He chatted about my future, and about the responsibilities of occupying a police house, and then he said it was mine. I could have the keys next week.
When I told Mary, she was delighted, for our new home was a modem, brick-built house with up-to-date kitchen fittings and beautiful decor. It had a small, pleasant garden and it overlooked the harbour at Strensford with magnificent views of the abbey and old town. It ought to be said, however, that the railway station and some sidings did lie between us and that water. But that was a minor blemish.
When the tide was high, the views across the wide, upper reaches of Strensford harbour were delightful, but when the water was low, it revealed a narrow channel among acres of shining black mud littered with junk which had been deposited over many years. But the house was lovely.
The fact that it was not a standard police house did not worry us. Standard houses were constructed so that when a police family moved from one to another (as they did with staggering frequency), their furnishings and carpets would fit. As a theory, it was fine, but some standard lounges were three inches shorter than others; some bedrooms were narrower or longer than others, and there were many minor variations which made nonsense of the system. Even in standard houses it was difficult to make the furniture fit, and another problem was that the decor which pleased some families was horrific and bizarre in the eyes of others. But it was nice to know that the authorities had our interests at heart.
Our house had been rented by the local police because of a shortage of standard houses in Strensford, but luxuries like fitted carpets or full bedroom suites did not concern us. We hadn’t any. Happily, the decorations and exterior paintwork were in good repair.
At that early stage of marriage, we would have had difficulty filling a caravan with our belongings, let alone a semi-detached mansion. Happy with our new home, we settled in and were very content. A few weeks later the Superintendent met me during a patrol.
“Rhea,” he said, “I intend carrying out my house inspections and will be starting next week. I shall be calling on you. What is a convenient time?”
I performed some rapid mental gymnastics because I wanted him to come when the tide was full. I knew the harbour view would impress him, so I said, “Next Wednesday, Sir? Would 3 p.m. be suitable?”
He checked his diary and agreed.
When I told Mary, she grew flustered. I had to explain that his visit was not to check upon our cleanliness or her house-keeping ability, but to ascertain whether any repairs or other work were required on the house, either externally or internally.
“If he looks in all the rooms, there’s nothing … we’ve two empty bedrooms, nothing in the dining-room … ” She began to worry about our lack of furniture, and whether we would be asked to vacate it.
I must admit that this did bother me too, particularly as I’d recently assured him I could furnish a home. To cut a long story short, we borrowed from friends a dining suite, a three-piece suite, two single beds, two wardrobes, rugs, carpets and some sundry furnishings. The result was that on the day of the house inspection, our little home looked almost luxurious. All the young constables did this; we regularly borrowed each other’s stuff on such occasions.
Because Mary was at work at the appointed hour I stayed to show him around. When the Superintendent arrived, I took him into the lounge, now fully furnished and smelling heavily of polish. A vase of flowers occupied the window ledge and pictures hung from the walls, but he was only interested in the lovely view. It was a fine sunny day and the full harbour glistened in the brilliant light. He rhapsodized over the scene which spread before him and chatted about the yachts and small boats on the water as he admired our superb maritime view.
Then he asked if any maintenance work was required and I said, “No, sir, it’s in good repair, inside and out.”
“Good, well, as you know, Rhea, we decorate internally every three years and externally every seven. That will be done automatically. If you need urgent work done, such as plumbing leaks, washers on taps and so on, submit Form 29.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you keep a nice home, Rhea. Give my congratulations to your wife. It’s nice to see things looking so well — and you’ve a nice taste in three-piece suites. PC Radcliffe has that design on his suite too, you know.”
Then he smiled and left. The Superintendent was very astute, I decided, and Mary was pleased that he did not venture any further than the lounge. Our impressive view had kept him in one room.
And so we started as occupants of several police houses. We bought more furniture when funds permitted and produced a brood of infants within surprisingly few years. By the time we arrived at Aidensfield, we had, of necessity, to furnish all the rooms to accommodate the six members of our family.
Once again, we were fortunate to be provided with a lovely house and a lounge with a view, even if it did mean regular house inspections. In addition, we had local government bureaucracy to contend with when maintenance or improvements were necessary. This led to several battles. My first concerned the outer passage and washing-room. The passage had a door at each end, and just off it was the room which housed the clothes washing facilities and which also acted as a storeroom. It sounds most convenient, but that neither the passage nor the washing-room had windows or lights. In the passageway, an open door would provide light during the daytime, but the wash-room could have served better as a photographer’s dark-room.
So I made application, on Form 29, for a light to be fitted in the windowless washing-room. Then we would be able to use it for that purpose. The Superintendent
rejected my request on the grounds that it was an ‘improvement’; improvements to police authority houses needed special approval from up high, from bodies like the Standing Joint Committee and the County Architect. To reach them, my application would have to proceed via Headquarters’ departments and the Chief Constable himself! For reasons he did not explain, the Superintendent refused to forward my report to them; our local ‘official channels’ terminated upon his desk. There seemed no way to by-pass that blockage.
