Bobby on the Beat

by Pamela Rhodes

  ‘I don’t know anything about anything, you know. They rang and told me you were coming, but we’re just getting on with our lives. We don’t need anyone poking their noses in.’

  ‘Let’s start at the beginning then, shall we?’ said Hardcastle gently. ‘Get a few things clear?’

  As we sat down, I noticed that the room was adorned with all kind of exotic ornaments, such as carved elephants and statues.

  ‘We’re here because someone … at the school …’

  ‘I know who it is and she’s a liar,’ Mrs Taylor interrupted. ‘She never stops …’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say who it is. But what I can say is that we have had some very serious allegations, concerning your daughter, Elizabeth Jane. Can you tell me where your husband is, Mrs Taylor?’

  ‘He’s not here. We haven’t seen him in years. I don’t know what these “allegations” are, but we haven’t seen him … the girls wouldn’t know him from Adam.’

  ‘Well our – person – says they’ve heard a very serious rumour at the girls’ school that he – that is your husband – and Elizabeth Jane, here, have been involved in acts of a … sexual nature. Do you have anything to say about that, Mrs Taylor? Might the girls have been talking about something like that at school? Were you aware of anything like that going on in your house?’

  ‘He was so kind to us all, me and the girls. When we were in India. I owed him a … favour and …’

  ‘India?’

  ‘My husband was in the army out there. Hadn’t been home for years. We thought he was dead. You can’t imagine what it was like. The waiting. I spent months looking for him. Asking everywhere I could. And those mosquitos …’ She shivered and looked around distractedly for a moment. ‘Big grey hulking things that would bite the flesh off you soon as look at you …’ She broke off.

  After a while she looked down at her lap. ‘I was lonely …’

  ‘Very well. So, your husband and your family moved to India, then?’

  ‘No, well not exactly, we went to look for him, as I say. But we hadn’t heard from him for years. His regiment hadn’t seen him either. Thought he must have gone AWOL. Said he went on a trip into the mountains and never came back. That’s when I met Clive.’

  ‘Clive?’ asked Hardcastle, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Jessica’s father. They’re only half-sisters …’

  She paused for a moment and then commenced with a torrent of explanation, almost as if she was quite relieved to have someone to tell.

  ‘We got this boat, don’t know what it was carrying, big boxes everywhere. Clive managed to get us a place. He said he would help us find Derek. Through the Embassy. I know it’s mad, now. But we all got terribly sick. For weeks Elizabeth Jane had a fever. At one point I thought we’d lose her, she was that grey. Eyes all sunken. Clive never left her side. He was good …’

  The woman looked like she might break down then managed to pull herself together again.

  ‘I was so grateful for all he’d done for me. For us. And I was … pregnant by then. There was no going back. He asked me to marry him, didn’t he? Well, he had to. Then little Jessie was born. She looked so like him. It was fine for a while. Five years, it was fine. Then last month he left a note: “It’s gone too far. I can’t go on,” it said. And when I came back from work that day, he was gone.’

  At this, the woman finally did start to cry, a sort of silent sob, but Hardcastle continued, unmoved.

  ‘So you married this … Clive. But did you get a divorce from your husband, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘Well, we thought he was dead, didn’t we? But then I got a letter. I hid it from Clive. I burnt it in the end. Why shouldn’t I? He’d left us. Turned out he’d been found halfstarved up a mountain or something, living with some monks. So skinny they hardly recognized him.’

  In that moment it dawned on me that this had suddenly gone from a case of incest to indecent assault, because the man wasn’t the child’s father after all, and now there was bigamy too.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid this takes us into some very awkward territory indeed,’ said Hardcastle, also clearly a little flustered by this sudden turn of events.

  ‘Clive loved that girl like a daughter. He wouldn’t hurt her. He cared for us. All of us.’

  Just then there was a creak and we all looked round. The two girls stood in the doorway. I wondered if they had been listening the whole time. There was a mix of what I can only describe as fear and pity on their faces as they looked back at their mother. Had Clive really been just a doting stepfather?

