‘So what do you hope the Borstal boys will gain from this experience?’ I put to her.
‘A broadening of their outlook, a chance to meet people from different backgrounds with different ambitions, an opportunity to spend time in the countryside learning new skills, finding their own weaknesses and strengths . . . those camps can provide the ideal opportunity, Nick. They are designed to build character and to give confidence to youthful people — precisely the sort of things needed by some of those deprived kids.’
‘And who would take responsibility for the Borstal boys while they are here?’ I asked.
That would be decided by the college in consultation with the respective Borstal governors. Maybe they would not need to be supervised the whole time?
As she tried to persuade me about the merit of her ideas, I was recalling the many pieces of ancient wisdom which could be summarized in the old saying that a leopard will not change his spots. I’d known of earlier experiments of this kind, one where a council estate had been built next to some upper-class homes in the hope that the council-house occupants, who had been moved there from an inner-city slum, would emulate the upper-class householders. And it had been a disaster — the upper-class neighbours had been tormented until they had left . . . and a councillor had said at the time, ‘If you put a dog in the same sty as pigs to teach ’em good habits, the pigs will soon make the dog as mucky and greedy as them. Experiments like that never work.’
My immediate reaction was that there was every chance that the boys of Fairfax College would learn unsavoury things from the Borstal boys during such an experiment. That was the way that life tended to operate. But it was not my decision — I was being quizzed as a kind of barometer of local feeling.
‘I anticipate lots of problems, Ruth, along with some opposition from the village. You’d have to reassure the people in all the surrounding villages that the incomers would not present a threat. Borstal boys are real hard cases, you know, they’re not merely approved school types.’
‘But they are just boys,’ she added.
‘Older boys,’ I corrected her. ‘Young men. Men up to the age of twenty-one. Senior youths who were sent to Borstal after a life of committing serious crime and rejecting the norms of society.’
‘But they’re not beyond reform, Nick, not if they are placed in the right environment and given the right kind of encouragement. I think some of them deserve that chance. That is why I want to give it to them.’
‘Have you spoken to the headmaster of Fairfax about it?’ I asked.
‘Not yet. I wanted to test ground opinion first, Nick. You, in other words, you have the ears of the village.’
‘I admire your ideals, Ruth, but there are practicalities to overcome. So do you want me to go round and float the idea? I can test it upon the villagers and come back to you with their response.’
She smiled. ‘No, that would kill it before we even got going. I just wanted a gut reaction for starters. I need to know what kind of opposition there will be.’
‘Some of the villagers might not be too antagonistic,’ I said. ‘They might be willing to tolerate the Borstal boys camping nearby so long as they stay in the woods and aren’t allowed to roam the village. From a police point of view, that would be my immediate reaction. Let them come, restrict them to very small numbers and have them very carefully supervised at all times.’
‘You’re painting a gloomy picture already, Nick,’ she spoke quietly.
‘You must appreciate the kind of youths we’re talking about. To qualify for Borstal training, they must have committed a serious crime — not petty stuff like larceny or vandalism, but real crime — burglaries, housebreakings, crimes of violence, rape, that sort of thing. Most of them are at least seventeen years old and they’re up to twenty-one — at twenty-one, they’d go to prison for the same crimes. These lads are locked up for a minimum of six months; they are the really tough cases, Ruth, the hard men of the future. Most are beyond reform; they don’t want to change their way of life.’
‘If it’s reform we’re talking about, then there’s all the more reason to give it a try. Say, Nick, that I suggested to the head that he invites six Borstal boys to join his campers this year? Under strict supervision? Would you object, from a police point of view?’
I had no idea whether she was going to use my opinions as a fulcrum when she discussed it with the headmaster, so I emphasized that I was speaking from a personal point of view. My private reservations were not the formal reaction of the police service, nor of my local force, I told her. For an official response, she would have to approach the chief constable.
I did express an opinion that I could not foresee any major problems if the Borstal boys were under constant and close supervision. Whether a hardened Borstal trainee from a deprived inner-city background would adopt a new lifestyle through being in close proximity to a privileged youth from a private school was the type of question which would provide hours of theorizing and discussion.
In practical terms, it was the actual implementation of the idea that would provide some of the answers. And no one could guess what they would be, least of all a village constable.
In the weeks that followed, Ruth Lord discussed her proposal with the headmaster of Fairfax College who in turn had discussed it with the chief constable, the chairmen of the parish councils of Aidensfield, Maddleskirk and Elsinby, and the governor of a Borstal Institution situated on the Yorkshire Wolds. The governor said he welcomed the initiative and agreed with the vicar’s wife that there were some youths in his care who might benefit from associating with young people from a background which differed substantially from their own. The outcome was a formal meeting at Fairfax College involving the headmaster, Ruth Lord, myself and other interested parties such as my divisional inspector, the chairmen of the neighbouring parish councils, representatives from the East Riding Borstal and several of the Fairfax College teachers who undertook the responsibility for running the Fairfax camps.
