At the door, Randolph Burley, the local auctioneer, hailed me and took our money.
‘I didn’t know you were a whist man, Mr Rhea,’ he said.
‘I’m not.’ I decided to play down my past experience. ‘But this is Dave, an old school friend. We used to play a bit on the train, on our way to school, so we thought we’d revive a few memories tonight.’
‘It’s a big night,’ he said solemnly. ‘There’s a lot at stake — it’s Steel Cup night.’
Joe Steel was the village shopkeeper and had donated the Steel Cup; it was to be won by the most successful partnership over the past year, and tonight two teams were competing for it. Each team had won on five occasions over the year; in twelve partnership drives, each had won five times. There’d been a stray winning team last November, thus ensuring a cliff-hanging finale. Tonight, the twelfth and last drive in the series, was the deciding match. Now two teams were drawing, but if neither of them won tonight the cup would be held over and they’d all have to start again next year. But some felt there would be a clear winner.
‘It’ll be Mr and Mrs Dunstone,’ said Randolph. ‘I reckon they’ve the edge on John and Mary Potter. It’s a full house. Folks have come from far enough, so we’ve put out extra tables.’
And so we paid our entrance fees, obtained our score cards and entered the throng.
The gleaming silver Steel Cup stood on a table on the stage, and there was an array of other lesser prizes for tonight’s game. A lot of the players raised their eyebrows at the sight of me among the tables and I’m sure they wondered what on earth I and the unknown man were doing there. In fact, Dave did look rather like a policeman and I’m sure they thought we were undercover constables on the look-out for cheats, this being such an auspicious occasion.
Dave and I did lose a few hands, but it was astonishing how the cards fell; we got some very good hands and we found that our past skills had not deserted us. If we weren’t careful, this might be an embarrassingly successful evening.
It was.
We won.
In fact, we won handsomely, with me coming away with a bottle of malt whisky and Dave winning a box of groceries. But we had scuppered the Steel Cup. For the Dunstones and the Potters, the outcome remained a draw and they would have to start all over again next year.
In the days that followed, I found that I received a very cool reception from certain villagers; the warmth I’d experienced in the past had quickly evaporated and I wondered what I had done wrong. I hadn’t arrested anyone for a trivial matter, I hadn’t upset anyone that I could recall and neither had Mary … I puzzled over this for a day or two and mentioned it to Mary.
She said I was imagining things, but I knew I was not; the current state of chilliness was real enough. There was definitely a new air of disdain towards the village constable in Aidensfield and district.
It was Randolph who enlightened me.
‘They weren’t at all happy about you and your pal winning that night,’ he said. ‘That’s upset the regulars, Mr Rhea. No stranger ever comes in and wins like that, not even in a partner drive. And you’re a stranger at whist-drives, not being a regular attender. You weren’t supposed to win, Mr Rhea, with all due respect. Worse still, you and your pal stopped the Dunstones or mebbe the Potters winning that cup … They said Mrs Dunstone was in tears afterwards — it would have been the culmination of a year’s work for her and Alfred.’
I didn’t know how to react or what to say. We’d played fairly and won fairly.
‘We just went for a bit of fun, Randolph,’ I told him. ‘We didn’t go to win or to deny anyone a cup or anything. We didn’t even know about the contest till we got there.’
‘Those players didn’t see it like that,’ he spoke solemnly. ‘They reckoned you’d come in deliberately. Some said you were skilled whist men, you and that other chap, the way you played. They reckoned you were not beginners …’
‘We played as school kids,’ I told him, and explained why we had decided to attend. Then I asked, ‘So, how can I make amends?’
‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Forget it, they’ll get over it. They start again next month, another year of couples aiming for the Steel Cup. It has to be won outright, you see. It’s not given for draws.’
I went home and told Mary, but she said it was all my fault for inviting Dave. ‘You might have known you and he would cause trouble. Think of all those folks you beat as kids …’
I thought about it and when I saw the following month’s posters advertising the next partner drive, I called Dave. He was still staying with his parents in England and when I invited him over to Aidensfield to take part in another partner drive, he was delighted.
‘My mother was pleased with those groceries,’ he said.
‘This time, it’s not to win,’ I cautioned him. ‘I must let them beat me, they’re not talking to me …’ And I told the sorry tale.
‘You’re joking?’
‘I’m not — just you come and see the reception we get if we go into the Steel Cup this time …’
He came, as I knew he would. A frosty reception greeted us, but when we played hopelessly and lost game after game, the frostiness began to evaporate and the players, especially the Dunstones and Potters, began to smile. They nodded to one another with knowing grins … these two men were not real players … last time, it had just been luck …
I could almost read their minds. I must say that Dave and I played magnificently. It was probably the finest partnership whist that we’d ever played, for we lost game after game most handsomely. We believed we’d played with extraordinary skill — I know the others thought we played like idiots and that our earlier win had been nothing more than a flash-in-the-pan. When I went to collect the wooden spoon on behalf of Dave and I, for achieving the lowest score of the night, I heard an old-stager say in a loud whisper.
