For the farmers in the remote moors above Aidensfield, the return of the silver hawk had indeed provided some good fortune. In a roundabout sort of way, that spectacular and rare bird of prey had helped to catch those who were preying on its neighbours.
Chapter 7
Wrest once the law to your authority,
To do a great right, do a little wrong.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 1564–1616
Many of us conceal a sense of mischief or a desire to be daring and this hidden deviousness can occasionally reveal itself in minor incidents of lawbreaking. There is something rather bold in breaking the law in a very minor way and not being found out, like sneaking a telephone call paid for by one’s firm or taking home a pencil or paper clip from the office. In the minds of some people, there is excitement in committing minor misdeeds and getting away with it — such little villains would never stoop to serious crime like burglary, robbery or murder.
Stealing apples is probably the most common example, for illicitly obtained apples do taste far better than those bought in a shop. Exceeding the speed limit by a few miles per hour is perhaps another example, particularly if a police car passes in the opposite direction — we have broken the law and not been caught, another example of our personal bravado! It is important, of course, that no one is injured or harmed by such audacious behaviour.
Betting and gaming in the pub also involves the breaching of further laws, in this case those governing the conduct of licensed premises but probably the most frequent and popular instances of luscious lawbreaking remains the drinking of alcoholic beverages in pubs when they are supposed to be closed.
This offence has always held a special appeal, probably because it happens so often in rural pubs. One of the ways in which an incomer to a village could recognise his acceptance by the community was when he was allowed to remain behind among the regulars to drink after time. In the sixties, there could be no doubt there was a brazen thrill in drinking in pubs after closing time — quite inexplicably, the drink tasted better, the conversation became more sparkling, the company grew more delightful by the minute and, of course, there was always the deep thrill of anticipation at the thought of a police raid.
The latter possibility is a further indication of our desire to appear fearless and fun-loving. Nonetheless, to prevent our den of iniquity being discovered, the pub doors were locked, the lights were turned low, tell-tale cars were removed from the carpark and conversation was kept to a low volume. All these strategic manoeuvres served to elevate the drinking to the level of a clandestine meeting, something shrouded in secrecy of which we became a willing part. There was no doubt a lot of people preferred this kind of gallantry to the thought of trekking to polar regions, discovering new continents or tackling the slopes of Everest. It was much easier to display one’s true valour by buying a pint of bitter or a gin and tonic in an English pub after hours. If we were all genuine friends of the licensee, however, he could explain the late drinking by saying he was hosting a private party. That was quite legal, of course — he was perfectly entitled to host private parties in his own home but a pub full of regular customers paying for their own drinks after hours is hardly within the definition of a private party.
In permitting after-hours drinking, a licensee was risking his licence and thus his livelihood, these being additional elements of our display of great courage in the pursuit of illicit thrills. English law, in its infinite wisdom, has long recognised that the people of this country like to drink later than the general permitted hours. If the law compelled the public to drink at all hours, they would not want to do so but because restrictions are imposed, there is a general desire to find a way around the rules. This is revealed in the way the public liked to drink in pubs outside the normal licensing hours even during the daytime.
It must be said that drink taken in the romance of night tastes far better than that consumed during the daytime. Nonetheless, the law did provide an opportunity to drink all day, every day. This came from the delightful relaxations which applied to market towns on market days. For many years on those days, the pubs opened from around 10 a.m. and remained so until 11 p.m. with no closing period during the afternoon. This was officially known as a general order of exemption. Some called it a market-day licence. Dedicated drinkers would plan their weekly outings to coincide with market towns which had the benefit of a general order of exemption. Harrowby Market was on a Monday, Galtreford was on a Tuesday, Brantsford on a Wednesday, Eltering on a Thursday, Ashfordly on a Friday with Thirsk, Malton and Northallerton using Saturday for their markets. Thus a dedicated boozer, with the aid of Arnold Merryweather’s country bus service, could drink fairly locally all day on every day of the week, except Sunday which was a day of rest.
In spite of availability of these opportunities, the drinking public always tried to find other ways of drinking outside permitted hours, and in some cases ingenuity was deployed. I liked the story of the dales village of Rammington. Once a busy market town, it had slowly reverted to being a small village and the weekly Thursday market had ceased almost two centuries ago. The marketplace was now a carpark. An enterprising landlord who owned the Black Ram Inn discovered that a charter for the weekly market had been given to the town by Edward III in 1352 and he reckoned it had established for all time that Rammington was a market town. This being so, he reasoned, it should have a market, and in furtherance of that, the pubs should be allowed to remain open all day. To give him his due, he did persuade one or two traders to position stalls on the former marketplace — the WI sold cakes and jam, a wood turner sold bowls and bread boards and a model maker put model aircraft on sale. This, argued the landlord, constituted a market, and so he applied to the magistrates for a general order of exemption which would permit the pubs in Rammington to remain open from 10 a.m. until 11 p.m., to cater for the refreshment of the market traders. When his application was heard by the local magistrates, they expressed a learned opinion that three trestle tables, recently introduced to the carpark, did not really constitute a market whereupon the landlord said that the real market was in his pub. That’s where the traders could congregate to engage in their trading — if the exemption was approved, his pub would be full of farmers and dealers, but the magistrates decided, albeit with some reluctance, that deals done in the bar of a pub did not constitute a market of that kind envisaged by Edward III.
