I heard that when this bus travelled via Galtreford, there was a good deal of wheeling, dealing, buying and selling on board before the bus actually arrived. By studying the Public Service Vehicles (Conduct of Drivers, Conductors and Passengers) Regulations 1936, I learned it was illegal to beg, sell or offer for sale any article in the vehicle …
But, in rural areas, one closes one’s eyes to a great deal, and really, I felt, this problem was not really mine. It could be argued that the enforcement of such rules was really the responsibility of the Traffic Commissioners, not the police.
So the minor infringements continued and they helped everyone aboard to feel content and happy. In fact, a trip to Galtreford market on Arnold’s bus seemed to be a very jovial and happy affair.
Judging by the accounts which came to my notice, it was more of a party than a domestic outing or a bus trip. Songs were sung, for example, and drinks were handed around, albeit never to the driver when he was behind the wheel.
My very discreet enquiries led me to believe that a trip to market was a very sociable occasion which included community singing. This was led by two Aidensfield characters nicknamed Bill and Ben. In their late forties, they were inseparable and had been pals since their schooldays. They went everywhere together. Bachelors with no regular means of financial support, they went to Galtreford market every Friday.
Their real names were Arthur Grieves and Bernard Kingston; Arthur was ‘Bill’ and Bernard was ‘Ben’. Each lived in a small rented cottage and undertook casual work in the area. They found employment on farms at potato picking time, harvest time and hay time; they took jobs on building sites, or washed windows — in fact, they would do anything anywhere for a small fee. They always worked together and it was their unhampered lifestyle that allowed them the freedom to go to market each Friday.
Arthur (Bill) was the elder by a few months and had lived in Aidensfield since birth. His mother, widowed in her twenties, had reared him but had died before I was posted to this beat. He was a dour character who said very little, and whose main interests appeared to be darts and dominoes at the Brewers Arms.
A stocky man, he had a square, weathered face with skin as tough as leather and thinning hair which encircled a tanned bald patch. In his mode of dress, he always appeared smart because he constantly wore a dark suit, a white shirt, a dark tie and black shoes, but closer examination would show that the suit was a little threadbare, the shirt could have done with washing and ironing while the tie bore evidence of several pub snacks and spilled beer. But from a distance, he looked fine.
Ben was more casual; taller than his friend by perhaps three inches, he was lean and angular, with a good head of dark, curly hair and a loping gait. Always untidy, his clothes generally seemed too wide or too long; sometimes he wore a grey suit, sometimes a pleasing sports jacket and flannels and occasionally, he would appear in casual wear such as jeans or a bright-squared shirt which made him look like a Canadian lumberjack.
Ben was rarely seen without a smile on his face; he always appeared to be happy with the world, and as he lived with his aged parents, he never had to worry about cooking his own meals or washing his own clothes.
All that kind of chore was done for him, and it was perhaps the influence of his mother which explained the size of his clothes. Maybe she still treated him as a growing
boy who required clothes just a fraction too large so he could grow into them. I think she failed to realise he had matured. Like Bill, he spent a lot of his time in the Brewers Arms playing darts and dominoes.
Close as their bachelor friendship was, there was never a suggestion there was anything sinister or unsavoury in their behaviour, and no one even considered theirs was a homosexual relationship. It wasn’t; they were two heterosexual men who loved a good time and who, in reality, had never grown up. Theirs was a life of casual ease with no responsibilities.
This eternally juvenile aspect of their existence had led to their outings at Galtreford market; ever since leaving school, they had made the weekly trip on Arnold’s bus. Their mission was to wander around the market and then adjourn to one or other of the local pubs to sample the ale, play darts or dominoes and meet some of their acquaintances, especially those of the female sex.
When Bill and Ben got among the women, there would be banter and chatter, but nothing else; certainly no dates and no real courtships arose from these carefree meetings.