‘That’ll teach ’em not to play whist against them who can play proper, them what really knows their cards!’
I smiled but decided I wouldn’t show him my bottom deal or my range of false shuffles. Next day, the warmth had returned.
Indeed, a few whist fanatics invited me along to future drives, saying they’d teach me how to play properly if I was really interested, but I declined. ‘It’s far too complicated for me,’ I said.
The wooden spoon was a most useful asset in our kitchen.
*
I’m sure one of our poets has said that love is a form of lottery, and when one learns how couples meet it seems it can be argued either that their meeting comes about through sheer lot or chance or that there is some other unknown power which brings them together. When I was a lad deep in the North York Moors, a high percentage of romances began through chance meetings at village dances which were always held in draughty halls.
The girls, like the wallflowers that many became, sat along one side of the hall while the youths stood at the other side, no shy youth daring to walk across that expanse of deserted floor to select a dancing companion. As the band, sometimes comprising only a fiddle and a piano, played waltzes, foxtrots, military two-steps and dashing white sergeants, so the lads tried to pluck up the necessary courage to ask a girl to dance. To do so meant a lonely walk across no man’s land before the assembled audience, and that walk demanded courage of a very high order, especially if there was a likelihood that the girl would refuse the honour of dancing with such a noble fellow.
As a consequence, there were many occasions when the band played their entire repertoire for a particular dance and no one actually took to the floor. But the proverbial ice was usually broken when some youths, having obtained artificial courage at the pub, arrived to whirl the girls around to screams of delight. At this, the shy lads would respond and rush to the rescue of maidens whom they believed to be in distress.
One youth who was more shy than most was Geoffrey Stafford with whom I went to school. We were friends, but not close friends; perhaps a better word would be acquaintances for we ne
ver went around together as pals. But, like me, Geoffrey joined the police service and so, from time to time, I would come across him during my duties.
Geoff was memorable for several reasons. The first was his inordinate shyness with girls, a second was his height for he was six feet seven inches tall, and a third was the size of his hands and feet. Quite literally, his hands were like shovels protruding from the sleeves of his clothing, sleeves which always seemed too short. At school, his jackets were always too short, with an enormous length of bare arm filling the space between the end of his sleeve and his wrist. Things hadn’t changed as an adult — his police uniform sleeves were always too short, and when he stood to attention, it seemed as if his hands were so heavy that they were stretching his arms and drawing them out of their sleeves.
There were times when I wondered if the weight of his hands would drag his arms from their sockets.
But if his hands were huge, then so were his feet. To say they were colossal is an understatement. They were gigantic and fulfilled all those hoary old jokes about policemen having big feet. He took size fourteen in shoes, for example, and when his specially made uniform boots stood beside those of his colleagues, they looked like a pair of dug-out canoes each with a submarine conning tower at one end; they were large enough to have inspired the nursery rhyme about the old lady who lived in a shoe.
To witness Geoff patrolling down the street was indeed a sight to be treasured as those massive hands and feet worked in unison to propel his tall figure through the crowds.
To see him standing in the middle of the road directing traffic was equally memorable, for his huge mobile hands were like mechanical carpet-beaters, while his splendid feet anchored him safely when it was windy.
But for all his massive appendages, he was a charming fellow. He really did try to please people, and those who knew him did like and respect him, but his painful shyness with girls always militated against a successful romance. In an otherwise very happy life, that was the missing element, and he remained a reluctant bachelor. After all, for a neat-footed girl to do a quickstep with Geoff must have been like grains of corn trying to avoid being battered by flails.
I think it was his lack of success with girls and painful shyness that prompted him to join the Salvation Army. That uniform was just as ill-fitting as his police outfit, but I understand he was pretty effective with a pair of cymbals. His new-found faith, however, tended to restrict him even further in his search for romance because he ceased to join his colleagues in their pubs and clubs and stopped drinking alcohol.
It was one November when I met him during my duties. He had been seconded to the Crime Prevention Department and was going around shops and business premises advising them on internal security when he chanced to pass through Aidensfield. I was walking down the street in uniform and he hailed me. He, on the other hand, now wore civilian clothes, but they were as ill-fitting as his uniforms.
As he clambered out of his car, I was aware of that continuing gap which exposed a chunk of bare arm between his hands and his sleeves. He never did seem able to obtain jackets with sleeves long enough to cope with his endless arms.
We reminisced, as one always does on such occasions, and I reminded him of those village dances. He said he’d always enjoyed them, whereupon I said that Mary and I were going to the hunt ball next week: it was to be held in Aidensfield Village Hall and I was off duty that night. Several of us were forming a party — and I heard myself asking Geoff if he’d like to join us. Much to my surprise, he said he would. He did remind me that he was a teetotaller now, but I said it was nothing to apologise for; besides, the bar would offer soft drinks.
I said we’d meet him inside the hall at 9 p.m. that Friday night, then I went home to tell Mary the glad tidings. Her only comment was that she hoped he didn’t ask her for a dance — she had memories of his efforts as a young man, for he’d ruined more than one girl’s shoes by trampling all over them in his gallant attempts to musically co-ordinate the movements of his colossal feet.
