As a result, of course, he started to come home later, a ploy which enabled him to avoid some of her vitriol and which was part of the reason he paid his nightly visit to the Brewers Arms. It gave him peace from both work and wife.
Joseph owned and ran his own gentlemen’s outfitters in Eltering. It was a modest shop which sold fairly cheap clothes whose quality was not of the highest. He now faced competition from the major department stores in York and elsewhere for they stocked good clothes within the cheaper range, while those men with money patronised their own bespoke tailors. Joseph had no drive and ambition; he did not wish to become the owner of a chain of shops nor did he strive to change his own dwindling circumstances. He seemed content to let things drift downwards, and I began to learn of his shrinking fortune in the course of my patrolling.
Some hint of his problems arose when I popped into his shop to buy some black socks. He was on the telephone, and was saying words like, ‘Yes, dear. No dear. Yes, I will. No, I will not be late tonight. There isn’t much in the till today. Yes, I know the car needs attention, the brakes, yes. I’ll see what the garage says.’
When he saw me at the counter, he said, ‘I have a customer, dear. See you tonight,’ and he replaced the handset.
‘Women!’ he said, recognising me. ‘All they think about is money and status! Well, Mr Rhea, what can I get you?’
‘Two pairs of black socks please, Joseph,’ I said.
He obtained them and I paid, then he said, ‘There are times I wish I had your job, Mr Rhea. A regular salary, interesting life, varied work and the means of travelling around the district. I’m stuck in here, day in and day out, it does get a bit monotonous.’
‘It’s funny, you know,’ I said. ‘Lots of policemen say they’d like their own business.’
‘It has some advantages, Mr Rhea, but times are not good for my trade. Multiple stores, cheaper mass-produced clothes, foreign imports – small shops are finding it hard, very hard to compete. I’d pack it in tomorrow if I could.’
‘You surprise me,’ I was honest when I said that.
He seemed anxious to talk so I did not rush away.
‘Roberta likes to live well, to dress well, to socialise and have a nice home. I can’t give her all she wants, Mr Rhea, it does worry me.’
‘Could you sell up and try another business?’
‘I would have trouble selling this shop, I feel. But you don’t need burdening with my worries! Thanks for listening, I needed someone to say that to. Not that you can help, but at least you did listen.’
‘I’ll listen whenever you want, Joseph.’ I tried to show a little understanding. ‘Maybe I will come across someone who wants a shop just like yours. As you say, I am out and about a lot.’
‘Thanks, I’ll buy you a half next time you’re in the Brewers Arms,’ he offered with a sad smile.
Further hints of Joseph Pringle’s problems came to me over the next few months. A businessman friend from York, for example, asked if I knew the Pringles of Aidensfield; my friend’s wife was a member of a York Ladies Luncheon Club where Roberta Pringle was also a member. It seemed she had told her fellow members that Joseph ran a men’s clothing manufacturing business with outlets all over the country. In fact, there was an internationally known manufacturer of men’s high-quality clothing at Eltering, but it was not Joseph’s business. Roberta’s skilful story-telling had led her friends to believe he was a very successful businessman and that those premises were his. I began to see that Roberta was living a life of fiction, a life of fantasy, a life of dangerous expense for poor old Joseph.
It explained why she socialised away from home, why she kept away from those who knew her well, why she dressed so expensively, why she was always nagging at the tired Joseph to improve his status and income. And, as eventually I learned, she was spending all his cash.
I met him on a walk one Sunday morning and he wanted to talk again. ‘You’ve not found anyone who might want my shop, Mr Rhea?’ was his opening gambit.
‘Sorry, Joseph.’ I had asked around, and had in fact come across a retiring police sergeant who was thinking of starting a shop in Eltering. Not a clothes shop, however, although he did express interest in the premises. But he never went ahead.
I promised Joseph I’d keep my ears and eyes open on his behalf.
‘I’m getting to the point where I can’t pay my bills,’ he said. ‘I can’t get credit to buy my stock …’
‘How about a sale?’ I suggested. ‘Why not sell off some older stock?’