On the return journey these lads, as everyone called them in spite of their age, would lead the community singing on Arnold’s bus. The more I heard about this outing, the more I thought I’d like to experience a trip to Galtreford market. I did not want to catch Arnold by identifying possible breaches of the many bus laws, but felt I’d like to experience the in-bus entertainment which seemed to cheer all those who travelled that route. I knew that singing on a bus was only illegal if it annoyed the passengers, and was sure this did not — how could it annoy if everyone joined in?
My opportunity came one Friday when I was having a day off duty. It was my long weekend. I had Friday, Saturday and Sunday off duty, a welcome sequence which came around once every seven weeks. On this date, it coincided with Mary’s turn to have the local children’s play-group at our house.
Several mums with tiny tots took turns in hosting a play-group; it allowed some of those harassed young ladies to take time off from their children, to enjoy a short shopping spree or to have their hair done and relax in other ways. Even though our four youngsters, aged between one and five, would make a class of their own, we both knew it was beneficial for them to mix with others of their age before starting primary school. So we joined that lively group.
On that Friday, it was made plain that if I remained at home, I’d be in the way. Because Mary might need the car to ferry home some of the visiting children, I felt the occasion presented me with an ideal opportunity to disappear by jumping onto Arnold’s bus and experiencing the delights of Galtreford market.
And so, as I stood at Aidensfield bus stop at half past nine that morning, I was joined by Bill and Ben. As we waited, no one said a word and eventually others joined the little queue, including a large brown and white spaniel.
Eventually, Ben looked at me, his curiosity getting the better of him. He asked, “Gahin ti market then, Mr Rhea?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about this outing, so I thought I’d come along.”
“Then stick wiv us, Mr Rhea, we’ll show you what’s what, me and my mate. Do you play dominoes? We could do with a third hand.”
“You’re on,” I said as Arnold’s bus came into view. The little queue clambered aboard and from the outset, it was evident that Bill and Ben had their own seat. The spaniel pushed its way through the queue and slid beneath one of the other seats from where it eyed everyone, almost as if it expected to be ejected. But it wasn’t.
Bill and Ben’s seat was the first one inside the door, a prime position because it allowed Ben to pass comments about everyone who entered and, if necessary, to lend a helping hand to any aged person. As there was no conductress on this bus, (Hannah had travelled into York on the other one), their help was appreciated, even when spiced with bawdy remarks.
Ben’s running commentary included remarks like “Howway, Mrs Preston, we can’t hang about all day just ‘cos thoo’s gitten arthritis” or “If thoo taks onny longer gittin in, Elsie, this bus’ll run oot o’ petrol,” or “Now then, Phyllis, leaving t’ old man again, are we? Ah’ll bet ‘e’s chuffed about that. ‘E’ll have that little milkmaid in ti mak’ is coffee this morning, mark my words!”
It was all part of the ongoing entertainment and Ben held forth with his chatty line of banter at each stop. The driver was one of Arnold’s pool of part-timers and he bore the chatter in silence as he accepted the fares and guided the old bus towards Galtreford. It pulled into the market-place, halted with a groan of brakes, and everyone, including the spaniel, spilled out on to the cobbles to go their separate ways. It was just ten
-thirty.
“Now then, Mr Rhea,” said Ben, as I waited for their next move. “What’s thy plans for today?”
“I have no set plans,” I said. “I think I’ll just have a look around, and then think about something to eat.”
“Right,” said Ben, who appeared to be spokesman for both. “Then thoo’ll have a game o” dominoes with us, eh? In t’ King’s Head. We allus ‘ave a mooch about till twelvish, and then settle in for t’ day with dominoes. There’s sandwiches, pork pies, pickled eggs and crisps in t’ King’s Head. We need a third hand, today. Thoo’ll be there, eh?”
“Right,” I said, and off they went, with the spaniel trailing behind.
I wandered around the colourful open-air stalls, listening to the banter of the traders and looking at second-hand books, antiques, furniture, crockery and all the other regular offerings of this busy little market. I enjoyed a coffee in one of the pubs which turned its bar into a coffee shop on market day mornings, and in no time, the town hall clock was striking twelve.
