As I chugged away from Ramsdale House, I wondered about the future role of this once peaceful dale, trying to anticipate just how the forthcoming changes would alter its former charms. In contemplating that scenario, I had a short time to patrol before I knocked off for my official break, so I decided to revisit the cricket match. I wondered how Aidensfield was faring and whether Western Cloud would romp home the winner at Thirsk Races.
Chapter Four
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition
Approves all forms of competition
Arthur Hugh Clough (1819–1861)
I returned to the cricket field in time for the tea break. Elsinby had scored a healthy 118 and after tea, it would be Aidensfield’s turn to bat. During this welcome break, team members and spectators alike mingled with good humour, eating their ham or tomato sandwiches, home-made cakes and jellies while drinking gallons of orange juice in the bright sunshine. It was far too hot in the pavilion where the players and indeed most of the spectators would normally have eaten their teas, consequently everyone remained outside to enjoy the banter and inquests which inevitably enlivened this midway stage of the game. Slow reactions from fielders, dropped catches and contested decisions about lbws and runouts all came in for good-natured criticism.
Among the crowd, I noticed Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, not that anyone could miss him. He was neither playing nor spectating because he was serving lollies and ice-creams from Bob Clarkson’s colourful van. With its serving hatch raised, it was parked just outside the entrance to the sports field where Claude, in a white overall, was doing a roaring trade. Alfred, his scruffy dog, was asleep underneath the van where it was cool and quiet.
‘Now then, Claude.’ I wandered across to greet him, wondering what devilment he was up to with the ice-cream. ‘New business enterprise, is it?’
‘The van belongs to my mate,’ he grinned. ‘Bob’s gone to Thirsk Races with the rest of ’em from the pub, so I said I’d do business for him.’
‘For a percentage of the profit, no doubt!’ I chuckled.
‘Folks like me can’t afford to work for nowt, Constable,’ he retorted. ‘Business is business, even if you’re helping an old mate out.’
‘Well, I hope he shares his winnings with you as well,’ I said, thinking I might indulge in one of his cornets when I had finished my sandwich and cup of tea. As I prepared to wander away from his van, I noticed the arrival of half a dozen young men, all strangers to this district. They had arrived in a couple of old cars from which they emerged with lots of banging doors and raucous laughter. With long hair, casual dress and a carefree attitude bolstered by repeated bouts of hilarity, they made their noisy way towards the entrance gate, then headed straight for the table from which ladies were serving refreshments. Then one of them noticed my presence in uniform and nudged his pals, whereupon they all became more subdued.
‘Who’s them lot?’ Claude asked me, with slight apprehension in his voice.
‘I’ve no idea.’ I studied the men, wondering why they were here. ‘But so long as they behave themselves, they’re welcome.’
The newcomers bought plates of sandwiches and cakes, glasses of orange and then squatted on the grass to enjoy their meal, clearly intending to watch the second half of the game. It was while wandering among the spectators and chatting to them, that I noticed the arrival of Denise Emmott and Elaine Sowerby.
Leaning their bikes against the dry-stone wall which bordered the sports field, they came through the gate, giggling to each other, then went to the refreshments table to buy plates of food. Eventually, they settled on the grass with some of their teenaged girlfriends and I could see, by the demeanour of all the girls, that they had discovered the presence of the six new arrivals. Observing people in such situations is always fascinating; it forms a large part of the life of any constable, whether on duty or not.
But there was no time to observe life’s rich pageant or the ritual courtship display of the English male and female because it was time for the cricket match to resume. The two umpires in their white coats made their way on to the field and then it was the turn of the Aidensfield openers to stride out. Doug Emmott was one of them; heavily padded and carrying his bat with confidence, he made his way to the wicket accompanied by Jim Breckon. The small crowd produced a ripple of applause and it was then that one of the six newcomers came to speak with me.
‘You’re the local constable?’ He looked me up and down, for I was not wearing a helmet or cap although I was clad in a uniform shirt. I’d left my crash helmet with the motorbike.