‘I have,’ he said. ‘It’s Roberta, you see, she is a partner and she never stops buying clothes for herself. She does need them, you see, for her luncheon clubs and theatre outings and so on, and it’s not fair if I stop the only enjoyment she has in life. She has to be smart, she’s mixing with the right people, you see …’
It’s all right telling a man to be firm with a wife who is ruining him, but it’s a different thing persuading that same man to take positive action. I never knew why Joseph did not take a firmer stance for I’d heard that she demanded a new outfit every month so that she could keep up her social appearances … poor old Joseph. Much of his dilemma was due to his own fault and his weakness with his awful wife, but I could only commiserate with him. Tentatively, I asked whether Roberta might help in the shop, perhaps by selling other lines, baby clothes, for example, or ladies’ wear.
‘Oh, no, she wouldn’t do that, Mr Rhea, not Roberta. She doesn’t believe in women having to work.’
‘But if it’s to save your business, your livelihood
He shook his head. ‘She won’t, I’ve tried that idea. In fact, I think a general clothes shop would go well, but I’d need finance to establish it, and I’d need staff to run it, but can’t afford either.’
Surely Roberta would have worked with him, for no wages, to establish a thriving business and to enable her to continue her desired way of life? But she would not. He was adamant about that. After this chat, there was no doubt in my mind where his problem lay. Over the weeks that followed, I saw him spending longer and longer in the Brewers Arms, not getting drunk because he wasn’t that kind of man. He just wanted relief from her nagging, but then she started ringing the pub. She began nagging at George, the landlord, demanding that he send Joseph home, and when Joseph got home, he was faced with more nagging.
Roberta continued to nag George day in and day out until, whenever poor Joseph went in for a quick half, George would say, ‘Come on, Joseph, don’t spend all night here, I don’t want that wife of yours hogging my telephone and nagging me. Folks come here to get away from nagging.’
Poor old Joseph. There was no escape.
As for Roberta, she continued to strut around the village in her finery, holding her head high and nagging at everyone she met until the end came. Joseph went bankrupt. It was all done quietly with very little noise from Roberta, but his ailing shop closed, and they sold their bungalow. But this did not stop Roberta.
I was to learn that they had moved into York where, according to Roberta, Joseph had become a director of one of the city’s department stores but where, in fact, he was an assistant on the men’s shirt counter.
And she continued to attend her important social functions in the finest of clothes. Looking back, she would have been a fine candidate for the brank or the ducking-stool, and I’m sure plenty of volunteers could have been found to administer that punishment.
Since then, I’ve always felt sorry for the Josephs of this world, but really, who was to blame?
Another case of a nagging wife had a very different outcome. Benjamin Owens was a hill farmer in a fairly small way and his untidy clutch of ramshackle buildings occupied a remote hillside in Rannackdale. Always in need of painting, glazing, tidying-up and general maintenance, his mediocre spread barely earned him a living. He managed to scrape together a few pounds every week by selling milk from his small herd of cows, and by selling eggs, poultry, sheep for mutton and some wool when he sheared his little flock of m
oorland sheep. A tiny patch of land was cultivated and he would sometimes sell turnips, potatoes or cabbages to the local shops. He earned just enough for subsistence; he never bought clothes nor went out socially, except once a month to Eltering Market to sell his stock and to buy more.
Even then, he went in his scruffy old clothes which he’d worn every day for about fifteen years.
Benjamin, who was about sixty-two years old, had farmed at Helm End, Rannackdale, all his life; his parents had run the tiny farm before him and his grandfather before that, so there was no mortgage to worry about. The farm had been handed down from father to son for generations, but Benjamin had no heirs. His massive wife, Kate, who was perhaps a couple of years younger, had never produced a litter, as he once said.
The income from such a small hillside small-holding did not allow luxuries or extras; Benjamin ran a battered old pick-up, an even more battered old tractor and his untidy wife never worried about dusting the house, washing their clothes regularly or doing any form of extra housework. She did the essentials like baking, cooking their meals and some shopping, but little more.