Somewhat apprehensively, I entered the King’s Head, a fine looking coaching inn just off the market-place, and spotted Bill and Ben seated at a table with the domino box already before them. Four pints stood beside it, and the spaniel lay beneath the table, apparently asleep.
“Yan o’ them’s yours.” At my approach, Ben indicated the beers with a wave of his hand. “Flossie’ll be here in a minute.”
“Play this game much, then, Mr Rhea?” asked Bill, eyeing the box of dominoes as he spoke.
I shook my head. “Not a lot, we used to play at our training-school, or during break-times when we were on nights.”
“Then you do know a bit about it. We play fives and threes, threepence a knock,” Ben informed me.
“Fine,” I said.
“And it’s Nick, isn’t it?” Then he leaned across and whispered, “We shan’t let on thoo’s a bobby, so thoo’s among friends!”
“Thanks,” I said, with genuine appreciation. It would be nice, being away from my own patch and being anonymous for a while, but I did wonder who Flossie would be. Then a heavily-made up woman arrived and sat down, sipped from one of the pints, and said, “Who’s your friend, lads?”
“Nick,” said Ben. “Pal of ours.”
“Hello Nick,” she said, and took a heavy draught. “Right, highest for off.”
Bill upturned the box and spread the dominoes face down upon the table and he selected a six four. He had to play first. I was still wondering about Flossie who could have been any age between thirty and forty-five.
She was a brassy woman with a husky voice and very heavy make-up which was adorned with rich, red lipstick and nail varnish. But to this day, I don’t know who she was or where she came from, or what she did for a living. But she could drink pints of beer with the best of the men, and I was to learn that she could play dominoes too.
As the game progressed, each of us bought at least one round of pints, and then we had a kitty to take us up to bus time. In between, we had sandwiches, pickled eggs and a pork pie each, which we shared with the spaniel, and the afternoon vanished in a haze of clicking dominoes and coins, shouts of delight, lots of spots totalling five or three or multiples thereof, and several pints of strong Yorkshire ale. Because, on market days, the pubs are open all day, we drank quite a lot.
I think I lost about six shillings and ninepence in all, but it was a very entertaining and relaxing way of spending a day. We all said farewell to Flossie, and at five-thirty returned to the bus stop, with the spaniel at our heels.
“We enjoyed that, Mr Rhea, thoo’ll etti come again,” said Ben.
“It’ll be a long time before I get another Friday off,” I managed to say. “But when I do, I’ll come along. Thanks for inviting me to join your game.”
“Flossie’d die if she knew you were a bobby,” laughed Ben. “But she’s good fun.”
“Where’s she from?” I asked.
“No idea,” he said. “No idea.”
And then the bus pulled in.
“If thoo hadn’t bought all them taties and carrots, Mrs Baxter, thoo’d git onto this bus a bit faster,” once more Ben launched into his commentary. “By, Mrs Harrison, Ah’ll bet thoo’s spent all this week’s wages on that there kettle, and I happen to know there’s nowt wrang wi’ that awd ‘un o’ yours. Ah’ll bet thoo reckons yon’s a bargain. But what’s your Fred gahin ti say? He nivver likes spending a penny … he’s as tight as a duck’s … ”
Bill and Ben settled on their special seat, the spaniel slid beneath another and I occupied one mid-way along the aisle. Then, as the old bus creaked away from the market, the singing started.
Led by Ben and a woman whom I did not know, it seemed that the entire complement of passengers joined in a happy programme of real sing-along songs like ‘Mother Kelly’s Doorstep’, ‘Ilkley Moor Bah’t ‘At’, ‘Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner’, ‘Blaydon Races’, ‘shine on Harvest Moon” and many more of that popular range. Bill and Ben produced bottles of beer from their pockets and so did several of the other passengers, women included, and a party atmosphere was rapidly generated.
The spaniel joined in by howling as some of the notes reached a high pitch, and I reckoned my own awful voice would not be condemned. So I joined in the noise too.
We would be around half-way home, when the bus eased to a halt in Partington. As it began to brake, Bill stood up and Ben clambered down the steps.