Later, while reflecting upon that particular hunt ball, it was Geoff s presence that caused me to ponder upon the lottery of life. Also attending the ball was Catherine Schofield, the daughter of Sir James and Lady Schofield of Briggsby Manor. She was up from London where she worked in an art gallery and had decided to accompany her parents. They were keen supporters of the hunt, but for Catherine it was a brave decision because she was not really known as a local girl — she’d been away at school and had also worked away, in addition to which her upper class lifestyle had segregated her from the attention of village Romeos. It was not surprising, therefore, that she was still single at the age of twenty-nine.
If one asks why she had not found a husband in London or among her own class, then it might have been owing to her appearance. Although her father was tiny, Catherine was well over six feet in height, and she was far from pretty. As featureless as a flagpole and just about as thin, she had no discernible breasts or hips and wore peculiar spectacles and a hairstyle that made her look twenty years older than she really was.
Her light brown hair was worn in a tight bun and she had a penchant for sensible shoes and all-embracing shapeless dresses. The villagers called her Keyhole Kate after a character in the popular comics of the time. The poor girl did look like something from the past, but, like Geoff, she was charming and she was blessed with a delightful sense of humour.
On the night of the hunt ball she needed every ounce of that humour because I was suddenly aware of Geoff advancing towards her, arms and feet carving a wide swathe through the crowds.
To this day, I have no idea what caused him to pluck up the courage to make that move, but I was amazed to see him asking her to dance. It was an Eva three-step. To say they presented an astonishing sight is perhaps an understatement, but the truth is that the lofty couple did circumnavigate the dance floor head and shoulders above the rest of us, and Geoff did so without Catherine or anyone else tripping over his feet.
By some miracle, he kept them under control. And an even more astonishing miracle was that, at the end of it, Catherine was actually smiling with pleasure.
After another two dances with her, he brought her across to our group and introduced her. He bought her a drink and escorted her to supper. Mary and I were delighted …
And so a most unlikely romance was born. As I watched them that night, I did wonder whether this particular lottery did have some unknown force controlling it, or was it sheer chance that brought Geoff and Catherine together?
During the evening, I could see Geoff relaxing, I could see his shyness evaporating before our eyes and I could see the happiness in Catherine’s eyes too. Here was a man, taller than she, who could make her laugh and be happy. If he stood on her toes, she laughed about it and he laughed about it too. Afterwards, we invited him back to our house for coffee before he drove home, but he declined, saying he had been asked to visit Briggsby Manor for a good-night drink. I wished him well.
‘Will he be able to come to terms with Catherine’s family?’ Mary asked me as we drank our nightcaps.
‘I don’t see why not,’ I responded. ‘Class barriers aren’t so restrictive these days. And he is an intelligent lad, you know.’
‘I wasn’t thinking so much of that,’ she said. ‘I meant his non-drinking stance. They own a brewery — I think Catherine’s a big shareholder in it. Will he find himself facing a conflict of conscience?’
‘True love will overcome that!’ I laughed.
And so it did. Geoffrey left the police force to marry Catherine and he gave up being a teetotaller; he drank champagne at his reception and they went to live in London. He was found a position within the family brewery business and is now managing director. He is no longer a member of the Salvation Army and his suits are not only made to measure — they are actually made to fit him!
The last time I saw him, there was no long gap between his cuffs and those gigantic hands. In life’s lottery, Geoffrey had drawn
a winning ticket.
6. Every Dog Has His Day
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware,
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
Although the strong and friendly relationship between an Englishman and his dog is almost legendary, there are those who mistreat Man’s Best Friend. Town and country police officers, the RSPCA, veterinary surgeons and many others can relate horror stories of our inhumane treatment, not only of dogs, but of cats, pets of all kinds, farm animals and even wild creatures. Even in these enlightened times, sadists go badger hunting and killing domestic cats for fun; they torment tiny creatures with whom they come into contact and tease the docile. Villains have been known to set fire to the manes of horses in fields, to poke out the eyes of trusting donkeys, inflate frogs with straws and shoot crossbow bolts into swimming swans and ducks. And there is worse.
But so far as dogs are concerned, the dogs’ homes of this country are full of tragedies. Unwanted Christmas presents and birthday gifts are abandoned and left to die; dogs are left without food and water or denied veterinary treatment. Happily, many of them find their way into the caring hands of the RSPCA and other good homes, but some are not so fortunate.
The on-going catalogue of cruelty is far too extensive to include in a book of this type, but it is fair to add that police officers do care for the ill-treated animals they encounter. For example, constables on patrol frequently come across stray dogs, and they are obliged to care for them, if only temporarily, until they can be provided with a new home or humanely put to death. Country police officers in particular come across wandering dogs which have been thrown out of cars in remote places simply because their owners no longer want them. Why go to the trouble of driving into the countryside to abandon one’s pet? Why not take it to a dogs’ home or some other animal sanctuary? The sick logic behind such callousness is baffling.
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 10
