He was not in the kitchen and so I checked his garden and outbuildings before going into the bungalow, but there was no sign of him. I returned to the kitchen door and repeated my knocking and shouting, and then I thought I heard a soft cry.
I was slightly alarmed. I called his name and went into the house, announcing my own name as I progressed to minimize any alarm he might experience. I found him in his living room, slumped in an armchair, and he seemed to be dazed.
‘Mr Morley?’ I called to him, and he responded, his grey eyes blinking at me. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh, hello, Mr Rhea. Glad you’ve come … it was a dizzy spell … just came over me …’
‘I’ll get the doctor to look at you,’ I said.
‘He’s been. I’ve some tablets.’ He pointed to the kitchen. ‘Above the sink, in a brown bottle, heart … it’s my age, you know.’
‘And you’ve not taken one this morning like you should have done, is that it?’
‘Aye,’ he said.
I went into the kitchen for the required tablet and a glass of water, but couldn’t find the brown bottle. I looked in various other cupboards — and found a miser’s hoard! One cupboard, clean and neatly arranged, was full of Christmas cakes, all looking very much alike. I counted a dozen — twelve Christmas cakes all sitting there. And in another, there were bottles of spirits — whisky, gin, brandy — all unopened. I counted six bottles of whisky alone, and then in another cupboard, there were boxes of chocolates, dozens of them, all neatly stacked in piles.
Then I found the tablets, read the instructions and tipped one into the palm of my hand. I ran a glass of water and took the treatment to him. He swallowed the tablet with a grunt and thanked me.
‘I’ll get the doctor to pop in,’ I said. ‘Now, your fire’s not lit, and it’s cold outside, so I’ll light it while I’m here.’
‘Mrs Pennock’ll do it when she brings my dinner,’ he said. ‘It’s Wednesday, you see.’
‘I’ll do it, Mr Morlev. It’ll save her a job.’
And so I buckled down to the task of cleaning out his grate and lighting the fire, finding that he did have a stock of chopped kindling in an outside shed, and a large stock of coal. So he was not a miser in the sense that he did not want to spend money, so I wondered about his massive stocks of cakes, chocolates and booze.
As I worked on lighting the fire, I chattered to him, asking what he would be doing this Christmas and whether he’d be seeing any of his relatives. He said he’d be at home like he always was, but that Mrs Bowes had invited him to share Christmas dinner with her and her husband. He’d accepted.
‘I see you’re all right for Christmas cakes,’ I said, my curiosity getting the better of me. Why did he keep so many?
‘It’s our Alice’s lass,’ he said. ‘She sends one every year.’
‘But you don’t eat them?’ I smiled.
‘No, I’m allergic to dried fruit — it brings me out in spots, so I can’t eat fruit cake, Mr Rhea.’
‘You ought to tell her!’ I suggested, sweeping up the dust from his hearth. ‘You’ve enough cakes to feed the whole of this dale!’
‘They keep well,’ he said.
‘They’re for eating, not for keeping,’ I chided him. ‘You could send some into York, for the poor folks there. There’s loads of charitable organizations would welcome them, Mr Morley, and you’d know they’d gone to a useful place. Are you allergic to whisky as well?’
‘Aye, I can’t drink spirits, you see, so when folks give me bottles, I never drink’em. I don’t mind a bottle of beer now and then, but not spirits.’
‘And chocolates?’
‘Allergic to chocolate an’ all, so I keep them …’
By that time I had finished the fireplace and ensured that a good roaring fire was warming the room, the pill had achieved its purpose and he had recovered from his dizzy spell. I told him where the bottle was and warned him to make sure he took his pills on time in accordance with the doctor’s instructions. He promised he would, but, being an old man, I felt concerned that he might forget from time to time. But I was reassured by the number of people who called in — like me, one of them would probably find him if he needed help.