As I got to know them better, I realised they never went anywhere together. Benjamin’s only outing was to Eltering Cattle Mart once a month. The rest of his time was spent at home. Kate, however, did go out once a week. Dressed in her long, scruffy overcoat and black Wellington boots, she caught the bus to Eltering every Friday to do her shopping and seemed to enjoy these trips. She also went to the WI meetings once a month and on special occasions, such as the Anniversary, would visit the chapel high in the dale.
In those early days, I wondered whether they shared a bed, for they seemed to live separate lives, seldom speaking to one another but never fighting. Each got on with his or her own work as they had done for years, and they ate together, their main meal, a hot dinner, being at 12 noon prompt. It was a mutual understanding, a convenient arrangement and neither seemed to mind this form of life.
I saw them once a month when I went to inspect their stock registers, and Kate always produced a mug of hot tea for me, along with a plate of fine home-made scones or rock buns. Benjamin would join us at the kitchen table, we’d discuss business and local matters, and then I’d leave.
I must be honest and say that I never noticed any discord between them but, on reflection, never noticed any warmth in their relationship. They seemed to exist side by side, to live beneath the same roof without any overt problems, but without the love or understanding that one finds in most families.
But, as I grew to know them better, and as I gained the confidence of other local farmers, especially those in Rannackdale, I learned more of the Owens’ way of life.
‘Never slept in t’same bed ever,’ one stalwart informed me. ‘She’s never let him near ’er; poor awd Benjamin’s nivver covered that missus of ’is, nivver. He was a bit of a stallion as a lad, but she’s kept him short. It’s a bit late now, mind, cos t’farm’ll etti be sold up when they’re called up ti yon small-holding in the sky.’
As I was realising I’d never heard of a child of their union, he continued.
‘Ah doubt she’ll produce a lad noo. She’s ovver awd for that sort o’ caper; if she was a coo, they’d have her put doon. She’s neither use nor ornament, if you ask me.’
He was right, because Kate was far from pretty. In fact, she was downright ugly, a large, loose and untidy woman with hairs on her upper lip and a floppy body which seemed to spill at random out of her ill-fitting clothes. Her iron-grey hair was pulled tightly back into a bun behind her head and she had awful teeth, many of which were rotten or missing. I could fully understand why Benjamin had never ‘covered her’ as his colleague so aptly put it.
But Benjamin wasn’t much of a catch either. A wiry fellow with freckles all over his balding head of thin gingery-grey hair, he looked more like a retired jockey than a farmer. Bandy-legged, thin as a lath and often unshaven, he was not the kind of man who would appeal to a woman.
I was to learn also that Kate nagged him. She nagged him about getting more work done about the farm. The poor little fellow seemed to work every hour except those trips to mart, but Kate demanded more. On one occasion when I called, I could hear her lashing him with her tongue.
‘If thoo didn’t spend si much time messing aboot wi’ these coos, you’d have more time ti spend on yon field, growing crops, selling tonnups, cabbages and t’like.’
‘Coos need care,’ he countered. ‘We need coos for t’milk cheque …’
‘That’s a woman’s job, our Benjamin. Coos is for milkmaids, not fellers.’
‘Then you do it.’
‘Nay, Ah’ve enough on what wi’t’ hens and t’house.’
From what I gathered in my rounds, she did nag at him, her chief antic being that whatever he was doing at any particular time, she thought he should be doing something else. If he worked on his sheep, she thought he should be working on the cows; if he was with the cows, he should be in the fields, and if he was in the fields, he ought to be tending his sheep. If he settled down for a rest at night, he ought to be fixing the tractor, and if he was fixing the tractor, he should be tidying the garage.
I understand that poor old Benjamin had tolerated this for years. Her constant irritation had led him never to argue or talk with her, except when it was essential during moments like ‘Pass t’tea pot, will yer?’ or ‘Get us a roll o’ binder twine if you’re in Atkinson’s.’
Then I had a spell doing pig-licence duty at Eltering Cattle Mart and noticed Benjamin with his cronies. He was in a group of farmers of his own age, and was clearly enjoying himself. He noticed me and came across for a word.
‘They’ve let you away from t’missus an’ all, have they?’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.