  Mrs Taylor went over to the girls and knelt down, clasping both their hands. Then Elizabeth Jane started to speak directly to her mother.

  ‘He would come into my bedroom, Mam. Didn’t you know? Sometimes if we was in the bath … at first it was friendly … he’d play ducks with us. But then … Did I do wrong? I didn’t know what to do, Mam. I’m sorry …’

  For a good few minutes, although it felt like longer, nobody spoke, and I sat slightly awkwardly on the sofa not sure what to do. The investigation suddenly seemed to have taken on a life of its own. Finally, Sergeant Hardcastle coughed.

  ‘This is very serious, Mrs Taylor. Young Elizabeth may have to testify in court. And this bigamy situation throws everything up in the air, of course.’

  I took down a statement from Mrs Taylor when the questioning was finished, but after that she didn’t move, just sat there and held onto her daughters. We seemed to have disappeared from their world at that moment, become insignificant as the horrible realization of what had happened to their family finally sunk in.

  When I got home that night, my landlady, Janet, was stirring a huge pot of chicken stew for us all. I gave her my ration coupons for food every week so there would be enough food for all of us. Her husband, Don, came in from work, and the two children, Michael and Fiona, scrubbed their hands for dinner. As we sat together eating, Janet asked the children what they’d been doing at school and they chattered away excitedly. I was quiet about my day; inside I was thinking how lucky they were to be able to do the simplest of things like sit round and eat dinner together.

  I worked hard at Richmond, but I did have some time off. I worked seven days and would then have the eighth day off. And if I worked the early shift, from five forty-five a.m. until two p.m. I had the afternoon off. I could also take time off for church. ‘Standing Orders’ said that PCs were to be allowed to go to services. It was hoped that senior officers would set the example. I’d stay an hour later on those Sundays to make up the time.

  St Francis’s Roman Catholic church was a tiny medieval building, with a beautiful carved wooden altarpiece. The whole place seemed very ancient and mystical, and there was always a strong smell of incense.

  Father Reilly, the priest, was a quiet man with a small pointy face and round spectacles. His voice barely rose above a whisper and his sermons were often more philosophical than religious, rambling on in all different directions.

  ‘Each second has equal weight. As a bird flutters from branch to branch, beak darting for the next insect …’ He raised his hands, as if offering the birds some food, and pursed his lips thoughtfully, looking up into the rafters for inspiration, ‘so as Man’s thoughts on earth flutter from moment to moment. But, hear this. No moment is worth more than the next.’

  He paused again and looked up at the stained-glass window, which depicted some scenes from the New Testament. Someone coughed and then a baby began to cry.

  ‘Heaven is here on earth. We are not waiting for the next life. The next life is with us already, in each second. Look outwards, as does the bird, and see Heaven in all things. HEAVEN IN ALL THINGS!’ he shouted suddenly, staring out at the congregation.

  The front row of ladies, who had nodded off at various angles onto each other’s shoulders, all woke simultaneously with a start. One even let out a small snort.

  ‘If you can actually follow what he says it can be quite enlightening,’ whispered a woman to me after t
he service had ended. I had never seen her before and we were walking towards the door, out into the morning sunlight.

  ‘Yes. Very different from our priest at home, who was much more straight down the line, if you know what I mean,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, where’s home?’

  ‘Scarborough. Are you from Richmond?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I grew up here. I’m a teacher. We both are, actually, at the convent school. This is Eleanor,’ she said, introducing another woman walking beside her. ‘And I’m Gertie.’

  Father Reilly was outside the church, shaking hands and saying soft, holy things to the congregation, which was mostly made up of elderly ladies who wanted a bit of comfort and conversation.

  ‘What brings you to Richmond, then? I haven’t seen you in church before.’

  ‘I’m over at the station. Police station. This is my first posting.’

  ‘Gosh. How exciting! I didn’t know they had girls in the police now. Times are changing, aren’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they are,’ I said.

