Christmas is a happy time for a rural policeman, and it should also be a happy time for his ‘parishioners’. This came to mind one Friday evening as I patrolled Elsinby on foot. It was bitterly cold and there was a hint of snow in the air, coupled with what Yorkshiremen call a “lazy wind”. It goes through you – it is too lazy to go round. I had walked from Aidensfield into Elsinby and was therefore quite snug in my winter uniform. I made my ten o’clock point at the telephone kiosk and was about to leave when the phone rang. It was Sergeant Blaketon.
“Ah!” The relief was evident in his voice. “Got you, Rhea. We’ve just had a telephone call from a lady in Elsinby. She’s complaining about the noise at the pub. Very loud singing, apparently. It’s disturbing the neighbourhood. Go and sort them out, will you? Tell them to shut up. I know it’s the festive season, but we don’t want complaints.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
I walked the few hundred yards and as I approached the Hopbind Inn, I could hear lusty voices rising from it. The place was undoubtedly in fine song and the cheery atmosphere gave me a feeling of loneliness and isolation. I wished I was in there right now, warm and snug, with friendly folk and a nice drink. But the din was awful! I could hear a familiar tune whose title escaped me; it could be heard well away from the premises and there was little wonder the lady had complained.
I walked into the busy pub and George, the landlord, greeted me with a smile. Clearly, he was pleased with the music.
“By, that’s a bit of grand singing,” he clutched a full pint pot as he beamed with pleasure.
“It’s too good, George,” I shouted above the noise. “We’ve had a complaint. Somebody’s rung our office at Ashfordly to complain about it. I’ve just had Sergeant Blaketon asking you to shut up.”
“You’re joking!” he gasped.
“I’m not,” I said seriously. “They making a hell of a racket, you know. I could hear them half way up the street.”
“But Nick, listen to them!” he pleaded and he held up a finger to indicate silence. I listened to the tune that came from the bar. It was a fine version of “The old rugged cross”, a popular Methodist hymn sung regularly in these parts. For the Methodists of this region, it was almost an anthem.
“Hymns?” I asked.
“Aye, hymns. It’s the carol singers.” He lowered his voice. “They were singing out there and it’s bloody cold tonight. Everybody in the bar invited them inside – they’re chapel folks, Nick, and they don’t touch a drop. They’re just singing hymns and carols, that’s all, inside my pub instead of on the street.”
I laughed aloud. “If they thought they’d been the subject of a complaint about singing in the pub, they’d never live it down!”
“They wouldn’t,” he agreed. “Can you do summat about it?”
“I don’t know who made the complaint,” I had to tell him, “and I daren’t ring Blaketon to tell him the truth. To him, a noise is a noise, whoever makes it and for whatever reason. All I know is that the caller was a woman.”
“Oh, it will be Miss Allison just around the corner. She often grumbles and she’s got the telephone in. She’s the only woman living alone along there.”
“I’ll see if it was her,” I offered. I went to her cottage and knocked. It was about ten fifteen by this time and she answered quickly. Behind me, the strains of “Silent Night” were now ringing forth.
“Did you ring our office at Ashfordly, Miss Allison?” I asked.
“I did, Mr Rhea, yes I did. I’m sorry if I am a nuisance, but the noise from the Hopbind was getting too much.”
“It’s the chapel carol singers,” I told her. “Listen, they’re there now.”
Standing together on her doorstep, we listened to the verses of that popular carol as they filled the chill air of this December night.
“Oh dear, I thought it was someone in the pub,” she blushed. “I had no idea it was carol singers.”
“It is carol singers, but they are in the pub,” I corrected her, and explained about the chapel folks, now firmly installed in the bar and singing their hearts out beside the regulars. She burst into laughter.
“Oh, dear, that’s marvellous, isn’t it? Really marvellous. I’m so sorry I complained … Do they know I complained?”
“No one knows,” I assured her, “except me and George. I’m going back to put his mind at rest. Can they continue like that? It closes at eleven and besides, there are many chapel folk in there who will soon want to be going home.”