The meeting decided that six Borstal boys would be invited to the next Fairfax College summer camp. The boys would be carefully selected from those due for imminent release, this being thought a sensible reward for their continuing good behaviour prior to that release. The camp was scheduled for the middle week in August and the Borstal boys would be accompanied by two warders. The warders would be expected to participate in the activities — indeed, one of them was a champion cross-country runner and the other an expert in rowing.
Both were Home Office approved physical fitness instructors. Their input would be useful to all the campers. Rudolph Burley, the auctioneer and chairman of Aidensfield parish council did express concern about security of village properties and the safety of some of the village girls if any of the Borstal boys ventured unaccompanied into Aidensfield but assurances were given that the selected boys would not be considered dangerous to the community, and that they would be subjected to constant supervision.
After a lot of sensible discussion, the scheme won the necessary approval and Ruth Lord was delighted. Her next request was for permission to visit the camp at mutually convenient times to see whether any progress was being made. No one could see any objection to this. In fact, it was felt that the occasional presence of a mature woman would provide a calming influence on the boys and so Ruth’s project became a reality.
Having entered the dates of the camp in my diary, I made a conscious decision not to visit the camp in uniform. In the eyes of the Borstal boys, that might be seen as provocative or a sign of distrust at a time when they were expected to display trustworthiness coupled with good behaviour, and so I decided to keep my distance — under normal circumstances, I would not have visited the Fairfax camp anyway unless requested for a specific purpose. When the date of the camp arrived, therefore, I wondered what the outcome would be. In my mind, it represented a strange mix of strong but youthful male humanity. I hoped it would not prove an explosive mix.
In the village there were
one or two mutterings and grumblings from the local people, some of whom worried about burglaries, housebreakings and assaults upon their daughters and wives, while some of the businessmen were concerned about break-ins at the garage, the pub or the shops. I knew that if we did get a crime of any kind during that week, it would be blamed upon the Borstal boys, whether or not they were responsible. I found myself praying that no such crimes occurred — I had no wish to visit the camp to interview anyone about crimes committed in the locality. Like Ruth Lord, I wanted the Borstal boys to show the rest of us that they could be trusted, and I wanted the villagers to give them that opportunity. A lapse by just one boy could put the whole scheme in jeopardy.
During the week, I saw Ruth cycling off to the forest to monitor what was, in effect, her own scheme. She spent a lot of time at the camp, or accompanying the boys on outings such as the long hike or the rock-climbing expedition to the Dales and then I experienced the first hint of concern. It came from Gerry Burns, one of the athletics masters at Fairfax College. He was involved with the running of the camp and I met him by chance when I popped into the pub for a leisurely pint on the Thursday evening.
‘How’s the camp progressing?’ I asked after the small talk had evaporated.
‘As enjoyable as always, Nick. They’re a lively lot this time, really keen to get stuck into tasks. Wonderful to work with, all of them.’
‘Borstal boys included?’ I put to him.
‘They’ve fitted in very well,’ he said. ‘There was a bit of mutual mistrust at first — that was inevitable, with each side eyeing up the other and putting them to the test, usually verbally, but soon they found common ground and within a day, there was no distinction. The projects involving teamwork were excellent and I must say our lads responded extremely well and I think some firm friendships have been formed.’
‘I’m pleased it’s all worked out.’ I sipped my beer. It was beautiful, like nectar. ‘I must admit I had some reservations.’
‘We didn’t exactly expect a trouble-free time,’ he agreed. ‘But there weren’t as many problems as I expected. But you’re not having any trouble from the Borstal boys, are you?’ he asked as we stood at the bar, each enjoying our pints.
‘Not the slightest,’ I said. ‘So far, so good, touch wood!’ And, jokingly, I tapped the wooden surface of the bar counter.
‘The vicar’s wife has taken a shine to one of them,’ he grinned mischievously. ‘She’s never away from him. And a fine big strapping lad he is too. Handsome and intelligent, she’s gone for him in a big way!’
‘Helping him, you mean?’ I had to ask.
‘More than that, I’d say, Nick.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ I had to defend Ruth. ‘She’s a middle-aged woman, the wife of a vicar, highly respectable.’
‘It happens,’ he said solemnly. ‘Women fall for younger men. It happens all the time.’
This was something I had never expected and something I could not envisage. If Ruth Lord had so ardently desired her scheme to be a success, the last thing she would do would be to compromise the entire operation by fooling around with a lad half her age, or less. But there was no accounting for love . . . I knew that too. Like all policemen, I knew that middle-aged women did sometimes fall desperately in love with younger men, often those with a reputation for daring and a disregard for authority. Such women often responded to a total change from their ordinary domestic routine. On several occasions during my police service I had had to deal with bouts of the domestic turmoil which had resulted from extra-marital relationships. But Ruth Lord?
‘I’ll believe that when I see it for myself!’ I tried to dismiss the possibility from my mind yet I could not ignore the possibility that it might have happened. I must admit that the revelation bothered me and if Gerry had put that kind of interpretation upon Ruth’s behaviour, then there might be some truth in his assertions. On the other hand, her actions could be totally innocent. Having aired this topic, we turned our conversation to other matters and eventually went home.
