Bobby on the Beat

by Pamela Rhodes

  ‘Thanks, constable. We’ll take over now,’ said one of the officers who got out. ‘You seem to have handled it all very well anyway. Anything we should know about?’

  He had an official and brisk air about him, as though he did this kind of thing as easily as brushing his teeth.

  ‘I patched up a few cuts and bruises, but the lady over there probably needs to get to a hospital. She’s expecting. A bit shaken up. Cut on her head.’

  ‘I saw the whole thing, officer. That’s my lorry back there,’ said the British Road Services lorry driver, edging his way forward eagerly.

  ‘Very good. If you could stay that would be great,’ he said to the lorry driver, then turned to me and Bill. ‘Right. We’ll start taking measurements and notes then. You’ve been very helpful. Lucky you were here. But we can take over. You should get back to your station.’

  Bill and I got back into the car as the Durham officers began surveying the scene. We drove back in surprised silence most of the way home, leaving the wreckage behind us. I was thinking about the people in the cars, wondering who they all were, and how fate had brought them all together like that, at the side of the road. This car fad, I thought, was proving dangerous.

  On the road behind the police station in Richmond was a racing stables. That’s something you don’t see much in town centres any more. One morning, as I walked up Goal Bank past the stables, I stopped to look at the racehorses for a moment. They stamped their feet and snorted, their glossy coats shining in the sun.

  ‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ Sergeant Hardcastle came up behind me on his way into the station.

  ‘Yes. So big. Do you think they’re happy in there?’

  ‘Well. Perhaps they’d prefer to be wild on the moors. Who knows? But they look well kept enough. And they don’t have to look far for food and a bed.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  One of the horses snorted again, as though in answer, though I wasn’t sure what his answer actually was.

  ‘Oh, by the way, I’m glad I saw you. We’ve had a call from Startforth station. About a young girl who’s a funny shape – unusually big, you know, for her age. Only thirteen years old. They’ve asked us to go and take a look.’

  ‘Oh? What’s the problem then?’

  ‘Between you and me, we think she might be pregnant, but we can’t speculate. I need you to come with me to see the family.’

  We took the car that afternoon and drove out to Bowes, which was just about in our area. We were driving through a winding country lane when we heard a clanking and ringing of bells from just ahead of us. A large red fire engine came round the corner.

  ‘Someone’s left toast under the grill or something!’ said Hardcastle, as he swerved to make way. The engine just about squeezed past, and the fireman gave us a wave from his cabin as he sped on.

  ‘So what happened with this girl then?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re not sure yet. That’s what we’ve to find out from Mrs Dixon, that’s the mother. Not sure what she knows.’

  We passed the village sign and drove into Bowes, past a small church and a little post office on the corner.

  ‘Here it is. The one with the yellow door, they said.’

  It was a quiet village that looked straight out of the seventeenth century. Picturesque cottages with thatched roofs, hardly a car in sight. It looked as though no one was actually living here and it was just a model village or the picture on a biscuit tin. But as we walked up the Dixons’ path and to the yellow front door, I did see a couple of curtains twitching in neighbouring front rooms, as the locals kept a beady eye on us. When she opened the door, the woman looked genuinely surprised to see the police on her doorstep.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out, Mrs Dixon,’ said the Sergeant.

  ‘Oh? Well, in you come, then. Sorry, I would have tidied if I’d known. Or made cake.’

  ‘Not at all. We’re just here to do our business. No need for any fuss.’

  ‘Well, let me get you a cup of tea at least.’

  She came back a few minutes later with a large tray covered in tea and biscuits. As she sat back down, I could see she was on edge, fiddling with a chain round her neck.

  ‘It’s a matter of some sensitivity, Mrs Dixon,’ the Sergeant began. ‘We wanted to talk to you and your daughter about some rumours. Have you heard any rumours? About your daughter?’

  ‘What about my daughter?’

  ‘Why she’s … larger than usual?’

  I was beginning to wonder how many ways the Sergeant would come up with of broaching the difficult subject.

  ‘What!’ She nearly spat out her tea. Then she laughed a little. ‘Larger than usual? It’s puppy fat. Is that really a police matter? With all due respect, Sergeant.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Mrs Dixon collected herself and began sipping her tea again. The door creaked slightly as a young girl in a pretty blue dress walked into the room. She was small for her age, but with a chubby face and a small pot-belly visible through the dress.

  ‘Here she is. Bella, love, come and sit here, would you?’

  ‘Hello, Bella,’ I said.

  She looked back at us slightly stunned, then a little sulky, then at her mother for an explanation.

  ‘We just want to ask the girl some questions, Mrs Dixon, if you’ll permit that?’

  ‘What? I really don’t understand what this is all about. Why do you want to talk to my daughter? You can see she’s just a child.’

  ‘That’s exactly the reason we need to talk to her. I think it might be best if you and I leave the room, just for a moment, while PC Rhodes here has a chat with your daughter.’

  ‘Well, I’ll put the kettle on again then, I suppose, if you like, but …’ Mrs Dixon got up reluctantly, and left Bella with me in the living room.

  We sat there in silence for a while. I wasn’t sure what to ask.