“Thank you for telling me.” She sounded sincere, and I got the impression she was wistful.
As she made to close the door, I said, “I’m going back, Miss Allison. Would you like to come across and hear them for yourself?”
“Oh, I’m not a drinker, you know. I never go into pubs.”
“Neither are they. They’re singers.”
“Do you think I should? I mean, it’s not the thing for a woman to go into a public house unaccompanied.”
“I will accompany you. You could stand in the passage with me and listen to the carols.”
“Thank you,” she smiled, and in a second she had on a warm coat and a scarf. George was delighted and by the time we arrived, the singers, chapel folks and regulars, were in top form with “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”.
I could inform Sergeant Blaketon that I had dealt with the complaint and that all parties were satisfied with my action. But I did wonder what the Catholics and Anglicans would do to cap this one!
George Boston, his wife and son occupied Low Laithes Farm. Its fields spread smoothly across a lush and green part of the valley below my lounge window and in moments of silent reflection, I would often stand at that window to gaze across the dale far below. My view looked south across the deep rift in the hills where ranging conifers decorated the slopes. Christmas tree thieves would be a menace in there about now; I’d have to arrange patrols during the darkened hours. Lonely farmsteads dotted those slopes and their lights twinkled at night, lighting my view like glow-worms in the undergrowth. I could look down upon the spread of the whole dale.
Boston’s farm provided an everlasting frontage to my view. There were times his spread was hidden in the mists of autumn. Sometimes his farm was totally obscured and sometimes I could see only the tops of the trees and the caps of spindly telegraph poles protruding from the dense white blanket. At other times the Boston farm lay revealed in all its symmetrical wonder, with neat walls, trimmed hedges and the tidiest farmyard for miles around. Even his animals seemed tidy – sometimes I could have sworn they grazed in drilled ranks.
From my vantage point, I could watch George at work and I began to recognise his wife’s daily routine. White smoke spiralling from her chimney told me whether or not it was going to be a fine day, but it also told me whether Mary Boston was baking, washing the clothes or going out for the day. If she was baking, the fire would be lit early to heat the fireside oven she continued to use to such tasty advantage; if it was wash-day, the wash-house fire would belch forth a darker smoke from behind the main house, while a day’s outing meant no smoke until later in the day, usually around tea-time.
The farm buildings were gathered about the dwelling-house like pups around a loving mother; they were homely, warm and inviting, so friendly and yet so plain. Their construction and furnishings were simple and provided a life without complications. The fields were the same, always neat, always well tended and up to date with whatever crop George had decided to produce. The place reeked of rural contentment.
Sometimes I stood at the window, wondering if the Bostons bothered about the village bobby being so high above them with such a splendid view of their territory. Did they have the feeling they were being watched? Did they think the village constable was spying on them? Did they feel that my binoculars were upon them, and not upon the wildlife that lived about their premises? It was like standing on a mountain top and observing the minutiae of life in a valley far below; but George’s life and mine were really no pa
rt of each other.
My first visit to his farm was some six or eight weeks after my arrival, and it had been a routine check of his stock register. When a farmer bought stock, he had to enter details in a register, including facts like the date and time of purchase, the place they were purchased, the number of animals and a brief description. Cows and pigs were the chief livestock of this area and it was my job to ensure their entries were correct. If an outbreak of disease occurred, it would have to be traced to its source, consequently those records were vital.
My second visit was for a totally different purpose. It was strictly official and it reminded me of the risks attached to the nationwide practice of giving Christmas presents to village policemen. Policemen are always conscious of attempts to bribe them during their duties, and the acceptance of gifts, however small, is fraught with danger. Police Regulations are specific upon the subject. Some superiors interpreted these rules so rigidly that acceptance of a cup of tea on duty was seen as the acceptance of a present. Reliable sources of tea were therefore jealously guarded by policemen.