After getting the fire going, I asked if he’d like a cup of tea or coffee, and he smiled. ‘Aye, I would,’ he said. I had to ask him — he’d never think of asking me! I made two mugs of coffee and sat with him for about an hour; we talked about Christmas time, about it being a time for giving, about the events that had been arranged in the surrounding villages like the old folks’ parties, the church events, the children’s parties, whist drives and so on.
‘You know, Mr Morley,’ I said, ‘those parties and events would welcome anything you don’t need for raffle prizes — like those bottles of gin or whisky and some of those boxes of chocolates, and Christmas cakes for sharing with the old folks.’
‘Aye, but them’s all presents to me.’ He shook his grey head. ‘You can’t go about giving presents away, can you?’
‘What happened to the earlier cakes, then?’ I asked.
‘My missus used to give ’em away. Them in my kitchen’s come since our Elsie passed on, Mr Rhea — she’d have handed ’em out to somebody …’
‘But you could do the same! If Mrs Morley did it, then so can you. You could always give people like Mrs Pennock a box of chocolates, as a thanks for bringing your dinners in.’
‘Aye, well, I’ll think about it.’
I left him, now confident that he would survive, but I did tell both the doctor and the district nurse about Mr Morley and they said they’d make regular calls.
But the next time I called was after that Christmas. There had been a heavy fall of snow overnight and I popped in to ask if he was all right. He was — his fire was blazing, someone had brought in some logs and I could see the remains of a hefty meal on the table.
‘I was just passing, Mr Morley, and thought I’d check to see if you’re all right.’
‘Very well, thanks, Mr Rhea. I had a nice Christmas.’
‘Did you get any nice presents,’ I asked.
‘Aye, three bottles of whisky, two bottles of gin, a lovely cake from our Alice’s lass and some chocolates from the neighbours.’
‘And what have you done with them?’ I asked him.
‘They’re in the cupboards,’ he said. ‘With the others.’
And so they were. He had not given any of his earlier gifts away, and so his stock had now increased. And it increased every year. I did try to persuade him that he should give generously to local charitable organizations but, for some reason, he would never part with any of his presents, however unwanted they were. And not once did he give anything to any of his helpers — I realized that my solitary cup of coffee with him was indeed an unusual event.
But then I realized I’d had to ask him for it.
So suppose people asked him for a donation to their function? Would he then give generously?
Some weeks later, the Reverend Simon Hamilton, vicar of St Andrew’s parish church in Elsinby, mentioned that he was arranging a spring fête to raise money for repairs to the tower. He would be staging a tombola and there would be teas, as well as the usual attractions.
‘Do you ever pop in to visit old Mr Morley?’ I asked him.
‘Regularly,’ he said. ‘At least once a week.’
I mentioned my own visits and we shared experiences, and then I said, ‘Look, vicar, if you need bottles of spirits, Christmas cakes or boxes of chocolates, he’s got dozens stacked away. He never uses any of them — they’re all unwanted gifts. If you were to ask if he had something for your fête, he might decide to part with one of his treasures! But you’d have to ask, he’ll never volunteer a gift!’
‘I’ll try it!’ he beamed.
A week before the fête, I saw the vicar in Elsinby and we discussed parking arrangements and other professional matters, then I asked.
‘Old Mr Morley, did you ask him for someth
ing for your fête?’
‘I did,’ he smiled.
‘And?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he laughed. ‘He said he hadn’t anything to give away.’
*
Another fascinating character was Miss Gertrude Midgley who lived in the end cottage of a row of cute terraced houses in Maddleskirk. The row comprises six tiny stone-built homes, each with only one bedroom, a bathroom/toilet, a kitchen and a lounge. There were no garages, although each house had a tiny yard and a patch of hillside garden behind. The front doors opened onto the village street and each of the cottages was occupied by a solitary elderly lady. Six old ladies therefore occupied the entire block known as Field Houses, with Gertrude in No. 6.
