“Is she?” I had no idea she had witnessed other traffic accidents.
“She sits on that seat at Grimdale Crossroads and waits for accidents to happen,” he said. “Then she comes to court and gives her evidence; she’s very experienced at that, Rhea. Your predecessor used her a lot. She’s almost a professional witness.”
“It’s the first time I’ve interviewed her,” I countered.
“It’s the first prosecution we’ve had from a pile-up at Grimdale since you came to Aidensfield,” he reminded me. “It’s not easy prosecuting a driver without an independent witness, but if she’s there when an accident happens, she’ll be a witness for you. And a good one, Rhea. She has excellent powers of recall and is not easily flustered in the witness box.”
“She’s not a troublemaker, is she?” I wondered.
“Not to my knowledge, she’s never come to our notice in any other way,” he acknowledged.
“There are those who like telling tales about others. Like kids at school would do — tell-tale-tits, we called them. So is she doing this to court publicity?” I persisted. “Is she the sort of person who likes to go to court and get their name in the paper? Or maybe she likes to get others into trouble?”
“I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “She’s a bit on the quiet side if you ask me and a very nice woman, but mark my words, Rhea, if there’s another accident at Grimdale when independent witnesses are required, I hope she’ll be knitting on that seat. She’s a bonus for us.”
His words soon came true. Within a couple of weeks, there was another accident at Grimdale Crossroads and Emma Philpin was on the seat at the time, knitting as usual. She saw everything. On this occasion, an empty bus was using the main road and it crossed the summit towards York just as a dustcart was slowly pulling out of the lane on the left. The bus swerved violently to miss the dustcart, crossed the road and ended its journey with its offside wheels in the ditch. There was no collision, no one was hurt and there was very little damage but the obvious questions were asked — suppose the bus had been full, suppose it had been a school bus carrying children, suppose it had contained invalids, suppose it had hit the dustcart, suppose the dustcart had been a petrol tanker or another bus full of people emerging from the side road . . .
But officialdom did not think in those terms — it did not speculate but considered its actions from a basis of known facts.
The facts were the bus was empty, no one was injured and there had been no collision between the vehicles, thus on the list of accidents at Grimdale, this did not qualify as a serious. This meant it would not count if modifications to the road were to be considered. Nonetheless, when I submitted my accident report to Sergeant Blaketon he recommended the bus driver be reported for careless driving; Emma was a witness and I obtained a full statement from her.
But, as it happened, the superintendent decided not to proceed with a prosecution as there was no evidence of carelessness and no suggestion the bus driver had been speeding. The dustcart driver did not seem to have infringed any of the road traffic laws either, for he had stopped before entering the main road — Emma saw him do so.
He was not prosecuted. But it was another example of Emma’s availability and willingness to be a witness. In the ensuing months, there were more accidents at Grimdale, some being witnessed by Emma while others happened during her absence. Perhaps the most spectacular was one which involved several cars being used by a wedding party — after a reception at the Hopbind Inn in Elsinby, the wedding party was invited to view the presents at the bride’s home, a splendid farmhouse in the hills near Grimdale. As the bride’s car, with white ribbons fluttering in the wind, sped across that infamous summit closely followed by a small procession of other cars, a little old man in a Morris Minor decided to emerge from the lane on the left. Upon approaching the main road, he had stopped, considered his actions, dithered, wondered, looked left and right umpteen times without making a decision, set off and changed his mind, dithered, looked left and right again, inched forward to get a better view, stopped again, pondered, worried and then engaged bottom gear for another time. At that stage, he pressed the accelerator and drove out — right into the path of the oncoming motorcade.
Ten cars, including that of the bride and groom, swerved one after the other like a railway engine and coaches following the same line. All were struggling to miss the old gentleman and his pottering car. And they all did miss him — but all of them finished that short trip in various positions on the verge, in the ditch or among the shrubs which lined the roadside. Happily, no one was injured although several passengers were rather shaken. Surprisingly, very little damage was caused to any of the cars — the old man, however, having finally decided to make his catastrophic move did not stop. He drove onwards, crossing the main road into the lane at the opposite side and somehow managing to avoid every one of those vehicles. And, once into the safe haven of the opposite lane, he continued his journey.
He did not stop. I doubt if he had any idea of the mayhem he had caused. Emma, on her seat, had seen it all and managed to obtain the registration number of the departing car. She gave it to me during my investigations of the road accident because the old man was culpable. Section 77 of the Road Traffic Act 1960 said, with relation to traffic accidents, that ‘If, owing to the presence of a motor vehicle on a road, an accident occurs . . . the driver shall stop . . . and give his name and address . . .’ Thus, even if the old man’s car was not involved in a collision, his duty on that occasion was to stop because, owing to the presence of his motor vehicle on a road, an accident had occurred.
In fact, several accidents had occurred although none was fatal. The old man should have stopped in accordance with the provision of the Road Traffic Act, but he did not. It meant he had to be reminded of his responsibilities — and perhaps be compelled to undertake a driving test and eyesight test. Thanks to Emma, we traced him and he was prosecuted for careless driving — and promptly decided to give up driving. I’m sure he made the right decision.