This second visit occurred on Christmas Day, when such temptations were placed before me. I had been off duty during Christmas Eve and my Christmas Day duties were from 10 am until 6 pm. This suggested a daytime patrol of the village and its surrounding area, and meant I was always available for despatch to any incident, large or small. In reality, it meant I stayed at home with my family, always on the understanding that if anything did happen, I must go out and deal with it. On Christmas Day therefore, I sat around the house in my uniform shirt and trousers, hoping nothing would happen. This system gave me Christmas Day at home.
Shortly after ten o’clock that morning, my telephone rang. It was P.C. Jim Finn from Ashfordly.
“Nick, I’m sorry, but we’ve got a job for you.”
“I was out of bed,” I laughed. The children had seen to that – Father Christmas had roused them about three this morning, from which time sleep had been impossible.
“It’s not serious,” Jim was telling me. “A hit-and-run accident in the early hours. Damage only, no injuries. We didn’t get you up at the crack of dawn, but it needs attention.”
It seemed that a worshipper had attended Midnight Mass at Maddleskirk Abbey. Mass had concluded about 1.15 am and the worshipper had turned his car towards Aidensfield, aiming for his home. Unfortunately, some of the local pubs had been making merry at the same time, and had thrown out their faithful just as the Abbey was ejecting its regulars.
A small Morris Minor had hurtled along the narrow lane between Maddleskirk and Aidensfield. According to an eyewitness, it had been driven erratically and had collided with a nice new car belonging to the said worshipper. The Morris had not troubled to stop, but had careered out of sight amidst a rending of metal and a tinkling of broken glass. The eye-witness, another home-going worshipper, had seen this incident from the relative safety of a wood, into which he had had the presence of mind to leap as the offending Morris approached. Nonetheless, he had had the sense to note the registration number of the Morris.
“So,” concluded P.C. Finn. “There’s a useful ‘Careless Driving’ for you, a ‘Fail to Stop’ and a ‘Fail to Report’.”
“Who was driving the Morris?” I asked.
“Dunno. I can give you its number, but the Taxation Offices are closed. They won’t be able to supply the keeper’s name until after the holiday. Maybe you know the owner?”
When he told me the number, I knew it was a local lad. The car belonged to George Boston’s son, a lanky twenty-year-old called Samuel Victor. This revelation meant I was faced with a rather unpleasant Christmas Day task. However, sentiment and seasonal jollifications cannot be allowed to infringe upon the execution of one’s lawful duty, so I put on my uniform tunic and cap, told my wife where I was heading and said I’d be back for lunch.
Although I often felt I could toss a pebble from my garden into the stackyard of Low Laithes Farm, it was about a mile from my house when using the conventional route. I decided to walk and enjoyed the clear, crisp morning air, with just a hint of frost. There was a suggestion of snow too, for snow packs were forming around the horizon and there was the distinctive smell of oncoming snow. It is a peculiar smell, one which is recognised by countrymen. I knew that smell. Snow was on its way and would fall before long.
I arrived at the gate of Low Laithes Farm just before eleven, having passed the time of day with one or two residents en route. I touched the latch and it swung open. They call this type of latch a hunting sneck, a wooden affair peculiar to this part of England and perhaps designed to be drawn by the lighest of touches from a riding crop, or by Miss Fiona’s pony. It was simply a long wooden bolt, hanging from short chains and carved with nicks. When the gate is open, it hangs free but once closed, it is very secure. The Boston dogs began their well practised barking and, with my arrival thus announced, I walked across the clean farmyard, with its area of grooved concrete as clean as the front path of any semi-detached house in the land. This farm even lacked the traditional midden, a heap of dung and household waste which was once so familiar at the front door of every farmstead. I knocked on the kitchen door and Mrs Boston, a plump attractive woman in a flowered apron, opened it. She was smiling a welcome.
“I saw you coming, Mr Rhea. Fancy calling on Christmas Day?” and at that, she adopted a slightly worried frown.
“E’ll have cum for ’is duck,” growled a voice from inside the kitchen. “T’bobby allus comes for ’is duck on Christmas Day. Fetch ’im in.”
“Well,” I began …
“Don’t stand oot there, it’s cawd,” said George’s voice. “Bring t’lad in.”
