levington can adore champions and may possess submerged urges and desires even if conventions conspire to prevent them from openly declaring such love.
It was Sergeant Blaketon’s talk to Ashfordly Women’s Institute which provided me with the first hint of Mildred’s devotion. Entitled ‘Policing in the 1960s’, he had spoken to a group meeting of several Women’s Institutes at Ashfordly Town Hall, and Mildred had reported the event. Her account of his participation read:
Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, the smartly dressed officer in sole charge of Ashfordly Police Station, delivered a superb exposition of the heavy responsibilities of policing the community in a rapidly changing social climate. Speaking without notes and making full use of an impressive vocabulary of words, Sergeant Blaketon enthralled those present with his smartness, authoritative manner, ready wit, deep knowledge and his clear commitment to public service. It was a superbly crafted and well-delivered talk which was enjoyed by all.
I was in Ashfordly Police Station the morning this report appeared in print. PC Alf Ventress was reading the paper as Sergeant Blaketon walked into the office, and he said, “By Jove, Sarge, you’ve an admirer here!”
“What are you talking about, Ventress?”
Blaketon was not in a particularly good mood that morning.
“That talk of yours last week, to the WI,” grinned Ventress. “It sounds as though you were a hit!”
Blaketon took the paper from Alf and read the report, blushing slightly as he said, “It’s a perfectly factual report, Ventress. They did enjoy what I told them. I am a capable public speaker, you know. I know how to dress; I know how important it is to be smart when in uniform and particularly when representing the constabulary before a critical audience. And I do get my points across.”
It was the following day when Mildred appeared at the counter of the police station; I was manning the telephone while Alf Ventress was attending Eltering Court as a witness in a case of a lorry driver having no driving licence.
“Hello, Mrs Levington,” I greeted her.
“Is Sergeant Blaketon in?” she asked, and, recalling Alf’s earlier comments, I detected the faint hint of a blush on her cheeks. Under normal circumstances, I would probably have not noticed her high colour or the hint of excitement in her demeanour.
“Yes, can I ask what the matter is?”
“Yes, Constable. I am the Gazette’s district correspondent for Ashfordly and I wondered if I might pop in regularly to see if there is anything to report, from a police point of view. I asked for the sergeant because I thought Sergeant Blaketon in person might have to give permission for matters to be released to the Press.”
“Yes, that’s true, so you’d better speak to him about it. I’ll get him,” I promised her, and went into his office. When I told him the nature of her enquiry, he sighed and said, “I’ll talk to her.”
“Good morning, Mrs Levington.” He managed to produce a wide smile for her as he entered the enquiry office and I could see that her blush and excitement had intensified. “What can I do for you?” She repeated her request and he pursed his lips as if pondering the matter in great depth and said, “Yes, I am sure there are matters over which we could usefully cooperate. Non-policy matters, for example, non-confidential matters, matters of great public interest to the people of this locality. Now, PC Ventress did rescue a kitten from a sack in the river a couple of months ago but that is old news . . . but that is precisely the sort of thing that might interest you, I believe?”
“Oh, yes, that would be wonderful, Sergeant. Bravery, especially by yourself, good deeds done, crime prevention advice as you said in your excellent talk to the WI meeting, campaigns against litter or speeding, police involvement with community matters. There is a never-ending range of potential newsworthy items.”
He interrupted her effusive flow and he said, “Well, yes, I am sure we can find something for you on a regular basis. Rhea, you’ve seen the occurrence book this morning? Is there anything recent that might provide material for Mrs Levington?”
“There were those lost drugs, Sergeant. That lady who’d got something from her doctor for her heart . . . little red pills in a box . . . she lost them in town yesterday and we were worried in case children found them and thought they were sweets.”
“Absolutely right, Rhea. Right. We can’t reveal the name of the loser, Mrs Levington, but there were a hundred red pills in a small white cardboard box. It’s got ‘Ashfordly Medical Practice’ on the label, with the name of the pills and the patient. It was lost somewhere in Ashfordly town centre between eleven a.m. and three p.m. yesterday. The finder should bring them here and we will return them to the loser. Maybe you could put that in the paper, stressing the danger to children?”
“Yes, of course. This is ideal, Sergeant. May I call regularly?”
“By all means,” he oozed, and off she went.
When the report appeared, it began:
Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, the officer in charge of Ashfordly Police Station, warned the public to beware of a hundred red pills in a small white box which were lost in the town this week. If found, they should be returned to the sergeant in person. With the professional assurance and style of one who is accustomed to taking instant command in highly dangerous situations, Sergeant Blaketon warned the public, ‘Children are especially at risk if they swallow these tablets thinking they are sweets.’
“She’s done it again!” beamed Alf Ventress when he read that report.
