I do know that Alwyn was surprised by this invitation, as indeed everyone was, and he agreed to go on the outing. For the rest of us, as mere onlookers, it did seem that Meredith had mellowed and that the onset of forty had opened his mind and his wallet.
The historic outing was scheduled for the second Sunday in May and I recall that it was a beautiful day with clear skies and bright sunshine. The countryside was at its best, with fresh, new greenery along the hedgerows, colourful flowers in abundance both in the wild and in the rustic gardens, and a barrage of birdsong to complete the idyllic picture. The outing should be wonderful; I wished I was going (albeit not with Meredith), but I was performing a local duty that day.
It would be about a week afterwards when I next saw Alwyn, his grey hair perhaps a few shades whiter and his face drawn with anger. He had an envelope in his hand.
“Are you all right, Alwyn?” I asked. At that moment, I had forgotten all about the moorland outing and was concerned for his health. He did look pale and sick, and I had a feeling it was connected with the letter in his hand.
“No I am not!” he fumed. “The bloody man!”
I did not know what to say or how to react, but he said, “You know that bloody man Meredith the Miser?”
“Yes,” I said tentatively.
“You were there, weren’t you? When he invited me and Betty to have a day out with him? It was his birthday.”
“Yes,” I acknowledged. “How did it go?”
“It cost me a bloody fortune!” Alwyn snapped, sitting down at the desk. “Meredith turned up in his car, as promised, and in we jumped. We went up to Rosedale and Hutton-le-Hole and after a walk we all went to a cafe for some morning coffee.”
“That was nice of him,” I commented for want of something better to say.
“Nothing of the sort!” snapped Alwyn. “By the time the bill came, he managed to disappear into the toilet. I paid, and I was happy to do so at the time. At that point, there was nothing to grumble about.”
It was evident that Meredith had been on top form that day, and so I settled down to hear more from Alwyn.
“We drove all over, stopping in villages, pausing to look at views and that sort of thing. In fact, Nick, it was a lovely outing. The moors were splendid and there’s some magnificent scenery off the beaten track. Then we stopped at a pub which served bar snacks for lunch. Well, I paid for the first round of drinks and when the time came for the second, he went to make a telephone call. I paid for that round as well. Then Meredith told the landlord it was his birthday and ordered wine, and we had a smashing meal. And would you believe it, when the landlord brought the bill, Meredith vanished into the toilet again.”
“He did you again!” I grinned.
“Yes, I paid. I thought he’d square up with me later, so I paid up. I didn’t want to cause any embarrassment in the pub. I thought he’d go halves at least, but he never offered a penny. Not a bloody penny! He just jumped into his car and came home, and thanked me for a lovely day out. I hadn’t the heart to demand half-shares from him, not on his birthday.”
“Alwyn, old son,” I said, “you know what the fellow’s like, we all know what he’s like. You should have been wary of him — and now you’ve given him a birthday treat, haven’t you. I reckon he spends hours planning these campaigns.”
“That’s not all.” Alwyn held up the envelope which had so clearly upset him. “Seen this?” and he passed it to me.
It was a bill from Meredith. He was asking Alwyn to pay for half the petrol used on that outing.
In spite of our knowledge of Meredith and his methods, he continued to score against us in our off-guarded moments. At one time or another, most of us found ourselves at the expensive end of Meredith’s guile. He managed on one occasion to get me to buy two raffle tickets for him; as the seller waited for Meredith to finish a telephone call, I paid her, but he never paid me. I don’t think he won a prize but nor did I.
Then it was time for duty at York Races. The May meeting is always so pleasant, for the course is at its floral best and every one of us wanted to be selected as additional strength to aid York City Police. Extra officers were drafted in from all the neighbouring forces for duty at this busy course on race days. Such duties came around only once in a while, and it was so nice to be nominated. When I looked at the names of the colleagues who were to accompany me, I saw that Meredith was one of them. I made a vow to keep out of his way where money was involved.