I had been concerned for Emma’s safety throughout those accidents, but I think it was that particular and potentially serious situation — the mayhem that might have happened if the old man’s car had been hit with a stream of others — that made me worry even more about her. If she persisted in sitting on that seat at a point where accidents happened with increasing regularity, I could envisage the time when she would become a casualty. Although her seat was some twenty yards away from the carriageway, it was well within the range of an uncontrolled vehicle, whether it was on its wheels or rolling about on its roof and sides. Even in the time since I had arrived at Aidensfield, traffic was moving more speedily, there was an increase in the volume of traffic on that road and there was an obvious risk of more accidents in the coming years. My own modest records showed there had been a 40% increase in the number of accidents at Grimdale within the last five years. Although the number of accidents had increased, however, there had been no fatalities and very few accidents which could be described as serious. Nonetheless, I did not want Emma to become a casualty. I was sure she had no idea of the risk she was taking while sitting on that seat. I decided to speak to her about it.
The opportunity came one late August afternoon after I had visited several farms in the vicinity of her cottage. I had an hour or so in hand before the end of my shift and, noting that Emma was not occupying her seat, I drove to Lavender Cottage. I was using my motorcycle at that time, but because it was a hot summer day, I was in shirt sleeves. I found her working in the garden, she was clearing some dead plants from the borders and realised she had heard the arrival of my motorbike. She came to her garden gate to welcome me. Dressed in eye-catching blue shorts, a light muslin top and sandals, she beckoned me to enter and I followed her to a stone seat in her garden. On a patio facing south, there was an iron table with iron chairs, all painted white and surrounded by tubs of flowers.
“Good afternoon, Mr Rhea,” she greeted me, with a pleasant
smile full of humanity and warmth. I noticed her hands were covered in dirt from her work. “After that hot work, I need a drink. Can I get you one? Iced orange? A milkshake? Lemonade? Wine if you like?”
“I’m on duty, so iced orange would be wonderful.” I settled on one of the chairs and removed my crash helmet as she went into the house to fix the drinks.
I enjoyed the peace and quiet of her garden which was surprisingly spacious but very secluded; the house was bigger than I had anticipated too. On previous occasions, my visits had been in the kitchen or sometimes a small study which gave me no idea of the size of the place, but from this aspect, I could see it was a substantial building in local stone in a glorious setting. She came back with two glasses of orange with ice floating in the top and passed one to me.
“Is this a social call, or am I being called to be a witness again?” she asked, settling on the other chair. She had witnessed another accident a few weeks earlier and, like me, was awaiting the superintendent’s decision whether or not to prosecute one of the drivers. In the past, I had called upon her many times to warn her to attend Eltering Magistrates Court at a certain time and date.
“A social call,” I smiled, sipping from the glass. “Delicious!”
“So, what can I do for you?” She was accustomed to my presence and the uniform did not daunt her.
“Mrs Philpin . . .”
“Call me Emma,” she invited.
“All right; I’m Nick. So, Emma, those accidents you’ve witnessed at Grimdale, I’ve lost count.”
“Eighteen this year,” she said. “Twelve last year. That’s only the ones I’ve witnessed. I’m not sure how many others there have been. Dozens, I’d say. Lots are never reported, people simply run off the road while swerving to miss others. I know lots occur without injuries or damage, so they are not reported.”
“I haven’t the official figures with me,” I told her. “But few of the accidents are classified as serious. Not yet, that is. One of these days, there will be a nasty one, a fatality . . .”
“I know.” She looked into my eyes. “That’s why I keep my own records. I regard them all very seriously indeed. Even the minor ones, whether or not people are hurt.”
“I was thinking of you,” I told her seriously. “I am here to suggest that you don’t sit and watch the traffic.” I was coming to my point now.
“Oh, but you can’t stop me!” she said. “It’s my right, my choice.”
“I know I cannot stop you, but I am concerned. That’s why I am here. I do think you are putting yourself at risk.” I realised how carefully I would have to make my representation. “That incident with the wedding cars — suppose one of them had hit you? That’s the root of my concern — that you will be struck by a vehicle one of these days, something that’s out of control through sheer speed. That seat of yours is in a very vulnerable position. In fact, I think it should be removed.”
“I put it there,” she told me quietly and with evident determination. “I put it there so that I could sit and watch the traffic. There’s no law to stop me, is there?”
I shook my head. “No, of course not. It’s just that I feel you are placing yourself in a dangerous position — it seems an odd thing to do, to sit by the side of the road and watch traffic race past, especially in such a potentially dangerous place.”
She did not reply for a few moments and sat with her eyes downcast. I began to wonder if I had done something to upset her but she looked up again and said, “Nick, I sit there for a very good reason. I am looking for a hit-and-run driver.”
“I don’t follow.” I was puzzled at this remark.
“You know there was a fatality here, a long time ago? More than thirty years ago, in fact. Before the war.”
“Yes, I had heard, but I don’t know the details.”