  ‘Can you tell me who your friends are, at school? Do you have many friends?’

  ‘My best friend is Lucy Trotter. And Charlotte. I used to be friends with Maureen Barts but she … we don’t get on any more,’ she said.

  ‘Any friends who are boys?’ I asked brightly.

  She reddened. ‘Why? I mean … I suppose. What’s … ? There’s Tom Griffin, and Roger – I don’t know his surname. He’s older.’

  ‘And did you do anything with any of these boys?’

  ‘No!’ she said quickly.

  Silence.

  Then she said, ‘Well … we did try it out once. The birds and the bees thing, that we learnt in class.’

  She seemed to be relaxing a little now that Sergeant Hardcastle was out of the room.

  ‘Really. What did that involve?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that. We tried it out. What we learnt in Mrs Jones’s class.’

  I had never faced a situation like this, with a child, talking about such a subject. I wondered who was more embarrassed: her or me. I put my hat to one side and took out my statement sheet. She just stared back at me with enormous blue eyes, and fiddled with an ornament in the shape of a horse that was sitting on the table.

  ‘So you have a few friends who are boys, then?’

  ‘Yes. We all do,’ she said, her elbows on the table. She looked a little bored now.

  ‘Tell me more about when you tried it out. The birds and the bees. What exactly did you try?’

  ‘We tried it out,’ she said again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It. You know. What they told us. In the shed.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Mrs Jones. She showed us pictures of how to do it. So some of us, we tried it out.’ Then she looked a bit cross at having to sit here and talk about all this, and clammed up again.

  ‘Can you tell me what you tried out, exactly?’

  She paused for a while, and looked up, then back at me. ‘It wasn’t for long. Just to see. You know. What it was like. It was horrible, anyway. It hurt when the b
oys, when Roger and …’

  ‘Who was there while you tried it out? Just you and … Roger, is it?’

  ‘Oh no. There were a few of us. Me and Charlotte and three boys. Roger, he’s fourteen. The others were in my class. It was during the dinner hour, in the shed. I didn’t think anything bad would happen.’

  ‘Did anyone make you do it, Bella?’

  ‘No. We all decided. It was funny … at first. Then … not very nice. Then later I was sick. I thought I was just ill. I thought I was just getting fat. Puppy fat, Mam said. You’ll have to tell, won’t you then, if I’m going to have a real live baby?’

  ‘Well, let’s wait and see, shall we? What the doctors say.’

  After I had finished talking to the girl, I read her statement back to her.

  ‘Anything you want to add or change?’ I asked.

  She sighed and looked at me.

  ‘No. That’s all.’

  I opened the door and ushered her mother and the Sergeant back in.

  ‘We’ve had a little talk, and I’m sure she’ll tell you what happened at the school. Won’t you, Bella?’

  Mrs Dixon sat back, bewildered, as her daughter told her what had happened in the school shed. She’d really had no idea why we were questioning her daughter.

  ‘And so I think I might be having a baby, Mam,’ said Bella finally.

  Her mother was so shocked she couldn’t speak, and looked as though she wanted to burst into tears and hug the girl all at the same time. We told Mrs Dixon it was up to her what they did next, and she said she’d take her to the doctors first thing in the morning, to confirm things either way.

  It would be up to her whether to press charges in court, but most likely the lad who was fourteen would be held responsible as the others were younger. Bella would have to have the baby, as abortion was against the law, but of course they’d never know for sure who the father was.

  We left the Dixons’ house and got in the car. ‘A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, eh, Rhodes?’ said Sergeant Hardcastle.

  I noticed the curtains twitching again as the police car pulled away from the sleepy village of Bowes.

  11

  It was all change at Richmond. Jeanette was leaving, off to get married to her new soldier boyfriend. I hadn’t seen much of her, really, and would hardly notice she was gone. We also had a new addition to the station, a police cadet called Charles. He was a tall seventeen-year-old lad, fresh-faced and keen as mustard. He would help out in the office, and was learning what he could from Sergeant Shaw, with a view to joining the police himself when he was old enough.

  ‘Shaw’s got something for you. He asked me to give it to you,’ said Charles as I walked into the office one day.

  ‘Oh, hello. Running the station now, are you?’

  ‘No.’ He looked a little hurt. ‘Just trying to help.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m joking. What is it then?’

  ‘Oh … umm …’ He fumbled about on the desk for a while. ‘I had it here. Oh yes, an address. You’re to go and tell a lady her father died. Sounds grim. Last night, in his sleep.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sad.’

  ‘The lady’s address was in the occurrence book. She hasn’t got a phone. So you have to go round there personally, Sergeant Shaw says.’

  I took the address from Charles and headed out. This was a new one for me. I’d never delivered a message like this before. I rehearsed it in my head all the way there. How should I start?

  ‘I’m so sorry to say …’ That was such a cliché. I didn’t want to sound too sad, right from the off, that would worry her. How about, ‘I have some news for you. You might want to sit down’? No, too foreboding. Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something, I told myself.

  Eventually I found the place, number 37, up a narrow alley near the marketplace. I knocked and a woman peeped cautiously round the door, her hair in curlers.

