Constable Through the Meadow Read online

  I had to investigate.

  I switched on my powerful torch and pulled open the driver’s door. The interior light came on and there, in the most bizarre situation upon the passenger’s reclining seat was Ronald. He was face down and beneath him was a woman. Both were completely naked. And neither could move.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, with a mixture of relief and embarrassment, unable to turn his head towards the door.

  ‘PC Rhea, Ronald.’

  ‘Oh, thank God …. get me out …’

  In the weak glow of the interior light, I could distinguish a tangle of bare legs; I could not identify the woman, and she was saying nothing. In fact, she was hiding her face by turning her head towards the wall of the car. But Ronald was saying ‘My foot, Mr Rhea, my leg …’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked, baffled by this discovery.

  ‘My legs … my feet … they’re trapped … can you loosen them …’

  I could now see that his right foot had disappeared through the cubby-hole of his car; it seemed he had been exerting pressure with that foot as a result of which it had dislodged the plastic back panel of the cubby-hole. His foot and much of his lower leg had then slipped through the hole to become trapped among the wires and bodywork, and he could not pull it out. That sudden action had then caused his left leg to make an involuntary movement, and his foot had gone through a gap between the spokes of the steering-wheel. That leg was also trapped due to the weight upon it.

  ‘Interesting position, Ronald,’ I said as I examined his predicament.

  ‘I can’t move, Mr Rhea. I just can’t move …’

  His entire body weight was resting upon the woman beneath; she could not roll free because the driver’s seat was not in a reclining position, nor could she slide towards the rear due to the slope of the seat upon which she was trapped, and Ronald’s position prevented a forward escape.

  Besides, one of her legs was somehow curled between his which well and truly anchored her. Unfortunately for Ronald his own trapped position and the weight of his body meant he could neither rise nor free his own legs.

  ‘I wish I had a camera, Ronald, this is one for the record books!’

  ‘Give over, Mr Rhea, just get me out … I’ve been here ages … I thought nobody was going to come …’

  ‘They wouldn’t, at least not until the quarry opens in the morning – it would give the lads summat to talk about. I just happened to be coming to the explosives store. Now, let’s see if I can shift one of these legs.’

  I went around to the passenger side and opened that door, upon which the woman turned her face the other way. It was almost the only part of her that I had not seen, but I set about removing Ronald’s foot. By pushing my hand through the cubby-hole, I could dislodge the panel which had secured his foot, and then, by heaving on that leg and getting him to bend his knee, I could release that foot. But he could still not help himself. Gradually, I eased the other foot out of the spokes of the steering-wheel, got into the rear of the car and dragged him towards the back seat by his shoulders, and then he was free. Aching, stiff with cold and very, very embarrassed, he rolled into the driver’s seat.

  And then the woman could move and I recognised her.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Stamford,’ I greeted her.

  She was the wife of an hotel owner in Ashfordly but she made no response, not even a thank-you. As I clambered out of their car, she began to get dressed in total silence as Ronald grabbed his clothes and began to pull them on in the lane as he talked to me.

  ‘Look, Mr Rhea, we’re men of the world. I mean, I’ve committed no crime, no offence … You don’t have to take action, do you? Report this, or anything? She is a respected lady from the town, you see, she’s never done this before, not with me anyway. Her husband’s away, He’s at an hoteliers’ conference in Harrogate …’

  ‘There’s no need to say anything, Ronald. Rescuing damsels and knights in distress is just part of our service. Well, it’s made my night interesting, but, Ronald …’

  I paused.

  ‘Yes?’ He was fastening his shirt by this time.

  ‘I’d love to know how on earth you managed to get yourself into that position. I’ll bet a contortionist would have a job to achieve that!’

  ‘You’ll not tell a soul, will you, Mr Rhea?’

  ‘It’s our secret, Ronald, ours and Mrs Stamford’s.’

  And I have never mentioned it to anyone. Ronald often greets me and insists on buying me a drink when I’m off duty, but the humiliated Mrs Stamford never speaks to me.

  But when I returned home and booked off duty that night, I realised I had omitted to do one vital thing. I’d completely forgotten to examine the explosives store.

  Possibly the most dramatic love story that came my way involved Mr and Mrs Colin Blenkiron and a notorious crossroads called Pennyflats Cross. So difficult and accident-prone was this stretch of road that my predecessor, and then I, kept a stock of blank scale-drawings of the roads for use in our accident reports. The number of traffic accidents which happened at that point kept us in regular work!

  Wherever a road traffic accident occurred which resulted in a need to examine all the evidence with a view to prosecution, we had to submit detailed plan drawings of the scene. These were carefully drawn to scale and contained the positions of the vehicles involved both before, during and after impact. This was for the benefit both of our senior officers in deciding whether or not to send the case to court, and later the magistrates if it did get to court. This system helped enormously to simplify a difficult explanation of the events. A stock of neatly drawn plans depicting this road, with all the constant measurements, the position of warning signs, indications of gradients, type of road markings, etc., did save a lot of time.