In those days, we travelled by train and had to lodge overnight in York for the duration of the three-day meeting. Our digs were in some old terraced houses which overlooked the racecourse and for each of the three days we paraded at 11 a.m. for our duties. They included car-parking; security of the track, the horses and the jockeys; plus a watch for pickpockets, car thieves and the other unsavoury characters who prey on their fellows at race meetings, with a general brief to ensure that things progressed smoothly. It was a hard, but pleasant three days and we usually finished duty around six o’clock following dispersal of traffic after the last race. During our two evenings in digs, we went either to the cinema or to the local pubs for a drink or two, but if we were broke, we stayed in and played cards or dominoes.
Although we were not allowed to place bets while in uniform, we did manage to persuade CID officers or other acquaintances to put money on our selections. We enjoyed race meetings; they were a real tonic and a break from our more mundane duties.
Throughout that May meeting, Meredith’s miserly reputation caused him to be frozen out of many social events; if drinks were bought, he was ignored unless he could be forced into buying a round. And that was a rare event. He was not allowed to play darts, dominoes or cards unless he put his money on the table first and in this cruel way the men, all of us, kept him at bay. Our actions did not make him alter his attitude; he remained as tight-fisted and miserly as ever, and after the final day, as we travelled home by train, this character-trait shone through more strongly than ever.
Our train journey took us to Eltering where an official car would be waiting to take us home. The trip from York was through some delightful countryside but we were too tired and too broke to appreciate it; exhausted, broke and hungry, we were concerned only with getting home.
None of us had any money left; we’d either lost it on the horses or spent it on our enjoyment at the pubs or pictures, and so that long journey was pretty miserable. There were no refreshment cars on a trip of that kind — besides, none of us could have found the necessary cash to buy anything. There were eight of us in our carriage, all sitting quietly as we brooded over the past three days. Meredith was one and he was just as quiet as the others.
As the train chugged along, someone would say, “By, I could just eat a round of fish and chips!” or “I could do with a drink,” or “I’m famished . . . oh, for summat to eat . . .” But no one had anything to offer. We were skint.
And then, on the final miles into Eltering, our train entered a tunnel; it was about half a mile long, and in those days, the trains did not have lights on for such short trips in the darkness. We all sat there in silence, and when we emerged, Meredith was eating a toffee.
“Meredith, you sneaking sod!” snapped one of the men.
“Well, I did pass them around,” he said, chewing contentedly.
He made no offer to pass them around again, and from that point, I believed the story that Meredith could and indeed would peel an orange one-handed while it was in his pocket.
But with tales of such behaviour circulating among a group of men like police officers, it was inevitable that they would make some effort to teach Meredith a lesson.
I’m not sure how or where the notion originated, or indeed who was the instigator, but gradually there arose a group feeling that Meredith was due to receive some kind of comeuppance, preferably of a financial nature. He had to be forced to pay for all his past transgressions, and we knew that this would be one of our most difficult achievements. Getting Me
redith to pay for anything was rather like trying to climb Everest in a swimsuit.
As this germ of an idea floated around, it produced some good suggestions and some improbable ones; and it was by coincidence that Sergeant Bairstow said there ought to be a get-together for all members of the section. He proposed dinner at a local inn, one to which we could take our wives and meet one another socially and at leisure over a meal and a drink. Getting policemen together like this was nigh impossible due to their varied shifts and periods off duty, and even a determined effort like this would mean that someone was left out. We decided that special constables would man the market towns that evening so that the maximum attendance was assured.
Basically, it was a good idea. As the notion began to gain substance, it dawned upon us that this was the ideal opportunity to get our revenge on Meredith. We counted the likely numbers who would attend, and included our two sergeants, Charlie Bairstow and Oscar Blaketon. It was important that we discreetly tempted Meredith to attend; getting him there at all would be a difficult task because it meant he must be willing to pay his share. So we decided to invite the Inspector. Almost imperceptibly, the purpose of the occasion changed from a social function to a ‘Get-Meredith-to-pay’ event. We were well aware that he had promotion in mind and therefore regarded inspectors as God-like figures who might help him on his way to the top; Meredith liked to grease around those in authority.
We reckoned we could make good use of that character-trait and accordingly spread the news that the Inspector was to attend. We also hinted that previous events had shown that promotion came to one of the officers who attended, sometimes within six months. That was enough for Meredith; he put his name down on the sheet.
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.
CONSTABLE ALONG THE LANE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 12