“It was a little girl. Six years old. She was hit by a motorbike that came over the hilltop far too fast. It ran into her. She was sent flying with the impact and hit her head on the drystone wall that was there then. She died instantly. Her name was Jessica Firth.”
“I see.” I wondered how she knew these details.
“She was my sister,” Emma continued softly. “This was our family home, this very house. It became mine when my parents died, and when I married Patrick I stayed here, in my family home. In those days of course we walked to school; it was in Elsinby. We went along the road where the accidents happen. One day, a motorbike hurtled over the hill and ran into Jessica. She died. I was there. I saw it all. She was walking in the side of the road, very close to the edge. The bike was too close to that verge, it collided with her and threw her against the wall. The bike ran over the verge and the rider fell off, but he picked himself up, got back on to his bike and rode off. The bike wasn’t damaged and he wasn’t hurt. I was too young to do anything like thinking to take his number, but I saw what happened . . . all those years ago. I shall never forget it, Nick. That’s why I got my dad to put that seat there, so I could sit and watch in case that same man came over the hill again. I was ten. I told Dad I wanted to see him again and get his number . . . like I get the numbers of those who have accidents now. I saw his face too, Nick. He had no crash helmet; they didn’t bother with them at that time. I will never forget his face. So I’m keeping watch for him Nick, and at the same time keeping records of the accidents which happen there.”
“You must have a very comprehensive list,” was all I could think of saying.
“I have, but I make use of the statistics. I send details to the authorities in the hope they will heed the accident rate and improve the road so that no one else will die.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“If I die through being hit by a car, then it will be a mark in favour of changing the crossroads,” she said, eyeing me carefully. “My death will save others.”
“That’s a bit drastic!” I said, following with, “You know that our accident prevention department has this crossroads under constant review? They have maps and an analysis of every accident that’s happened there, over the years.”
“Yes, I know. I do write to them after every accident I witness,” she smiled. “And they write me nice letters back. They don’t say much though.”
“You ought to go and see the records at our headquarters,” I suggested. “I think you would see that something is being done about this crossroads. It’s not ignored, Emma. You really don’t have to sit here and count accidents. But is that why you are such a good witness? You’ve developed a very clear memory of things.”
“I have trained myself to be a good witness,” she said. “Because I let Jessica down by not being a good witness. Her killer got away because I did not take his number, but I will recognise him if he comes this way again, either in a car or on a motorbike. That man’s face will always live with me . . . and he could still be alive.”
“It was more than thirty years ago.” I was gentle with that reminder.
“I know,” she said. “I should think he’ll be in his late forties now, or early fifties. I know I would recognise him. He won’t have the bike of course, but I’m sure I would recognise him. And if I do, I shall come to tell you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I said, although I wondered whether we could prosecute someone for failing to stop after a road accident after such a long delay. “But that seat . . .”
“I shall always use it, Nick,” she said with determination. “Until I find my man. You can’t make me stop, it’s my life’s work. I must find him. But I do appreciate your concern. It means such a lot to me, that you have my interests at heart.”
“It would be dreadful if you became a victim,” I repeated for the final time.
* * *
She ignored my request and continued to use that seat. Over the years I was at Aidensfield, she became a witness for many more accidents, but she was always fair and always accurate in her evidence. Sadly she died of cancer some fifteen years after our earnest conversation, and, so far
as I know, she never did find the man who had run down and killed her little sister. Grimdale Crossroads have survived, however, albeit with some modifications and improvements but her seat is no longer there. For a long time, I referred to it as Emma’s Seat but when I pass that way now, it seems odd not seeing her there.
I’m sure she and her sister will be sitting together on a family bench in Heaven, safe from celestial traffic, I hope.
If I was wrong about the motives of Emma Philpin, the same might be said of someone who became a nuisance to Leonora Lackenby, the lady everyone called Nanny Lack.
Leonora, who had never married, was a retired nanny who occupied the tiniest of cottages at Crampton. She had served the Cramptons of Crampton Hall for many years, caring for the present owner, Lord Jeremy, when he was a child and more recently looking after Jeremy’s own four children. It was Lord Jeremy who, as a child, had called her Nanny Lack because he could not pronounce her full name. In his adult life as Lord Crampton, Jeremy always promised he would care for his former nanny and so, when she retired and moved out of her self-contained flat in the Hall, she was given the tiny cottage beside the river, a place she had often admired. It was rent free and called Riverside Cottage; it had a long narrow lawn which led to the water’s edge and Jeremy had built a summer house containing a seat so she could sit and watch the river and the wealth of wildlife it supported. She had moved there about six months prior to my arrival at Aidensfield.
In her retirement, Nanny Lack was a familiar figure around the village where she joined the WI, worked for the church and helped with charitable collections and other local matters. She would help those less capable than herself, doing a range of chores from babysitting for local mums to helping out at Crampton Hall when they were short of staff. She was a regular visitor to the Hall, being invited to lots of events such as the annual staff Christmas party, garden parties and so on. Lord and Lady Crampton seemed to regard her almost as one of the family.
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 10