‘Yes, I’m PC Rhea,’ I said.
‘I’m Andy Renshaw. We’re working up at the reservoir, me and my mates over there. You’ll know these folks here, most of them anyway?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I nodded.
‘Which is the team captain? The Aidensfield team, I mean.’
‘Stan Calvert. He’s over there the fair haired chap standing next to the woman carrying that tray of empties. He’s due to bat at number five.’
‘Thanks, I want words with him. We’d like to fix a match between a contractor’s eleven and the local village team.’
‘Sounds a good idea to me.’ I greeted the plan with enthusiasm. ‘Anything to forge links between the village and the construction workers is a good idea. So talk to Stan about it, I think he’ll be keen.’
I saw Andy Renshaw introduce himself to Stan, then they settled down on a bench for their discussion. I decided it was time to leave; I would enjoy one of Claude’s ice-creams before departing, however, and I’d learn the result of the game in due course. I joined the small queue at the ice-cream van, and then noticed the distinctive black shape of Sergeant Blaketon’s official car. It was being eased into a parking space outside the ground, and I could see the familiar figure of my sergeant at the wheel. Quickly, I detached myself from the ice-cream queue, hurried to my motorbike and located my cap in one of the panniers, managing to plonk it on my head before Blaketon found me. I did not worry about my jacket, however; shirtsleeves were quite acceptable in these conditions. Besides, I reckoned my jacket would be extremely creased by this time. Suitably clad, therefore, I made myself conspicuous by walking towards the sergeant. I noticed that he was also in shirtsleeves, a rare sign of relaxation for him.
‘Good afternoon, Rhea,’ he smiled. ‘All correct?’
‘Yes, all correct, Sergeant.’ I produced the expected response.
‘I thought I would find you here.’
‘Did you call me on the radio, Sarge?’
‘I couldn’t raise you,’ was all he said. ‘I wanted to arrange this rendezvous.’
‘I was in Ramsdale earlier this afternoon,’ I told him. ‘Reception’s not very good in the deeper parts of the dale. I’ve just arrived here.’
‘No problem.’ He accepted my suggestion of being out of range, then said, ‘Your wife suggested you might be here. It’s a lovely day for a game of cricket on the village green, eh? And a happy crowd watching progress while the law looks on. An enduring picture of village life, I’d say.’
‘I agree, Sarge. It’s the quality of life that matters, and it can be found here.’
‘So who’s playing today?’ was his next question.
‘It’s Aidensfield versus Elsinby,’ I told him. ‘A league match.’
‘A local derby, eh? Good. Now, let’s walk around the boundary,’ he suggested. ‘Then you can tell me about progress at the reservoir. No problems there, I take it? I trust you have established a working relationship with the contractors and workforce?’
And so we began our perambulation of the cricket-field boundary. Because of his interest in developments at the reservoir, I updated him on progress with the construction work, then switched to the cricket match that had just been proposed and rounded off that part of our discussion with this afternoon’s invitation for organized groups to visit the site.
I told him about those because I regarded them as a means of showing that the developers d
id want to establish friendly relations with the community and that I was in touch with those responsible. I told him there had been surprisingly little crime and very few incidents of police interest; indeed, he was aware of all those because everything of that nature had been the subject of a report from me. That was when he paused for a moment. By this time, we were at the far side of the cricket field, well away from the spectators. He stood in silence for a few seconds to watch the bowler release a fast ball towards Doug Emmott who dealt with it with consummate ease and sent it speeding towards the far boundary for four runs.
‘Nice shot,’ said Blaketon, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. ‘Now to the purpose of my visit.’
He explained that an all-stations message had been received at Ashfordly Police Station this afternoon to the effect that there had been a nationwide epidemic of the theft of mobile cranes.
‘Mobile cranes?’ I almost shouted. ‘Who on earth would steal something that size?’
‘Somebody who wants a mobile crane in good working condition!’ he grinned. ‘Or somebody who has a ready market for them, either here or overseas.’