She had worked in service during her youth, being employed in several country houses in Ryedale, first as a servant girl and later as a housekeeper. Her latter years had been spent as the dinner lady in the primary school in Maddleskirk, from where she had retired some twenty years earlier. Many of the villagers remembered her time at the school — she was a strict, no-nonsense lady who could keep the children in order during their dinner break. Now about eighty years old, she was spritely for her age and managed to do all her own shopping by using the local buses or pottering down to the village shops.
She was a plump person, perhaps typical of ladies who cared for the appetites of country gentlemen and their friends, and, latterly, schoolchildren. She wore her grey hair in a neat bun, tied with a coloured ribbon. Her face was round and she had ruddy cheeks, but she lacked the perpetual smile of so many cooking ladies.
In some respects, she was a grey figure — she always wore long grey dresses which came to below her knees, and seemed to perpetually wear sandals over her thick grey lisle stockings. She wore greyish cardigans, too, and seldom seemed to enjoy bright colours upon her, except for that ribbon in her hair — it would be red one day, blue another, then yellow, green or even purple or white.
So far as anyone knew, there had never been a romance in her life and she did not appear to have any family who might visit her or whom she might call on. I know she did visit people in the village, and they called on her, either to check that she was all right or to have a cup of tea or a natter with her. But it never occurred to me that I should call. After all, she was hale and hearty, she had a stream of callers and was not the sort of person who would come to the notice of the police or the social services for any reason.
It was with some surprise, therefore, that I saw her waving to me from her front door some two weeks before Christmas. I was walking along the village street on one of my foot patrols when she hailed me.
‘Mr Rhea,’ she beckoned. ‘Can you spare a minute?’
‘Of course,’ and so I followed her into her cottage. A fire was blazing in the black-leaded grate and an old-fashioned kettle, large and black, was singing on the hob. A rocking chair stood at one side of the fireplace, and a comfortable old easy chair was at the other.
A clip mat lay before the fire, while the mantelpiece was full of brassware — lots of candlesticks large and small, vases, animal figures and so on. It looked very cosy.
‘Sit down.’ She pointed to the easy chair. ‘You’ll have a cup of tea?’
As it was more of a command than an invitation, I obeyed and indicated that I’d love one. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plate of scones which she placed on the hearth, followed by two mugs, a bowl of sugar and jug of milk. She poured the hot water into the tea pot and sat down in the rocking chair, allowing it to move as she settled down.
‘You never came last year,’ she said. ‘So I thought I’d better remind you this time.’
I was puzzled by her comment. ‘Last year?’ I shook my head. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Miss Midgley.’
‘The policeman always calls to cut my cake,’ she said.
‘Your Christmas cake, you mean?’ I guessed that was the subject of her remarks.
‘Aye, what else?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I tried to express my feelings by the movements of my hands, ‘but I had no idea. I mean, if I had known, I’d have called especially.’
‘Well, make sure you call this year then — Christmas Day or Boxing Day, not before. And before New Year. Make sure you get it cut before New Year.’
As I pondered over my newly imposed duties, she poured the tea and handed me one of the mugs and the sugar.
‘No sugar, thanks,’ I smiled, but accepted one of the scones. ‘So who did cut your cake last year?’ I ventured.
‘Nobody, so it’s still in my pantry. You’ll cut it before you leave, I should think.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The scone was delicious, home-made with lots of rich butter oozing into it. ‘I’ll be delighted.’
She produced the delicious-looking cake which stood on a large wooden board; it would be about eight inches square by two inches deep, but lacked any icing. A knife lay beside it. She placed the board on the table in her lounge and I went across, wondering if there was any ceremonial method of performing this task, or speech to be made, but there did not seem to be any formalities. I simply slid the knife into the cake in the centre and sliced it through.
‘Cut yourself a slice,’ she said. ‘And me.’
I chopped two slices and we returned to the fireside where I tasted the cake. It was delicious, moist and very highly flavoured with brandy or malt whisky so far as I could tell. That had preserved it well.
‘Happy Christmas for last year,’ I said.
‘And you,’ she returned.