‘Now, Benjamin,’ I greeted him. ‘Good to see you out and about, getting away from that busy spot of yours. And, yes, they have let me loose for today!’
‘That’s what cattle marts are for, Mr Rhea, to get us fellers away from them wimmin folk. Ah mean to say, we could sell cattle in other ways, but, by gum, it’s a grand way of having a day out.’
‘You’ve left your missis at home then?’ I knew he always came without Kate, but used the phrase to make conversation with him.
‘Aye, she’s better off there. Couldn’t fetch her here, tha knaws. If she saw me standing here, she’d say Ah should be standing ower there, and if Ah was looking at them Red Polls, she’d say Ah should be thinking of Jerseys and if Ah took her into t’Black Swan for a beef sandwich, she’d want to go to t’Golden Lion for a ham sandwich. As things are, Ah can do as Ah like; Ah allus does, mind, cos I don’t let that nagging get to me. It just maks her go on a bit more, but doon here, wiv me mates, I can have a day off nagging.’
‘Enjoy it,’ I smiled.
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Rhea, Ah shall.’
I could appreciate his genuine need to get away from the farm, and then, as I performed more of those market duties, I noticed that Benjamin’s group of market friends included a tall and very attractive blonde girl. She would be about twenty-five years old at the most, and I noticed he spent a good deal of time talking to her.
So fascinating was her style and beauty that most of them were taking a keen interest in her, and I noticed that she attended every mart. My own curiosity was such that I wanted to find out more about her, and the opportunity came through Benjamin himself. He came to my little wooden shed at the mart for a pig-movement licence, saying he thought he’d try a few store pigs for fattening in the hope that the bacon factory would eventually buy them from him.
‘Who’s your friend, Benjamin?’ I asked him, nodding towards the direction of the tall blonde.
He blushed just a fraction when he realised I was speaking particularly of her, then said, ‘Oh, yon’s awd Harry Clemmitt’s lass. Rachel. Fine lass, that. She does all his buying and selling at mart; knows her beasts, she does. Ah gets all my stock from her, Mr Rhea. Knows his breeding stock does Harry Clemmitt, an
d she does, an’ all. You can rely on Harry Clemmitt for good breeding stock.’
‘She’s taken a shine to you!’ I laughed, for she seemed to be very happy in Benjamin’s company, even if their ages and appearances were poles apart.
‘Ah used to be a good ’un at chatting up the wimmin, Mr Rhea,’ he chuckled. ‘Ah reckon Ah’ve lost nowt o’ me touch!’
‘I can see that!’ I said, and he walked off, beaming with pride at his achievement with the girl. But I was not to realise, until some time later, that Benjamin and the girl were considerably more than just good friends. For one thing, they met here regularly and he took her to lunch.
The full realisation came to me about six weeks later when I called at Helm End Farm to make my routine check of the Owens’ stock registers. I went into the untidy kitchen for my customary mug of tea and buttered scone, and was welcomed by Kate. As she fussed over me, the door opened and in walked Benjamin, followed by the tall blonde girl.
‘Morning, Mr Rhea,’ he beamed. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Hello, Benjamin.’ I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl; even when dressed in her rough working-jeans and old smock, she was gorgeous. Her erect bearing, long blonde hair, smooth skin and lovely features were so out of place here. I could even visualise her on the catwalk of a fashion show, such was her elegance and stylishly slender build.
‘This is Rachel,’ he introduced her. ‘My new milkmaid.’
‘Milkmaid?’ I said, puzzled.
‘Aye, Kate said coos were wimmin’s work, and cos she wouldn’t take ’em on, Ah thought Ah’d better get a milkmaid. Rachel here knows about coos and got a bit sick o’ working on her dad’s farm, so I’ve takken her on. She sleeps in, Mr Rhea, so she’s part of t’family now.’
‘Hello, Rachel,’ I said to the milkmaid.
‘Hello, Mr Rhea,’ she said, moving sensually across to the cupboard for a jug of milk for our tea.
It was impossible to guess what was going through Kate’s mind at this time, but I think she felt this stunning girl would never be interested in her thin, scruffy and ageing husband. But Kate was wrong.
Constable Through the Meadow Page 11