  At Pennyflats Cross, the main road, which had a ‘B’ classification, ran from Ashfordly to York and crossed Pennyflats, an area of elevated scrubland covered with small conifers, gorse bushes and heather. As it reached the crossroads, the road dipped suddenly and quite steeply, although this short gradient was well signed in advance.

  Nevertheless, many drivers who were strangers to the area were, when approaching from Ashfordly, largely unaware of the undulating nature of the road. They sailed over the summit without knowing and apparently without caring what lay beyond. That in itself could be regarded as careless driving or even dangerous driving because, just over the summit, within a matter of very few yards, was a minor road. It crossed the Ashfordly–York road at an oblique angle, emerging almost unseen from a plantation of conifers at one side and a copse of young silver birch at the other.

  Defence solicitors always maintained that these crossroads were badly placed and it was unfair to convict anyone of driving carelessly here. The police, however, assured the court that the crossroads was well signposted from all directions, and that, in any case, a driver should always drive at a speed and in such a manner that he or she could deal with any unexpected hazards.

  But a similar problem afflicted drivers coming out of the side road on to the main road. Upon emerging on to the main road, their vision was grossly impaired by the angle of the road and the profusion of trees. The chief problem was that those on the main road often crested that hill at speed only to find a slow car emerging into their path. So short was the stopping-distance that very few could pull up in time, not even those who pottered along in a leisurely style. Fast or even moderately fast drivers had no chance at all.

  Accidents were inevitable, and although we, the police, grumbled at the highway department and the district council for improvements to be made, nothing was ever done. Their argument was that the crossroads were not dangerous because no one had been killed there, and, oddly enough, that was true. There never had been a fatal accident there, although some nasty injuries had occurred. Everyone said that, one day, somebody would be killed, but happily in my time at Aidensfield that did not happen.

  I was not surprised therefore, one Sunday afternoon in
May, when I received a frantic phone call from a passing driver to say he had come upon two cars which had clearly just been involved in a traffic accident. He was chattering nervously as people tend to do when they are reporting urgent matters to the police, but I tried to calm him down by slowly asking the obvious questions.

  I learned that the location was the infamous Penny flats Cross, and that both drivers were injured. In his view, the injuries did not appear to be too serious although he said an ambulance was required. The road was not blocked and he had not witnessed the accident; he had come upon it moments after it had happened. I thanked him and said I would be there in less than ten minutes; I assured him I’d call the ambulance before I left home. He said he would wait and attend to the injured drivers.

  The accident was one of the kind that regularly happened here. A young woman in an Austin mini-car had come out of the minor road on to the main road just as a young man in a sports car had crested the brow of the hill. He’d reacted quickly and had attempted to swerve to his right to avoid a collision, but she’d kept coming across his path from the left. He had collided with the front of her car. This had spun her off the road and she had collided with a telegraph pole while he had veered further to his offside, ending his short trip by crumpling his MGB around a sturdy ash tree.

  A quick visual appraisal of both drivers showed that neither was too badly hurt; happily, neither was unconscious and I could detect no arterial bleeding; the girl, however, did say that her right arm hurt a lot and the youth complained of intense pain in his left leg. Tenderly, I examined both their injured limbs and was in no doubt that each was fractured; there were abrasions too, and some degree of shock. Hospital was a necessity for both.

  At that stage, the ambulance arrived. The injured pair were well enough to tell me their names and addresses before the skilful ambulancemen lifted them out of their vehicles, wrapped them in blankets and in no time had placed them aboard stretchers. In seconds, they were being borne towards York County Hospital for treatment. I thanked the passing driver for his assistance and confirmed that he was no longer required as he was not a witness. Then I radioed our Control Room with a request for a breakdown truck.

  The rest of my action was routine. I obtained measurements of the positions of their cars, cleared the scene, swept up the broken glass and made arrangements for relatives to be informed. The breakdown truck took away both cars, lifting one on board and towing the other, and I went home. Using my stock plan of the crossroads, I entered the position of each of the cars and completed my accident report as far as I could. I rang York Police with a request that an officer be allowed to visit the hospital when the injured couple were well enough, and that the officer be allowed to obtain from each their version of events.

  If they were not well enough, then other arrangements would be made; I also had their driving licences and insurance certificates to check.

  When all this was done, I submitted my report to the sergeant for onward transmission to the Superintendent and I was to learn later that he recommended ‘No prosecution’ on the grounds that there was no independent witness. No one could say precisely what had happened, for it was a case of the man’s word against the girl’s. And that, I thought, was that.

  But there was more to follow.

  Some time during the November that followed, I received a telephone call from a Mr Colin Blenkiron.

  ‘It’s Colin Blenkiron speaking. Is that PC Rhea?’ the voice asked.

  ‘Speaking,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Ah, good, well, I wondered if you’d like to come to a party, you and your wife.’

  ‘Me? Well

  At that instant, I couldn’t recall knowing anyone called Blenkiron and I was hesitant until he said, ‘That accident at Penny-flats Cross last May, Mr Rhea. It was me in the MGB Hardtop.’

  ‘Oh!’ Now it all came flooding back. ‘I remember now, that Colin Blenkiron! Well, thanks, what sort of party and where is it?’