As I chomped the year-old piece of cake, I wondered what all this was about, and decided to ask. I guessed she would never enlighten me unless I did ask.
‘Why does the policeman have to cut your Christmas cake?’ I ventured.
‘It’s my custom.’ She actually smiled this time. ‘My grandad was a policeman. He rose to be sergeant,’ she added with pride. ‘I had no brothers or sisters, and Dad died early — he was a railwayman. But I alius say, if I’d been a lad, I’d have joined the force. Girls didn’t do that in my day, Mr Rhea, you see. Anyroad, Grandad alius cut our cake for Christmas, and when he passed on, I got other policemen to do the job. Last year was the first time I’d missed …’
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea, otherwise I would have called in.’
‘I’m not grumbling,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in grumbling about things, but I’ve got it done now, and I know you’ll call this year come Christmas.’
‘I will, I promise,’ I assured her.
I remained a few more minutes and learned that she would spend her Christmas alone. She had no relations, and had no wish to inflict herself upon any other family who did have friends or relations to visit them. I made a determined vow to visit her on Christmas Day — at least she’d have a visitor on that very special day.
‘You could always come to us,’ I heard myself saying. ‘We always have a crowd in — my wife and I are both from big families.’
‘No, Mr Rhea, I know what family life is like at Christmas and I will not intrude, but thanks for the thought.’
‘You could pop down to one of the hotels, perhaps? Or contact one of the charities who arrange dinner for lots of people like yourself …’
‘I’ll have no charity, Mr Rhea!’ she was firm. ‘I’m fit and healthy, and I can cook myself a nice Christmas dinner without relying on other folks. No, you forget me, leave me alone and I’ll manage. It’s my lot in life to be alone, without a husband or kids, and I’ll not grumble about it. So just you mind on and come to cut my cake, that’s all I ask.’
I tried to persuade her to allow me to make an approach on her behalf, to ask around to see if there were any gatherings to which she might be invited for Christmas Day, but she steadfastly refused. In some ways, I had to admire her sturdy determination, but I did feel she must be a very lonely old lady.
I left with a slab of her Christmas cake in my pocket for Mary and the children, and continued my patrol of Maddlesk
irk before heading for home in Aidensfield. In the days that followed, I did learn that she always spent Christmas alone and that others in the village had invited her to join them — her neighbours in Field Houses, for example, had extended lots of invitations. She did visit them at other times, but because each had their family in at Christmas, or went to their family, Miss Midgley refused to be a ‘nuisance’ as she put it.
It would be about a week after my visit that I found myself embroiled in the preparations for the Eltering Sub-Divisional Police Children’s Christmas Party. It was to be held in the Whistler Hall at Eltering and all children of police officers in Eltering Sub-Division were invited. It would be held on the Wednesday between Christmas and New Year from 3 p.m. until 7p.m. The mums would share the chore of making cakes and jellies, dads would decorate the hall and organize games, and the parents had arranged some music and entertainment, my part being that of the magician. I hoped my famous Chinese Rings would survive the assault of many hands as the kids tried to separate them after I had magically joined them. Sergeant Bairstow was to be Father Christmas and all the children would receive a present.
Mrs Bairstow was in charge of the feeding arrangements, co-ordinating the work of all the other ladies, and it was always a very happy, if very tiring, occasion. Then, two days before the party, Mrs Bairstow’s mother was taken ill — Mrs Bairstow had to rush off to care for her. Sergeant Bairstow was not needed at her side and so remained to fulfil both his police and Yule tide duties.
‘We could do with another pair of hands,’ he said to me. ‘My missus did a good job at that party, you need somebody to organize things …’
It was then that I thought of Miss Midgley.
‘I think I know somebody,’ I told him, and explained about Gertrude and her association with policemen.
‘Isn’t she a bit old?’ That was his only reservation.
I shook my head. ‘She’ll be tired afterwards, we will all be,’ I said. ‘But I’ll bet she’ll be happy.’
Constable by the Stream (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 12) Page 19