He jumped out as the bus halted, and so did Bill; the spaniel followed and so, because I now considered myself a member of their party, I did likewise. Others followed and said their cheery goodbyes, and the bus pulled away. We watched it leave as it echoed to the sound of happy singing; by now, the Merryweather Coaches Mobile Choir were well into ‘Home, Home on the Range’. As it vanished around the comer en route to Aidensfield and Ashfordly, Bill, Ben, myself and the dog stood on the side of the road in silence. No one said a word. I have no idea how long we remained there in our little group, but I wondered if this was part of their market day ritual.
At length, I said, “Well, what now?”
Ben looked at Bill.
“Thoo got off,” he said. “Why?”
“Ah didn’t,” countered Bill. “Ah just stood up to find my handkerchief. Thoo was t’ one ti get off. Ah just followed.”
“Ah thought thoo was getting off!”
“And Ah thought thoo was getting off.”
“And I thought you were both getting off,” I added.
The dog wagged its tail.
“Thoo was getting ready to get off!” snapped Ben.
“Nowt o’ t’ sooart,” retorted Bill. “Ah just stood up to dig deep for my handkerchief, then thoo jumped off.”
“Ah just jumped off because Ah thought thoo was gahin ti jump off … ”
And so we stood there like three stupid Charlies, the bus now weaving its ponderous way through the distant lanes as the spaniel looked at us for guidance.
“It’s a long walk back to Aidensfield, Mr Rhea,” said Bill slowly, reverting to the formal mode of address now that our day was drawing to a close.
The walk home was about six miles, many furlongs of which were steep rising hills, but there was no alternative. How on earth we came to be here still seemed something of a mystery, but we started our long walk. The spaniel seemed to be enjoying this part of the day, for it frolicked in the hedgerows and along the floral verges of the long, winding lane.
“At least your dog’s happy about it,” I said to Ben as we got into our stride.
“It’s not my dog, Mr Rhea,” said Ben.
“Nor mine,” added Bill.
“Well, it isn’t mine,” I felt I had to clarify that point. “Whose is it?”
Ben shrugged his shoulders. “No idea,” he said. “But he’s a grand little chap, reet good company. He comes wiv us ivvery Friday on that bus, follows us aroond t’ market and then ‘as a pork pie in t’ pub. He likes yon pie and comes home on t’ bus as well.
He nivver pays a fare, ‘cos nobody claims him, but Aud Arnold doesn’t mind.”
I could have inspected the spaniel’s collar to determine the identity of his owner, but he was some distance ahead of us now, sniffing and fussing about the roadside vegetation. To be honest, there seemed no point in worrying about his owner — clearly, this dog was his own master, just like Bill and Ben, and he would go home in his own good time. They were three of a kind, carefree and content, with no responsibilities and no one to answer to. They went where they pleased; they did as they liked, and thoroughly enjoyed their method of existence.
I began to wonder whether I was envious of them as we strode out of Pattington. But once away from the cottages, Bill, Ben and I were subjected to the effects of the beer and desperately found ourselves having to attend to the needs of nature. We found a tall and sheltering hawthorn hedge, climbed over a five-bar into a field and stood behind that hedge like three sentinels as we watered the undergrowth to the accompanying sounds of intense relief. The spaniel joined us by cocking his leg against the gatepost.
Thus satisfied, we renewed our walk home, and had walked but half a mile when it started to rain. Instead of complaining or attempting to shelter, the happy pair began to sing ‘April Showers’ in the style of Al Jolson. The dog howled as they reached the higher notes and the rain intensified with every passing minute.
I was pleased no one knew me, for we must have seemed a strange quartet of men and beast. But I enjoyed walking along with this strange, happy-go-lucky trio of market-attenders; perhaps I did feel just a hint of jealousy over their carefree way of life.
As I contemplated their mode of existence, and as the increasingly heavy rain saturated my clothes and hair, I began to wonder what Mary would think when she realised I hadn’t come home on the bus. A meal would be ready and she would be tired after hosting all those children, so I pondered upon her reaction when eventually I did walk into the house, weary, beery and wet.
Constable Along the Lane (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 4