  As I watched Father Reilly shaking all those hands, I wondered whether times would change so much that one day we might have women priests too. Before we left, I arranged to meet up with Gertie and Eleanor again, for a cup of tea at Philpot’s Tea Rooms in town. It would be nice to make some friends since I didn’t have all that much opportunity for socializing with people at the station.

  As I made my way back from work to my digs that evening, Ben Carter and George, another PC, were standing opposite the gents public toilets. They were dressed in civvies, chatting together and looking about to see who walked past. I didn’t recognize them at first in their normal clothes.

  I waved hello to them and nipped quickly into the ladies on the other side. On my beats I would occasionally come in and check under the toilet doors there were no dead bodies or anything so I thought I might as well check now too. When I came out I wandered over to the lads to say hello properly.

  ‘We’ve got a sink in our toilets now,’ I said. ‘I think they should do that everywhere.’ This public convenience was the only one in town with a sink to wash your hands in.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said George. ‘What do you want sinks everywhere for?’

  ‘What are you doing hanging around here, anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘Checking the gents,’ said Ben, nodding towards the door. ‘You get all sorts here now. Up to all sorts an’ all.’

  ‘What kind of all sorts? Drunks?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ laughed Ben and he looked at George conspiratorially.

  ‘Well, the gents is a favourite place to meet other … you know, gents of that … persuasion, isn’t it?’ said George cryptically.

  Just then, a tall man in a brown suit, carrying a briefcase, walked past us and into the toilets. He looked this way and that before entering.

  ‘Keep an eye on him. He’s got that look about him,’ Ben said.

  Another man walked in quickly afterwards. He had a neat moustache and slicked back hair in the style of Ivor Novello.

  ‘Ah, here we go,’ said Ben, standing upright and making as if to enter the toilets after them. But before they would have had time to do anything, the man in the brown suit was already out.

  ‘Maybe not,’ said George. ‘But you never know. They’re everywhere these days. Got to be on guard.’

  I never did knowingly encounter any gay people in Richmond. In those days it was a criminal offence to have any hanky-panky, so I’m sure if there were any in town they took good care to hide it from the likes of us.

  One of the most popular forms of entertainment in Richmond was the pictures. I often walked past the little cinema after finishing my shift at ten p.m. I would hear the strains of ‘God Save the King’, as the anthem was played at the end of the picture. The audience all stood up while it played, then the crowds would come streaming out, chattering about the latest cowboy film, or who was the new heartthrob in Hollywood.

  There were a few pubs in town as well, which were frequented by the troops from Catterick Garrison at the weekends and locals during the week. One evening, Sergeant Cleese, who was the duty sergeant when Hardcastle was off-duty, asked me to go with him to check for underage drinkers. As we walked into The Golden Lion the place was thick with smoke. In the bar, some local traders, Mr Parry the butcher and Welsh Bob the shoemaker, were discussing the news over pints of thick stout.

  ‘Good evening, officers,’ said Welsh Bob. ‘Have you seen anything tonight then?’

  ‘Evening, lads,’ said Cleese. ‘No, it’s been a quiet night, thank the Lord.’

  ‘And who’s this, then? Have we a lady constable at the station now?’

  ‘Yes. This is WPC Rhodes.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

  We continued on round the pub and went over to the landlord, Mr Groat, who was cleaning some glasses.

  ‘No trouble tonight then?’ asked Cleese.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Well, only if you count being bored to tears by this lot.’ He motioned towards Welsh Bob and Mr Parry, busy setting the world to rights as they tucked into their pints.

  Over in the corner, a group of elderly men sat playing dominoes, serious expressions on their faces. I checked to see whether they were playing for money, as gambling in pubs was illegal, but they didn’t seem to be. Satisfied there were no underage drinkers – in fact, there was no one under the age of about sixty – we left the pub and walked back towards the station.

  Although there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment in Richmond itself, at nearby Catterick Garrison there was a dance every Friday night, in the main hall of the barracks. After the week I’d had, I needed a break. I wouldn’t dream of going on my own, but I met up with Gertie and Eleanor, the teachers I had met at church, and they invited me to go along with them.