I did try by explaining that it was impossible to work in that room and that, in its present form, it was useless for its intended purpose, or indeed any other. He continued to utter ‘improvement’ as his excuse for refusing to allow my report to reach other decision makers. I grew more determined and renewed my campaign by tackling it from another angle.
My next Form 29 suggested that an outside light was necessary to eliminate possible danger to callers at the police house. I suggested that its best position would be above the passage’s north-facing door. It would then shine along the passage at night (if the door was open), and would also shine along the entire frontage of the house. I thought it might even shine into the washing-room if two doors were left open!
That was rejected too, again by the Superintendent. Now even more determined. I re-applied for a light to be fitted outside the office door. This time, my Form 29 pointed out the possible danger to the public who might stumble over the steps and who might then sue the Standing Joint Committee for damages or compensation …
This time, I got an external light fitted — but it was over the door of the police office and its welcome light did not shine into the passage or the wash-room. When eventually I left the police house at Aidensfield, that washing-room and passage were still without a light. We had to squeeze our washing-machine into the tiny kitchen, no mean feat when it daily washed mountains of nappies.
Also under the heading of ‘improvement’ was my suggestion that some radiators be run off the little domestic coke boiler.
This tiny furnace was installed in the kitchen and its fierce heat filled the room and heated the water; even in summer, we had to keep it stoked up to cope with masses of baths, nappies and kiddy clothes. We lost gallons of perspiration and I reckoned it would keep two or three central heating radiators well supplied. But because this was an ‘improvement’, it was not permitted. My Form 29 was r
ejected.
Then the pipes of this boiler began to make frightening noises. Narrow pipes connected the boiler to the mains water supply and to the hot water tank upstairs, and they began to rattle and vibrate as the heat intensified. In time, I grew very alarmed and rang the Superintendent’s office about it. He returned my call to say that such noises were normal in the plumbing world. He expressed this opinion without hearing the racket they made. I felt the noise was far from normal but realised that once again, I was battling against bureaucracy. I waited for a while and the noise grew worse; a friend said the pipes sounded as if they were blocked, a common occurrence in hot water pipes hereabouts because the lime deposits from the local water furred them.
Repeated requests via Form 29 met with nil response and this frustrated me. Being country bom and bred, I was used to coping with my own domestic maintenance — we would never call in anyone to do jobs we could do ourselves such as painting, decorating, running repairs to machinery, tiling, pointing — in fact, anything and everything. But as occupants of a police house, we were instructed not to attempt any repairs or work, not even the replacement of a tap washer. I found these restrictions very frustrating.
The clattering grew worse. We reached the stage where we were frightened to light the fire because of the clamour coming from those pipes and this meant we had no hot water. Then came salvation. It came in the shape of a memo from the Superintendent which announced he was coming to conduct a house inspection.
I recognised the opportunity presented by his visit.
He was due at 11.30 a.m. one Friday, a busy day for nappies and infant washing, and so I arranged for the boiler to be well-stoked up and the flues opened wide to coincide with his visit. I was confident that the resultant noise from those pipes would terrify him. It didn’t matter which part of the house he was visiting at the time, because I was sure the din could be heard throughout a building of castle proportions.
He came, inspected, had a coffee and asked about the pipes. After all, a succession of Forms 29 had made him aware of the problem. I said they were worse, upon which he ventured into the kitchen. It was now uncomfortably hot as the coke performed its heating role and he looked at the offending pipes. There was nothing to see — they were just two pipes running up the wall.
And then, almost as if they knew he was standing there, they performed on cue. It was just as if a giant with a big hammer was inside, banging and hammering to be let out and the whole house vibrated as the pipes visibly shuddered in their moment of triumph.
“My God!” he panted, rushing from the kitchen, white-faced and anxious …
Early next day, a plumber arrived. After an examination, he said the pipes were almost blocked; the hot water was trying to rise through the cold pipe and had we not called him, there could have been a shocking explosion …
My final Form 29 confirmed that the pipes were working normally.
In such minor ways, my work and domestic life overlapped, although there were other instances. For example, at 4 a.m. one morning, a lorry driver knocked me out of bed and roused the entire family, simply to ask directions to Home Farm. On another occasion, at 6.30 a.m. one day when I was on holiday, a farmer came to the door to seek a pig licence. When I said I was on holiday and that he should go to Ashfordly Police Station, he said, “Well, you’re t’ bobby, aren’t you?”
I issued his licence.
In many ways, it was my young family which further involved me in this curious mixture of duty and home. One day, when I was enjoying time off during the week, I decided to do some gardening. I claim no greenfingered skills, but felt that if I dug enough holes and cut enough grass, I could believe I had achieved something positive. During this enterprise, Mary asked if I would look after the children while she went to Ashfordly to do some shopping. I agreed, so she jumped into our car and cheerfully vanished towards the market town.
The day was fine and warm, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself. The children were playing in the garden behind the house and I had fixed up a plastic bath half full of water which they were using as a paddling pool. After about an hour, I broke from my chores to make myself and the children a cool drink.
“Where’s Charles?” I asked.