They also reasoned that the three stalls on the carpark did not conform to Edward’s concept of a market either. So the application was rejected. Nonetheless, it did illustrate the burning desire within English folk to drink outside licensing hours and it also revealed something of the lengths to which they will go to achieve that purpose. Perhaps the most simple way to legally achieve after-hours drinking, other than tippling at home, was for a pub to apply for a special order of exemption.
In my time at Aidensfield, the law relating to drinking alcohol was being relaxed — pubs could stay open until 11 p.m. instead of 10.30 p.m., the ten-minute drinking-up time was introduced, a half-hour drinking-up time with a meal was permitted, pubs with restaurants could serve drinks with meals until midnight and licensed restaurants were permitted. In spite of all that, people still wanted to drink in their favourite pubs outside the permitted hours and the special order of exemption allowed this.
It was, and still is, more commonly known as an extension of hours. It can be granted to the licensee of a pub, but only when there is a special occasion to celebrate. Examples would include a wedding party on the premises, the annual dinner of a local organisation or some other event which was considered ‘special’. If the order was approved by the magistrates, it meant the pub could remain open after hours, perhaps until midnight, 1 a.m. or even 2 a.m.
If there were problems, they arose through interpretation of the word ‘special’ and the law seems content to let local magistrates decide what is ‘special’.
Is New Year’s Eve ‘special’ when it comes around once a year with surprising
speed and regularity? And how about Christmas or Boxing Day? Are they ‘special’ enough to persuade the magistrates to let pubs remain open outside normal permitted hours? Test cases have included pubs wanting to remain open late for the annual Christmas late-night shopping, to watch the General Election results on television, or for customers to watch televised programmes in the early hours, such as the Olympics or a boxing championship from America.
Over the years, the word ‘special’ has been interpreted as meaning something special to the locality, although it can embrace something special of national status like a royal birth or a royal wedding. Such celebratory moments are both local and national, and this particular provision has been developed to include local weddings and wedding anniversary celebrations such as golden or silver parties, twenty-first or eighteenth birthdays, village shows, annual dinners for local organisations and other worthy causes. In all cases, they provide a basis for legally drinking alcohol in pubs after the normal permitted hours. The problem is that this overwhelming desire to drink later than permitted by law has led to requests for odd events to be declared special enough to justify a late-drinking extension of hours.
The ancient sport of dwyle-flonking was introduced in the 1960s, the annual championship being regarded as special enough to warrant an extension of hours. This sport ranks alongside others like rhubarb-thrashing, marrow-dangling, passing the splod, dratting and nurgling, ferret-legging, nettle-wrestling, hither-picking or even conger-cuddling.
All these, and more, might be regarded as special enough in their localities to justify drinking outside normal permitted hours. When these activities are quoted as being special reasons for wanting to drink after hours, it is really just another ingenious excuse to satisfy the overpowering need among the English to drink late in a pub.
So far as the various pubs on my patch were concerned, all applied on regular occasions for extensions of hours. The reasons were commonplace and so there was no objection by the police — the events included the annual presentation of trophies by Aidensfield Cricket Club, Elsinby WI’s annual dinner, various birthday and wedding celebrations, the famous Crampton tug-of-war contest, Briggsby’s annual garden fete, Thackerston point-to-point meeting and many similar events and worthy celebrations. Elsinby’s pub, the Hopbind, was noted as a venue for horse racing enthusiasts; several horse racing journalists lived in or near the village, consequently special events at the pub included many linked with racing. An annual dinner for judges at the various North Riding racecourses was an example, for which an extension of hours was always approved. Another nearby pub, just off my patch, was patronised by glider pilots who had their own special events — there were many similar examples of what can legitimately be regarded as ‘special’.
In my own experience at Aidensfield, no one ever attempted to dream up a daft reason for making application for an extension of hours and so, when George Ward, landlord of the Hopbind Inn hailed me in the street one morning I had no reason to even consider any deviousness.
He told me he would be applying to the magistrates for a special order of exemption. I could never envisage dwyle-flonking in my local pubs, although I do believe the occasional bout of dratting and nurgling was practised. One local inn on the moors has a wonderful collection of nurgling sticks and dratting poles while another was the venue of the annual egg waltzing contest.
“Morning, Nick.” George was on his way to the post office when he spotted me. “I’ll be applying for an extension at next week’s court. It’s for Friday the twelfth of next month. I’ll be asking for my hours to be extended from eleven p.m. until one a.m. It’s a birthday party; we’ll provide a buffet supper with it.”
“I can’t see anyone could object to that,” I said.
“I’ll make application in the usual way, through Sergeant Blaketon. I thought you ought to know.”
“Right, thanks. So whose birthday is it?” I asked. “A special one by the sound of things?”
“A twenty-ninth,” he smiled.
“A twenty-ninth?” I frowned. “That’s a funny one to mark with a special celebration. I can understand somebody having a party for their twenty-first or thirtieth, but a twenty-ninth?”