  All the lads in the station were either engaged or married, so I hadn’t come across many eligible bachelors. To be honest, I wasn’t that bothered for the time being, as I was so absorbed in my new job. But it would have been pleasant to have a nice young man to go to the cinema with once in a while, or just to have a laugh with. It would be exciting going to the dance, anyway, and a bit more lively than staying in at my landlady’s house and watching her darn her husband’s socks, which she seemed to do most evenings.

  I was on earlies that week, so Gertie, Eleanor and I decided to meet when they had finished school. We got dolled up for the evening ahead in my little box room.

  ‘Better to conceal than reveal, they always say,’ said Gertie, as we got ready. Then she laughed and pulled out a lovely long cotton dress, with sleeves, but which fluttered around elegantly.

  ‘Ooh, you’ll look lovely in that,’ I said.

  ‘A man only respects a woman as much as she respects herself,’ said Eleanor.

  I had two dresses with me, one turquoise and one royal blue. I went for the turquoise, which had a nice close cut. We curled our hair and put on some new sheer stockings that Eleanor had got hold of, through her mam who worked in a clothes shop. We didn’t wear much make-up, but Gertie did have a bit of pale pink lipstick, which added the final touches.

  ‘Have you been up here much then?’ I asked the girls as the bus clattered out of town.

  ‘A few times. It’s always a good laugh. And besides, I’m keen to find myself a nice lad before anyone can call me an old maid,’ laughed Gertie. ‘And this is the best chance around here.’

  ‘I’ve been once before,’ said Eleanor. ‘An oaf of a man trod on my foot and then another one spilled his drink over me. So I’m hoping it’s third time lucky tonight, and I might meet a nice one this time!’

  It was dark by the time we reached the lane up to the barracks. Autumn leaves had scattered and settled across the road, making everything quite slippery, and chestnuts had begun to fall. I caught sight of my reflection in the bus window, light brown hair in a burst of curls, blue eyes and light pink lipstick. I hoped I might catch someone’s eye at le
ast. But I wasn’t too bothered really. It was just nice to get out.

  As we walked up to the path there was a guard at the gate, and men in uniform walking all around, all with their regulation short haircuts. The atmosphere reminded me in a funny way of Bruche, except that it was a lot bigger, and there were military vehicles and tanks parked along the main road and barbed wire everywhere.

  When we got to the hall, there was an actual band, playing a military two-step. On stage, the band leader, in a suit and dickie-bow, was conducting some brass and strings, a drummer at the back. He was very short, with huge glasses and thick black hair like one of the Marx Brothers. At intervals, he would take the microphone and make some jokes, which got the crowd onside. As he conducted, his hair rose higher and higher with enthusiasm; at times, the music got so fast the dancers struggled to keep up and just broke down laughing.

  The next number was a high-energy jitterbug. I was about to turn to the girls, thinking about getting a drink first, when a tall young soldier appeared out of nowhere and took my arm.

  ‘You look like you need a dance,’ he said, grinning. He had a southern accent.

  ‘Well … I … I only just got here …’ I said, and looked back for Gertie and Eleanor. But they were already chatting to two other lads, so I thought what the heck, and, before I could say another word, I was whizzing around the floor.

  The brass band was playing a strong dance rhythm and the lad was a wonderful mover. I hardly had to think as he guided me this way and that, every now and again throwing in a twirl. I flung my head back and saw the other dancers in a blur around me. Then the band went very quiet, and all the dancers crouched low and close to the ground. As the music got louder and louder, we all rose up gradually and moved our arms about in time to the music, until the brass kicked in again and we twirled around in pairs again, laughing. The whole thing was quite different from the more formal, restrained dances at Bruche, with Inspector Merriweather and Sergeant Thompson keeping their eagle eyes on us.

  When the music finished we all clapped, and I realized I had completely lost Gertie and Eleanor. I was now on the other side of the hall among lots of soldiers and women I didn’t recognize.