“Gone to the toilet,” said Elizabeth.
He was only three and I accepted her answer. I put his drink on the step and settled down to await his return. He did not come. I went indoors and looked at both toilets; he wasn’t there. I went into his room and looked in the bed, the wardrobe and under the bed. He wasn’t there either.
Knowing that children love to play hide and seek, I searched the whole house as only a policeman can, but found no sign of him. Now more than a little worried, I checked my office, the garage, the passage and the washing-room with its darkness. There was no Charles. I re-checked all the beds by pulling back the covers and looking underneath, then I searched the pram and finally tackled the garden. There were shrubs, trees and plants, a cold frame and plenty of long grass to conceal a little boy, but my frantic hunt failed to locate him.
By now, my concern was becoming genuine alarm and I made several more sorties into the house, the garage and the garden. And then I wondered if he’d jumped into the car to accompany Mary?
That seemed the only logical explanation, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised he hadn’t. She’d have mentioned it, surely? She’d wanted a moment or two to herself … I’d seen her leave alone …
I stood in the middle of my garden, by this time a very worried man. Where on earth could he have gone? Even though the garden gates were shut, I went onto the main road and looked up and down. I was able to gaze along almost half a mile of highway, but there was no sign of the toddler. He’d vanished into thin air and I was in a dreadful dilemma. I could not leave the rest of them alone while I went to seek Charles, and I began to understand the problems of some parents. What could I do? Anyone else would have telephoned the police!
With this possibility rapidly gaining strength in my mind, I realised I couldn’t remember what he was wearing. Of course, a three-year-old lad wandering about unaccompanied wouldn’t be too difficult to locate …
I decided upon yet another thorough search of the premises. It drew a blank. Outside, the other children played happily, quite oblivious to my growing alarm, and at last I went into my office and dialled the Ashfordly Police Station number. It rang and rang; there was no reply. They’re never there when they’re wanted, I grumbled! I decided to ring the Divisional Police Station at Malton to ask if a car was patrolling in the Aidensfield area. That was quite possible because I was not on duty, and the area would not be left totally without a patrol. If there was a car nearby, it would be radio-equipped and the driver would keep his eyes open for any missing child.
I began to formulate my request; I would ask the driver to keep observations for a child aged three, with light brown hair, clothing unknown, who might be wandering …
As the phone began to ring, someone knocked on my office door. What a time to call! I was off duty anyway! Slamming down the phone, I opened the door. A lorry driver was standing there and he was holding Charles in his arms. His vehicle was parked outside.
“Found this kid,” he thrust the infant towards me. “Wandering down t’ hill … biggest wonder he didn’t get killed … some parents … thought you’d know who belonged him … ”
“Er, yes,” I didn’t know how to respond. “Er, come in … have a cup of tea … ”
“No, got a schedule to keep. You know him then?”
“Yes,” I said, humbly.
“Good, thought you would. Give his mum a rocket, eh? For letting him get out like that … stupid bloody parents … ”
And off he went.
I hugged Charles with relief, being unable to explain to the little fellow the problems he had created. I decided that my immediate priority was to fix child-proof locks on the garden gate, but also decided not to tell a soul about this. Not even Mary.
M
y latter plans went haywire too. A lady in the village had been present when the lorry driver collected the wandering child and had directed him to the police house. She told Mary …
The whole village knew too. I was suitably humbled, embarrassed and chastened. And little Charles never batted an eyelid, although I did fix child-proof locks to the gates. Ever since, I’ve had sympathy for parents whose children go wandering.
Another personal domestic crisis concerned Margaret, our two-year-old daughter. From the moment she could crawl, she could climb. She climbed the stairs and chairs, steps and trees, bookshelves and pantry shelves. She could climb on to the car bonnet, on to the motorcycle and on to the backs of settees and indeed upon almost any piece of domestic equipment or furniture. At times, I felt she had a wonderful future as a rock-climber or steeplejack and this was confirmed when she managed to climb out of her bedroom window on to the outer ledge.
She remained there as I pleaded with her not to move; with her safely indoors, I then secured the window, but soon she was climbing up the shelves of the wardrobe and sitting on top. On one occasion, she was marooned up an apple tree and on another managed to climb into a fireside chair and from there gain access to the mantelpiece. From these escapades, she was unscathed.
But, inevitably, an accident was bound to happen; one day she would fall and hurt herself.
One lunchtime, I returned from a motor-cycle patrol to find Mary holding little Margaret over the kitchen sink as blood poured from her tiny mouth. The accident had happened only seconds earlier. Without even removing my crash helmet, I took one look at the injury and found a gaping wound inside her mouth.
Without asking for an explanation, I rang the village doctor who, fortunately, was at home having his lunch. “Bring her down,” he said. I packed some cotton wool over the wound to stem the flow and rushed Margaret to the doctor. Mary couldn’t come — she had the other children to look after.
“No good,” the doctor said instantly. ‘she needs hospital treatment, stitches. You take her there now, I’ll ring to say you’re on the way.”
Constable Along the Lane (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 13