  ‘Mrs Jackson?’ I asked, looking down at the name scribbled on the piece of paper.

  ‘Yes. That’s me,’ she said, opening the door wider.

  ‘I have some news for you. Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course. I don’t get many visitors. That’s why I’m always a bit, you know, careful.’ She smiled. ‘Is everything OK?’

  I had tried not to put too much gravity in my voice, so I could get her seated and comfortable before letting her know the tragic news, but now she had put me on the spot.

  ‘Yes. Well, no, I mean. Let’s sit down, shall we?’

  We walked through a dingy hallway, which looked like nothing had changed there in at least fifty years. The skirting was thick with dust, and there was dark wallpaper with sooty roses on it all along the hall. There was a rich musty odour pervading the place, it smelled to me like a combination of sweetcorn and stale cabbage.

  ‘Let’s sit at the table. Can I get you anything? Tea?’

  ‘No, don’t trouble yourself. Really.’

  ‘I insist.’

  She clattered out into the kitchen and I sat at the table in the small living room, opposite an enormous grandfather clock. When it got to twelve it started to chime loudly, and made me jump almost out of my seat.

  ‘Sorry about that!’ she called through the hatch in the wall. ‘I’m used to it now. It is a bit loud, though, in’t it?’

  Finally, she came back with a tray covered in doilies, with cups, a milk jug and sugar pot and all manner of biscuits, which looked as though they may have been sitting in the kitchen for quite some time. She set the offerings down in front of me and sat down.

  ‘Help yourself. God knows I can never eat it all myself. I buy it and then I don’t get many visitors so … anyway, how can I help? I haven’t been robbing banks in my sleep again, I hope. Only joking.’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ I laughed, then recomposed myself, remembering the seriousness of the situation. ‘Nothing like that. I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m afraid …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Your father,’ I began, taking on the hushed reverential tone I felt most befitted the situation.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Yes. He died. Suddenly. I’m so sorry.’

  I pulled out a hankie from my pocket in readiness for an outburst of grief. But none came. I was just met with a very confused look from Mrs Jackson.

  ‘What, and they’ve only just sent you now to tell me? Well I never.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. We only found out ourselves this morning. I came as soon as I could. I’m really terribly sorry for your loss.’

  I was surprised that she didn’t seem that upset, or even shocked. She paused for a moment and poured out some more tea. This ceremonial event took some time, as she held it at a great height over the strainer and watched it flowing into the cup.

  ‘You get the best flavour this way,’ she said seriously. ‘No one ever believes me, but you do.’

  When this was done, I thought she might show some grief, but instead she spent another few moments selecting a biscuit, picking one up and examining it, before replacing it and moving onto another. She even sniffed one. Perhaps she’s in denial, or shock, I thought. It must be hard to face such tragedy.

  Finally she made her selection, then dunked the biscuit right to the bottom of her tea cup and shook it about a bit.

  ‘I mean, after all. He died five years ago.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll never forget it. October 22nd, 1947. Bill found him. Oh, it was awful. His face was all twisted up, poor love. He’d fallen, you know. From his stepladder. I always did tell him not to try to fix things himself, at his age, but would he listen? And then he lay there for hours, still clutching the screwdriver in his hand, like a little claw. All for a lightbulb. He’d had a heart attack, hadn’t he? Right there on the floor. It was awful. We buried him up at St Margaret’s. Over a hundred people, you know. So he had a good send-off, anyway.’

  She looked up with a few tears in her eyes at the memory of it.

  ‘Why, you pol
ice are a bit slow on the uptake, aren’t you? Only coming round to break the news to me now, five years after the fact.’

  ‘But you are Mrs Jackson, though, aren’t you? Number 37 Tanner Street? I have it here in writing, that he was found at his home last night. A stroke, they suspect. Died in his sleep.’

  ‘Oh, dear, dear. Oh no, this is awful. This is 37a. 37’s next door. Bob, that’s my husband’s brother, he lives there with his wife, Dora. She’s Mrs Jackson too. Poor Dora. So old Jack’s passed now, has he? She’ll be devastated, poor love. She was always was his little girl.’

  ‘Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry.’ I stood up and went to put my hat on, knocking my tea cup over in the process.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll clean that up. You sit down. Finish your biscuit. Then you can go and break the news to poor Dora. You’ve had a bit of practice now, haven’t you?’

  I sat back, dazed, ate the biscuit as quickly as I possibly and politely could, before heading next door to repeat the whole scene again. Only this time, I made sure I had the right Mrs Jackson.

  It was a week of letters. First we had received a letter from Durham, to thank us for helping with the road accident. Then there was another one that my landlady stood waving at me when I came in after an evening shift.

  ‘It looks like a man’s writing. All small and twisty, if you know what I mean,’ said Caroline, with a sly smile, as we sat down. ‘Anyone nice?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘Oh. You know. Anyway, how was your day?’

  ‘Oh, fine. The girls are in the school play, so they’re rehearsing tonight. Katy is to play Juliet. We’re so excited. And little Lily, she’s playing Mercutio. Can you imagine? There aren’t enough boys to fill all the parts. She’s quite a good little actress, actually. How about you? Arrested anyone today?’