“It is a bit special, Nick, so I was told,” George said. “It’s for somebody called Doctor Thorne; he’s not expected to live much longer, a dicky heart I think. I got a phone call about it; apparently there’s some local connection with Aidensfield.”
“Thorne?” I puzzled over the name.
I did not know anyone of that name in this area. Certainly, there was no doctor of that name living nearby but twenty-nine was a very young age, even for a qualified doctor. He was probably a house doctor in one of the local hospitals. Reading between the lines, I gained the impression that even someone as young as that, with a fatal illness, would want to return to his roots before leaving this world. It sounded like a sad reason for a celebration but I saw no reason to object. In my view, it did fit the criteria of ‘special’ and I told George I would mention it to Sergeant Blaketon; it was he who would present the application to the magistrates at their next sitting in Eltering. Later that day, I met Sergeant Blaketon at one of my rendezvous points and told him about George’s forthcoming application.
Like me, Sergeant Blaketon was somewhat puzzled by a twenty-ninth birthday but he appreciated the reason when I explained it. I said it was a man called Doctor Thorne.
“Do you know this man, Rhea?” he asked.
“No, Sergeant,” I admitted.
“Well, I do remember him, Rhea. It’s a sad story, though, but I shall not raise any objections to the application,” and there was a smile on his face as he said that. In due course, the necessary application came from George and I was present in Eltering Court, being a witness to a careless driving charge, when the application was heard. The clerk of the magistrates, Mr Eldred Whimp, dealt with several similar applications before the hearing of criminal cases and when it came to George’s, he asked of Sergeant Blaketon, “Sergeant, there is an application for a special order of exemption from the Hopbind Inn, Elsinby on the occasion of a birthday party. The licensee wishes to have his hours extended from eleven until one o’clock the following morning. Is this a special birthday party?”
“It is, indeed, Your Worships,” beamed Sergeant Blaketon. “It is to celebrate the twenty-ninth birthday of a Doctor Thorne who is not expected to live much longer. A heart condition, I understand. I consider that to be a special occasion, one which is well within the terms of section 74(4) of the Licensing Act of 1964. The police have no objection to the application.”
“All right, Sergeant,” said Alderman Fazakerly, the chairman of the bench. “Thank you. Any objections from the bench?” and he turned to the other members of his court. Mrs Pinkerton and Mr Smithers each signified their agreement and thus the application was approved.
“Application approved,” said Alderman Fazakerly. “Now, Sergeant, a careless driving charge, I believe?”
“Yes, Your Worships, this defendant has pleaded guilty,” and so the business of Eltering Magistrates Court got under way with the various guilty pleas being considered first. But George had had his application approved.
I thought no more about the event until the day of Doctor Thorne’s birthday party. Sergeant Blaketon rang to remind me that the Hopbind Inn had an extension of hours that evening and, as was our practice on such occasions, he suggested I patrol the village as the extended hours came to a conclusion.
The purpose was to remind the licensee and the revellers that this extra drinking time was considered something of a privilege and that it should not be abused by unruly behaviour. There was also the question of ensuring no one drove their cars while under the influence of alcohol or made a nuisance of themselves in the street. Supplementing the flow and water level of Elsinby Beck was not permitted either, however urgent the need. I knew that George would never give me cause for alarm and that most of his customers were not prone to creating problems
for me; I could not account for the guests at Doctor Thorne’s birthday party however, and in any case, orders were orders. I assured Sergeant Blaketon I would attend, even though it meant another late night on duty.
“I might just drive out to give you a visit too,” was his concluding remark with a twinkle in his eye. “It would be nice to renew my acquaintance with Doctor Thorne. That’s if he is well enough to attend.”
As Elsinby church clock was striking midnight, I parked my Minivan in Church Lane, nicely out of sight of the inn, and decided to take a walk around the village before visiting the Hopbind Inn. It was always prudent to show one’s uniform in the bar on such occasions and I thought it would be nice to give birthday greetings to Doctor Thorne. When I walked past the pub, it was brightly lit and producing sounds of happiness from within. There was no music, I noted, but the noise of chatter and laughter made me realise the place was packed and everyone was enjoying themselves. Outside, the carpark and streets were full of expensive cars.
I noted Rovers, Jaguars, a Daimler, several sports cars and a wide range of upmarket saloons. Many had racehorse mascots on their bonnets and racecourse passes in their windscreens, an indication that Doctor Thorne’s friends were keen followers of the sport of kings. It was a fair bet he was a man of the turf too.
Outside the pub, there was no sign of trouble. No drunks lurked in doorways or watered the grass verges, the cars were all parked correctly with lights where required and I decided I was really superfluous here. But Sergeant Blaketon was en route which meant I had to wait for him. Rather than enter the pub twice, I decided to await his arrival, and we’d enter together, a token visit and display of the forces of law and order. Meanwhile, I occupied myself with a walk around Elsinby, checking the post office, shop, school and churches for security and soon I saw the familiar shape of Sergeant Blaketon’s little black Ford. He halted outside the Hopbind Inn as I flashed my torch from a distance to show I was aware of his presence. He climbed out and walked towards me.
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 16