  ‘It’s my engagement party, Mr Rhea, and it’s at the Hopbind Inn, Elsinby, a week on Thursday night. Half eight.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you,’ I was surprised at this. ‘Very kind. I’m off duty that night,’ I said. ‘And I know my wife would love the outing, but …’

  I was about to say that I was surprised at the invitation because Colin’s parents’ farm, which he ran in partnership with his father, was not on my beat. I did not know him or his parents, although I did know they were very wealthy and successful.

  ‘It was because of that accident, Mr Rhea, you looked after me, and Susan. Got us to hospital, and there was no court appearance for us either. So we’d like you to come to our party.’

  ‘She’s your fiancée?’ I was surprised.

  ‘Not then, she wasn’t. I didn’t even know her then! She’s my fiancée now, we met in hospital, you see.’

  ‘What a way to meet!’ I laughed.

  ‘Yes, well, it was. Actually,’ he chuckled, ‘we met in the ambulance, but we weren’t exactly on speaking-terms then! I was blaming her for the pile-up … I still am, by the way, and she was blaming me … anyway, in hospital, one thing led to another and here we are, getting engaged!’

  ‘What a lovely tale!’ I said. ‘Yes, then we’d love to come and wish you a happy future!’

  ‘Marvellous. We’re inviting those ambulancemen as well, they were great. See you then.’

  And he rang off.

  Mary was delighted. From time to time, one of my ‘customers’ produced an offer of this kind, a form of genuine and heartfelt ‘thank-you’, even if my part in their romance was very minor. We went along to the party and met their respective families, friends and relations. Susan Ascough, Colin’s fiancée, was a secretary in a big department store in York and lived in Ploatby, which was on my patch. She drove into York every day. I knew her parents by name, but had never met Susan until this evening.

  During the party, there were ribald jokes about their method of meeting, their respective injuries, their time in bed in hospital and the prospects for their future together. It was a very happy gathering and a real tonic for me, and even more so for Mary. Diplomatically, we left the party at closing-time for I did not wish to make them feel uncomfortable if they decided to stay awhile at the pub.

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ said Mary on our way home. ‘They seem a real nice couple, and their families are nice too.’

  ‘It makes you think that that accident was fate,’ I said. ‘I wonder if they’d have met each other if it had never happened?’

  ‘We’ll never know,’ she said. ‘And thanks for leaving the pub at closing-time!’ she added. ‘I hate people staring at you as if you’re a leper when the landlord calls time.’

  ‘A little drink after hours always tastes better,’ I said. ‘It’s like kids pinching apples – they’re always better than the ones at home, and drinks laced with a spot of law-breaking taste all the better for it. A hint of naughtiness will put the final seal on their celebrations!’

  ‘That’s if they do drink after hours!’ she laughed. ‘You’ll never know, will you?’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ I said, truthfully.

  I thought that would have been the last we’d see of Colin and Susan, but it wasn’t. The following March, we received an invitation to their wedding. It was fixed for the weekend before Easter in Elsinby Parish Church, with the reception at Craydale Manor. This was a fine country house which had been converted into an hotel and restaurant, and we looked forward to the whole celebration. The wedding was superb. In Elsinby’s historic parish church, the atmosphere and setting were both dramatic and moving. Susan looked a picture in her long white wedding dress with its train and eight tiny bridesmaids in the most delicate of pinks.

  Colin and his best man looked handsome and splendid in their top hats and tails, and the happy couple were united before a full congregation of family, friends and well-wishers. Beyond doubt, it was this district’s wedding of the year. Mary and I thoroughly en
joyed the occasion; we lingered as the photographs were taken outside the church, savouring every moment and participating in the sheer happiness of the newly-weds. As the village constable, it was so nice being part of this joyful event.

  Eventually, the photographer had taken all that he wished and the best man shouted for us to rejoin our cars and follow the bridal procession to the reception, after which the presents would be on display at the bride’s home in Ploatby. And so we all went off to Craydale Manor in a long procession of gleaming vehicles led by a silver Jaguar car with white ribbons fluttering from its bonnet.

  The reception was splendid; the excellent meal was run with flair and efficiency, Colin’s speech and those of the other dutiful men were fluent and entertaining, and the toasts were drunk with style and aplomb. The wedding had started at 11.30am and by the end of this reception the time had crept around to 2.30pm.

  At this time, the best man, a friend of Colin’s, said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the presents are on display at the bride’s home, Sycamore Cottage, Ploatby – you are invited to view them. The bride and groom will leave the bride’s home for their honeymoon at four pm. You might like to see them off.’

  Mary, who always loves a wedding, said she’d like to view the presents and see Susan’s going-away outfit, so we agreed to visit Sycamore Cottage, Ploatby. As we were leaving the reception, several other cars were doing likewise, and leading the first flush of departing vehicles was the silver Jaguar containing the bride and groom.

  The uniformed chauffeur had been hired with the car, both coming from a York firm which specialised in this kind of service. In an orderly fashion, the procession of cars filed out of the spacious grounds of the hotel and began to speed through the lanes towards Ploatby.