‘But how on earth can you steal a mobile crane?’ I asked. ‘Surely the site security people would hear it being moved and besides, those things crawl along . . . you’d hardly expect to have to stage a hot pursuit.’
‘Don’t ask me how they get the things away, Rhea. All I know is that someone is making a nuisance of themselves by nicking these things, and they’re worth many thousands of pounds apiece. Nationwide, ten have disappeared without trace in the last eight months and we’re asked to warn all building sites. We’re asking them to make sure their cranes are secure when not in use . . .’
‘I’ll search Greengrass’s back yard, Sarge . . .’
‘You do, and make sure your reservoir site people lock up their cranes,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any stolen cranes to appear on our quarterly statistics . . .’
‘Very good, Sergeant, message understood,’ I smiled at him. I recalled some recent spectacular thefts — apart from the FA Cup, someone had stolen a whole streetful of door-knockers, other thieves had got away with a seven-ton footbridge, a steamroller, a bath and toilet, an otter, a mystery-tour bus, a railway engine, a railway station sign for Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwlllliantysiliogogogoch and even someone’s false teeth. People can and will pinch anything.
‘And now,’ he said, with all seriousness, ‘I fancy an ice-cream, something to cool me down. Come along, I’ll treat you!’
He was in a remarkably good mood today, especially as he’d had to chase me all the way to Elsinby sports ground, and I thought the sunshine must be responsible. But to offer to buy me an ice-cream — while we were in uniform? That was indeed a sign that he was very kindly disposed towards me at the moment. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that the ice-cream salesman was none other than his old adversary, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.
As we strolled around the boundary, there were cheers from the spectators as runs were scored by the Aidensfield batsmen but I had no idea of the current score. Judging from the cheers, Aidensfield were doing very well but I had no time to stand and stare because Sergeant Blaketon was leading me at a fast pace towards the ice-cream. There was no queue as I followed him to the little red and cream-coloured van. Claude was not in sight, probably he was having a sit down in the driver’s seat and then I heard Blaketon rap on the counter and call, ‘Service! Anyone there?’
There was a sighing and groaning noise from within, then the grizzled face of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass appeared at the hatch, having struggled from the front of the van. It was then I heard Blaketon shout, ‘My God, not you, Greengrass! I wanted the ice-cream man.’
‘I am the ice-cream, man, Blaketon, and I can be very choosy about my customers!’
‘And I am choosy about my food. How do I know this stuff is genuine ice-cream and not some concoction which is contaminated with muck from years of Greengrass’s unwashed hands?’
‘Because I mix it with my feet, Blaketon, like treading grapes!’ chuckled the old reprobate.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised at anything you do, Greengrass!’
‘Give over, you daft bugger. This is all good stuff, Blaketon, fresh from the cows this morning and brewed to perfection by Bob Clarkson.’
‘And who is Bob Clarkson? He doesn’t sound like an Italian to me.’
‘Look, do you want to buy one or are you just wasting my precious time?’
‘Two cornets, please,’ said Blaketon at last.
Claude lifted the metal lid from the cool canister which contained the ice-cream and then located the scoop which he kept beside him in a bowl of milky-coloured water. The water dish was on a counter, just inside the vehicle and within easy reach. As he was preparing to scoop out a portion for Blaketon, there was a lot of shouting behind us. For the briefest of moments, I ignored it, thinking it was the crowd cheering some more runs, but the sounds were those of alarm rather than encouragement. I turned just in time to see the cricket ball hurtling unerringly towards us as people shouted at us to duck or get out of the way.
‘Sarge!’ I shouted, pushing him aside.
But I was too late. As he staggered to one side, the oncoming ball just touched the side of his cap and knocked it from his head; ball and cap then flew inside the ice-cream van. The ball landed slap in the contents of the open canister, sending a spray of ice-cream in all directions while Blaketon’s cap settled upside down in the dish of milky water in which the scoop usually reclined. I saw it sinking gracefully into the water.