Mildred repeated her glorification of Blaketon in the following weeks, with reports like:
After a spaniel was run over and killed by a lorry in Ashfordly on Thursday, the charismatic leader of the town’s police, Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, speaking movingly with deep emotion in his voice, said, ‘The death of an animal in such circumstances is always a tragedy, but dog owners are advised to keep them on leads when in the vicinity of moving traffic’.
Another report said:
Following a concert in Ashfordly Town Hall by Brantsford Brass Band, the peace-keeping leader of the town’s police, Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, said, ‘The presence of my officers certainly prevented an outbreak of violence by would-be hooligans. It is not very funny having a carrot thrust up your trumpet in the middle of a scherzo’.
The report concluded:
It is thanks to officers of the calibre of Sergeant Blaketon that our town is able to enjoy peace and tranquillity in these troubled times.
I liked one of her reports which read:
The generosity and philanthropic nature of our pol
ice service was exemplified when Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, the genial senior officer at Ashfordly Police Station, handed back the first prize of a cuckoo clock which he won in a raffle for the Red Cross. The prize was then won by Mrs Latimer of Elm Close who does not have a cuckoo clock, and she said ‘I really do think our police are wonderful. If you get the time, thank a policeman’.
As the reports increased in number to further the admiration of our esteemed sergeant, Alf Ventress would cut them out and pin them on the police station noticeboard, taking care to do so when Blaketon was on leave or enjoying a day off. Over the weeks, we enjoyed a wonderful selection:
Sergeant Blaketon, the courteous leader of Ashfordly Police, said the force had no objection to a procession of Girl Guides being routed through the marketplace.
Or:
The speaker and prize-giver at the Ashfordly Cricket Club annual dinner will be Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, a fine sportsman, umpire and renowned after-dinner speaker.
And:
A campaign for clear signs to indicate the location of the public toilets in Ashfordly was given a boost by Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, the highly respected commander of the local police force. He said, ‘One of our most regular questions is about the location of the public toilets. Much valuable time could be saved if the toilets were clearly signed and our officers could then concentrate on more important duties’.
The judge at next week’s Horticultural Society’s annual show in the town hall will be Sergeant Oscar Blaketon of Ashfordly Constabulary, a man known for his sensitive appreciation of flowers and things of great beauty. Few local people know more about vegetables, especially marrows, and his judgements are eagerly awaited. He will also judge a special competition — a garden in a teacup.
At the August meeting of Elsinby WI, the guest speaker was Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, the stylish leader of Ashfordly Police who spoke beautifully with immense sincerity about policing in a rural community and afterwards revealed a tremendous artistic flair when he judged the best-decorated spoon competition. The winner was Mrs Victoria Price.
A procession of persons involved in service to the public will walk from Ashfordly marketplace to the parish church next Sunday. A joint service based on the theme ‘Peace and Service’ will follow at 3 p.m. Among the participants will be members of the Fire Service, Ambulance Service, post office, telephonists, British Rail, doctors, nurses, dentists, veterinary surgeons, county and district council officials, road men, dustbin men and others. Leading the walk will be Sergeant Oscar Blaketon, the officer in charge of Ashfordly Police, who will be resplendent in his uniform and representing the North Riding Constabulary. The warm-hearted sergeant is regarded as the ideal symbol of the ‘public service’ theme of the gathering.
It was obvious that the purpose of this kind of reporting would eventually make itself clear to Sergeant Blaketon, more so because some of the residents of Ashfordly began to tease him. Many were the husbands of lady members of various organisations who had heard Mildred speak to them in glowing terms about the behaviour and appeal of the smart sergeant; the ladies knew she was in awe of the fellow, that he was her dashing hero, a masterly man, dark, mysterious and handsome . . .
The ladies had spoken to their husbands about it, and they in turn had made fun of Blaketon — to his face. Blaketon had also come into the police station one day when he was off duty and found one of the cuttings on the noticeboard.
It meant, in short, that Mildred’s devotion would have to be brought to an end; Blaketon would have to do something about Mildred’s style of reporting. His first action was to ring the editor of the Ashfordly Gazette. I was in the office when he made the call and could hear his side of the conversation.
After making contact with the editor, he said, “I’d like you to edit her reports, Mr Marshall, just to eliminate the unnecessary stuff . . . the silly woman’s making a mockery of me. I can assure you I am not encouraging her in any way.”
There was a pause, after which he said, “What do you mean? You already cut out the really juicy bits? And everybody in the office can’t wait to see what she’s written?”
And he finished with, “Well, I must have words with her myself then. I can’t have this kind of stuff appearing in my local paper and I don’t care if she does worship the ground I walk on.”
There was a long pause and then he came into the general office where I was checking the register of licensed premises.