I entered and removed my cap, and was immediately inside the farm kitchen. A friendly fire warmed the room, casting bright and flickering glows of red across the furnishings, the tiled floor and the beamed ceiling so brown and stained with age. Meat hooks decorated the ceiling and horse brasses were crudely nailed to much of the woodwork. George Boston sat in a Windsor chair, the cushion bulging between the uprights. He wore a thick tweed jacket of mottled green and brown, a fawn waistcoat and heavy corduroy trousers, polished with regular wear and tear. His feet wore battered but cosy slippers, one of which had a hole in the toe, and a pet cur lay at his feet. Its head rested on the fender almost within reach of falling cinders, while its body sprawled across the thick clip hearth rug. It didn’t rouse at my entry, and George didn’t leave his chair.
“Noo then, lad,” he beamed. “Thoo’ll ’ave cum for thy Christmas duck, eh?”
“No, I haven’t,” I had to say. I knew nothing of such an arrangement. “It’s about something else, Mr Boston.”
“Get ’im ’is duck oot o’ t’larder, Mary. Let’s git this bit owered afoore he spoils things.”
“No,” I insisted. “Please, you mustn’t. I’m here on business – you’ll not want to give me a duck when you hear what I’ve got to say.”
He studied me for a few moments and said, “Oh, it’s like that is it? Sit down then,” and he indicated a chair at the table. I put my cap on the scrubbed wooden top and Mrs Boston produced a mug of tea from somewhere. This was their break time, ’lowance time as they called it.
“Give ’im summat stronger than that, Mary,” insisted George.
I held up my hand. “No, wait, please. I must tell you why I’m here.”
“This lad’s nut gahin ti be bribed, is he?” smiled the genial farmer. “Well, lad, oot wiv it. What’s up? It must be summat important to drag you oot looking serious on Christmas Day.”
I told him about last night’s incident, or this morning’s to be precise, and he listened without a word. Mrs Boston stood close to me, listening carefully and sipping from her mug which she clutched with both hands. I told them the story in what I hoped was a clear manner and left the identification of the alleged offender until the end.
“That Morris car,” I said. “It bore the same registration number as your son’s car,” and I q
uoted the number.
“Aye,” he said. “That’s oor lad’s car and no mistake. Is onnybody hurt?”
“No,” I said to his relief. “Just minor damage to both vehicles.”
“If he’d stopped, it might ’ave been sorted out there and then.”
“Possibly,” I agreed, wondering if Samuel had been drunk at the time.
“What happens next then?”
“I’d like to see the car.”
“Me an’ all,” and he slipped his feet into a pair of waiting Wellington boots and led me through the back of the house, the cur following without any bidding. We traversed a cattle shed or two with cows ruminating noisily in their winter quarters, the heat of their bodies warming the entire complex. Finally, we entered an outbuilding which served as a garage.
“There she is,” he pointed to a car.
Out came my official notebook as I circled the little car, looking for signs of recent damage. I found them; the front offside wing had been dented and the surface paint was fractured. The bumper was twisted and the headlamp glass was broken, most of it being missing. There were clean, rust-free scratches along the doors too, and also along the rear wing, all on the driver’s side. It had clearly been in a recent collision. I noted this damage and then, taking out my pocket knife, lifted a sample of paint from the damaged part of the car. I carefully placed this in a plastic envelope and then, upon the damaged portion of the car, I located an alien colour, a dull red paint. I guessed this had been transferred from the other vehicle during their contact, so I lifted this and placed it in another envelope.
“What’s all this business for?” George asked with genuine interest.
“I might have to prove it was him,” I said. “I have taken a control sample of the paintwork from Samuel’s car, and another piece bearing a different coloured paint. That shows he touched something else, something bearing that colour of paint. We’ll do the same with the other chap’s car, then we will get our forensic wizards to examine all the pieces. They’ll tell us whether the two cars were ever in contact with one another. I reckon they’ll say ‘yes’.”
Constable on the Hill Page 20