‘Six!’ someone shouted behind us.
‘Can we have our ball back?’ called another voice, as team members began to run in our direction.
‘What the hell’s going on . . . ?’ spluttered Blaketon as he recovered from the shock, clutching the side of the van to support himself.
‘You nearly headed a cricket ball!’ chuckled Greengrass. ‘I reckon that skull of yours is hard enough to do that, Blaketon, but look what you’ve done to my ice-cream! And who wants a scoop that’s contaminated with all those unidentifiable livestock that live in your cap . . .’
‘My cap’s ruined!’ shouted Blaketon, reaching in to lift it from the basin. It was now coloured creamy white and contained half a bowl of the milky-coloured water. He tipped it on to the ground and shook it to get rid of the lingering drops, but made no attempt to replace it on his head. I wondered if it would remain discoloured for ever . . .
‘Is anybody hurt?’ The Elsinby captain had reached us now and his face showed his anxiety.
‘No, but my ice-cream’s ruined!’ moaned Greengrass, lifting out the ball with his ice-cream scoop.
‘That’s a fairish good portion,’ grinned the cricketer.
‘Aye, and we’ve replaced that little scoop with Sergeant Blaketon’s cap, you get bigger portions like that. A cap full of ice-cream with a unique Brylcreem flavour. That’s if you want to eat anything that’s been in his cap. Now, anybody want to lick this clean?’ and he handed the slippery white ball back to the captain.
‘Change balls,’ said the umpire, who was making his way towards us. ‘And six runs because it flew over the boundary. Right, lads, back to your places.’
‘What about my ice-cream?’ cried Greengrass.
‘And what about my cap?’ called Sergeant Blaketon.
‘It’s all your fault, Blaketon!’ snapped Greengrass. ‘If you hadn’t headed that ball into my ice-cream van, it would have hit the side and bounced back into play.’
‘I didn’t head it! My head never even touched it! I wouldn’t be standing here if it had. It touched my cap, a minor deflection, that’s all, and now that’s ruined, water-logged with ice-cream swill. I’ll have to submit a report to headquarters for a replacement.’
‘And you can ask ’em for the cost of a refill for that canister!’
‘You’ve another canister. That one was nearly empty anyway; the stuff at the bottom was melted, that’s why
it splashed all over and it’s only water on my cap, you can’t claim for that, even if it is milk-coloured.’
‘If anyone has to pay, it’s the cricket club,’ I tried to intervene.
‘No, Constable.’ Claude held up a finger like a schoolteacher. ‘I’m outside the field, they’re not responsible for what happens to me when I’m outside the field.’
‘But it was their ball that ruined your ice-cream!’ snapped Blaketon. ‘Not my cap!’
‘It was your cap that deflected the ball into my ice-cream,’ Claude stressed.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘it’s no good standing here arguing all day. Claude, have words with Bob Clarkson about the tiny portion of ice-cream that’s been rendered unsaleable, or else give it to Alfred and say nothing. I’m sure Alfred would enjoy a cool drink. He’s panting like mad under this van. Then open the other canister because we’d like to be served. And Sergeant Blaketon will not sue you for the cost of a replacement hat; he’ll let the chief constable issue him with a new one.’
‘Sue me? Why should he sue me?’
‘You left the bowl of contaminated water in a place where the cap could easily fall into it, and if the cap could easily fall into it, then so could other muck. Not that we will mention that to any of the health inspectors we might be talking to in the near future . . .’
‘Cornets or tubs?’ he demanded.
‘Tubs,’ said Blaketon, thinking the heat of the day would melt the ice-cream in the cornets. ‘Two tubs of your best, fresh ice-cream, Mr Greengrass.’
‘That’ll be a shilling,’ said Claude, as he began to open the new canister.
‘A shilling?’ roared Blaketon. ‘I thought we’d get discount because of the trouble we’ve been through . . .’
CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19) Page 6