“Rhea,” he said, “I am exasperated. That bloody woman is making my life a misery. The editor says she sends in all kinds of mush to him and he cuts most of it out. It gives his office staff a laugh and they can’t wait to see what Mildred’s written about me, so he leaves the tame bits in to please her, to encourage her to send in more reports . . . it seems her reports do sell papers, Rhea. I can imagine it! All the folk in this town are buying the paper to try and work out what’s going on between me and that woman . . . it’s not as if she’s attractive, damn it. What can I do, Rhea?”
“Find another woman, Sergeant!” I grinned.
“I’ve got one,” he muttered. “One’s enough for any feller. But Mrs Blaketon doesn’t like appearing at public events. She’s not a joiner, as you know, she never presents prizes or makes speeches.”
“No, what I meant was that you should show a very keen interest in another woman when Mildred’s around to witness it.”
“I’d have my wife down on me like a ton of bricks if I showed undue interest in somebody else . . .”
“Then tell her what’s happening and get her approval for whatever action you take.”
He wandered back into his office to think things over but did not mention the matter for a long time. Eventually, however, I did notice a change in Mildred’s style of reporting. It happened after Sergeant Blaketon had been asked to address the annual general meeting of Ashfordly Town Council in the town hall. His brief was to highlight changes in the method of rural policing so that councillors would be up-to-date with any possible changes. Mildred had been present to report the event and when it appeared in the Gazette, it simply said:
The meeting was addressed by Sergeant O. Blaketon.
The following week, a report said:
At the annual dinner of Ashfordly Snooker Leagues Sergeant O. Blaketon presented the Wallace Trophy to Mr Sidney Burton as winner of the individual championship for the fifth successive year.
And another item said:
The Ashfordly Lorry Driver of the Year Award was presented to Keith Dent of Dent Cattle Transporters by Sergeant O. Blaketon of Ashfordly Police.
There were no instances of glorification and it seemed there had been a cooling-off by Mildred so far as her one-sided romance with Sergeant Blaketon was concerned. Furthermore, whenever she called at the police station, she was quite happy to talk to any of the constables in her pursuit of news items. No longer did she seek personal interviews or comments from the object of her secret passion. Quite suddenly, therefore, the wonderful language of her Blaketon reports was eliminated and in some ways, I was sorry. Her reports were so entertaining.
“How did you do it, Sergeant?” I asked him quietly some time later.
“My wife’s youngest sister came to stay with us for a couple of weeks,” he smiled. “She’s a very attractive woman, Rhea, so whenever I had an official engagement, I took her along and made a great show of fussing over her. Mildred knew it wasn’t Mrs Blaketon and took the huff . . . I know Mildred dislikes men who flirt with ladies who are not their wives and who commit adultery.”
And so the deed was done. But within a month, Mildred’s reports were glowing again, this time in favour of Rudolph Burley, the Aidensfield auctioneer — it began with a report that the ruggedly good-looking Rudolph Burley presented the awards at the annual meeting of the Ashfordly Cat Club . . .
I would wait and see how things developed before I decided whether or not to ask Sergeant Blaketon to give Rudolph some advice based on his experience in dealing with amorous and hero-wor
shipping local correspondents.
Chapter 3
An old man’s wit may wander ere he die.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, 1809–92
During a conversation with the Aidensfield district nurse, Margot Horsefield, she mentioned the quote at the head of this chapter but eliminated any reference to the word wit. She was trying to tell me that an old man — any old man — rather than just the wit or mind of the fellow, might wander before he died. Old ladies were also liable to do this, she affirmed. And she was right. Within a very short time, I had two examples involving old gentlemen and they were followed by another involving an old lady. The tale of Edna Waggett is dealt with later in this book.
Nurse Margot Horsefield was a dark-haired and eminently sensible woman in her mid-thirties whose husband owned and ran a greengrocer’s shop in Ashfordly. Both lived in Aidensfield, however, where they had a beautiful stone cottage which overlooked the war memorial. They busied themselves with life in the village and had more spare time than most, chiefly because they had no children. Whether this was by design or otherwise was never known because neither talked about it but there is little doubt she was a splendid and popular nurse, ideal for such an isolated rural community. Her work and mine occasionally overlapped and we would regularly meet in the course of our respective perambulations around the district.
If I had cause to worry about someone living alone, for example, or if I came across children and women with suspicious bruises or found anything which I felt required some discreet medical attention, then I would notify Margot. I knew she would respond with the utmost discretion and professional competence. In return, she kept me informed of matters which she felt came within the scope of my work and the case of old Mr Chesterfield was one example. In this instance, I had emerged from the post office just as she was drawing to a halt outside in her little green Morris. She climbed out, smoothed the skirt of her blue uniform and waved, indicating she wished to speak to me.
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 6