Although I had momentarily been concerned about Ruth’s alleged behaviour, I felt I knew her well enough to be certain she would not indulge in an affair with a Borstal boy, no matter how charming, persuasive and attractive he might be.
But on Friday lunchtime, while I was on duty and in uniform, I was driving past the vicarage on my way home for lunch and saw Ruth with a tall, handsome young man.
They were walking towards the church. He was wearing hiking gear and carried a rucksack on his back. I knew that Friday was the day of the big hike. The end-of-camp party would follow tonight. For the big hike, it was the practice for the lads to make an early start, around 8 a.m., therefore the group of hikers would be well into their trek and be several miles from Aidensfield by this lunchtime. So if this was a Borstal boy, had he bunked off, to use schoolchildren’s jargon? Was he one of the Fairfax pupils? Or someone else? I had to find out. I had to know if Ruth was leading him astray.
I halted my police van and climbed out. Ruth saw me and stopped, then she came towards me and, after a short hesitation, so did the youth.
‘Nick,’ she beamed, and I could see the excitement in her eyes and in her demeanour. ‘So nice to see you.’
‘Hello, Ruth.’ I looked at the big youth and he did not meet my gaze. He would be at least twenty-one, I guessed, a senior inmate who was serving the final weeks of his sentence. ‘I saw you and thought I’d ask how the camp was progressing.’
‘Wonderful,’ she beamed. ‘Absolutely wonderful, it’s been a huge success so far . . . oh, and this is Wayne Buckle, he’s attending the camp.’
‘Hello, Wayne.’ I held out my hand for him to shake and he hesitated, not looking me in the eye, and then Ruth said, ‘Go on, Wayne, Mr Rhea won’t bite!’
The big youth took my hand and shook it with a powerful grip; he was about six feet three inches tall with shoulders like an ox and hands like shovels.
He had close-cropped dark hair, blue eyes and ruggedly handsome features which would cause any woman to daydream about him. His appearance was the kind that might have been found in a male model or a film star, but I could not imagine this giant of a man fulfilling either of those roles. He looked more like a lumberjack to me.
‘Enjoying the camp?’ I asked him.
‘It’s great,’ he said and now he looked at me. ‘It really is, Mr Rhea. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.’
He had a strong Liverpool accent, I noticed and was clearly nervous of my uniformed presence. Clearly, he was not one of the public-school boys.
‘I’m delighted, but it’s all down to Mrs Lord. It was her idea.’
‘I know, it’s brilliant.’
‘So what do you do back home?’
‘Nothing. Hang about the streets, get into bother.’
‘And now? After being on this camp?’
‘Look for work, a career. Better myself; I can, I know I can now.’
‘I hope you do, Wayne. I wish you all the best. So you’re not going on the big hike today?’
‘No, I got excused. Ruth, Mrs Lord, is showing me her library and things in the church, so I can think about a career.’
‘Wayne is very keen on road building, Nick.’ When she mentioned this, I saw him blush as if she was betraying one of his secrets, but she continued, ‘I felt his interest was sufficient to get permission for him to not go on the hike today; his mentors gave him permission to spend the day with me, looking at books! Now, you see, when Wayne was very little, he was brought to our moors by a friendly neighbour and saw the Roman road in Wheeldale. That fascinated him, and he’s often thought he’d like to build a road but, well, the opportunity has never presented itself. So today, I am showing Wayne how to research the subject of roads — my husband has several books in his library, including one about the history of the Great North Road, and in the church, there is a map on the wall which shows the green tracks of the moors, as they were in the sixteenth century. I want Wayne to
be able to do his own reading when he gets back to Liverpool; they have a very good library service in the city, and want to give him an inkling on how to discover things for himself.’
‘I’d never been in a library,’ he said. ‘I never thought about how roads came to be here.’
‘I’ve got some books as well,’ I said. ‘Some about the law of highways and others on their history. If you’ve time to pop in sometimes, I’ll show you them.’
‘But you’re a copper!’
‘So?’
‘Well, coppers don’t help people, do they? I mean, I’m in Borstal and here’s you saying you’ll let me into your house and look at your books . . .’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying, Wayne. If I can help you to make yourself a career building roads, then I’ll be delighted to do so.’
He just stood and blinked; it was as if I was giving him a million pounds and I wondered if anyone had ever offered to help him before, rather than to tell him what to do or what not to do.
‘Can we pop around after lunch, Nick?’ Ruth took the initiative.
‘Sure, I’ll be in.’
I was now positive that Ruth Lord had no romantic designs on this big youth and was equally sure that this youth would respond to her assistance. When they came to my house, I took Wayne and Ruth into the lounge, never referring to his past before my wife and children, and showed him my modest library of books. I had some about toll roads, others showing the history of roads in the north of England, several about the Great North Road, its history and lore, along with stories from the coaching days, one about lost roads, another with the history of road building.
Wayne sat on the settee surrounded by my books and I said, ‘Wayne, what you need now is a list of these. Then, when you go home, you can ask for them at the library.’
CONSTABLE ABOUT THE PARISH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 17) Page 10
