Constable Through the Meadow Read online

  I was somewhere towards the rear with perhaps ten or a dozen cars ahead of me. I simply tagged on behind and others followed me, for some of the guests were strangers and did not know the route. I made it clear I would show them the way. As we moved off, there was a good deal of merriment with people waving at each other out of car windows, flying their silk scarves, throwing confetti, shouting and laughing as we passed through the splendid Ryedale countryside.

  And ahead was the fine Jaguar, its polished silver bodywork glistening in the bright sunshine of the day as the happy couple waved and blew kisses to everyone. It disappeared around the sharp corners and was frequently hidden from my view by the high hedges and the distance between us.

  As we motored along Hazel Burn Lane which joined the Ashfordly–York road, I lost sight of the powerful Jaguar; its lead had become quite substantial but I did not try to keep pace with it, for I had no wish to lose those behind me who were relying on my guidance. And then we were on the main road, the B-class highway which led towards York. Driving steadily, I was approaching the dangerous portion over Pennyflats Cross, and even as I neared the place, I saw several smart-suited gentlemen waving us to a halt.

  ‘Oh, no!’ I groaned at Mary. ‘What now! Don’t say there’s been an accident today of all days!’

  With every passing yard, it was clear there had been an accident, for cars were strewn across both lanes of the highway and people were milling about, shouting at us to slow down and stop. I pulled on to the grass verge, making sure my car was clear as I went to investigate. Upon my advice, Mary remained in her seat – the fewer people about the scene, the better.

  When I crested that notorious hill, my heart sank. The silver Jaguar was on its side, its roof crushed against the very same ash tree that Colin had hit only months ago. Also lying on its side in the middle of the road was a tractor and trailer, the trailer having carried a load of manure. It was spread across the carriageway and other cars were scattered randomly about the road with anxious people milling about …

  I ran to the Jaguar.

  I knew Colin and Susan were inside and the awful silence about the car made me fear the worst; I was no longer a wedding guest, but a policeman who had suddenly found himself on duty. As I ran down the road, weaving between irregularly parked cars, I saw that several had been slightly damaged. The accident was one of the shunt type when each car runs into the back of the one ahead. Seven or eight had been damaged, but I was not concerned with those. I arrived at the Jaguar to find a knot of helpers trying to reach the bride and groom who were in the rear seat. No one seemed to be worried about the chauffeur, and at this stage I was not even aware of the tractor driver’s injuries.

  Susan, her wedding dress stained with blood and dirt, was crying as she lay on top of Colin; he was curled up in an untidy heap as he lay among the broken glass and shattered metalwork of the car body, and he was bleeding about the head and face. I told the helpers who I was and they stood aside as I wrenched open the rear door which now lay uppermost and somehow, I don’t know how, I found myself crouched inside the rear compartment, mysteriously avoiding trampling on the couple.

  They were conscious but hurt; I shouted for someone to call two ambulances and to stress the urgency due to the number of casualties, then call the police, a local doctor and finally a nearby garage to arrange lifting-gear and cutting-equipment. I asked the volunteer to give a detailed account of the multiple accident; he said he would cope.

  I thought Colin or the chauffeur might be trapped, such was their position in the wreckage. Each was lying on the side of the car which was on the ground, the roof being caved in around them. I asked the gathered menfolk to care for their ladies and other guests, and to ensure that there was adequate warning for approaching vehicles. I didn’t want more pile-ups and I asked them not to move their cars; their position was vital for the subsequent official report.

  But I must see to Colin and Susan. Speaking to them in what I hoped were soothing terms, I managed to move Susan to a more comfortable position. Then I made a very brief and almost cursory examination of Colin. He was sighing with pain and I daren’t move him in case he had broken bones or internal injuries which could cause further damage. One of his arms seemed to be trapped somewhere beneath him and careless handling could aggravate any injuries he might have.

  Relieved that he was alive, I now looked to the unfortunate chauffeur; he was lying trapped too, unconscious and pale with a spot of blood on his face, but he was breathing quite smoothly. I did not touch him. This release required the skill of experts and the injured people needed medical attention. I hoped the messages for help would receive the attention they required. And I was not disappointed.

  The sequence of events moved rapidly ahead. In what seemed a very short time, the emergency services arrived; a motor patrol car based at Scarborough had happened to be patrolling nearby and two capable officers, not closely known to me, came and dealt very efficiently with the multiple accident, paying immediate attention to the casualties. Two ambulances came and, with the help of us all, and the garage’s lifting-gear, we soon had the casualties free and on their way to hospital.

  The chauffeur was placed in a second ambulance and the tractor driver, who seemed to be forgotten by most of us, was also placed on board. The other casualties were all suffering from minor injuries and shock, and Doctor Archie McGee, summoned from Elsinby, was able to treat most of them without hospitalisation.

  I sent Mary home while I remained to help the two officers with the statement-taking, clearing the scene and generally making myself useful. Under the circumstances, I’m not sure if anyone went to the house to see the presents, but we didn’t. I was shattered by the awful turn of events, the enormity of which did not register until some time later.

  This is a feature of police work; you deal with a harrowing incident in a cool and professional way, and it is later, when relaxing at home, that the sheer horror of the incident registers. I’m sure many police officers have wept with sorrow and anger after dealing with terrible incidents.

  But this was not such a serious case for there were no fatalities. That, I felt, was another example of fate. With so many cars involved, there could have been carnage.

  I rang the hospital to enquire after each of the casualties and learned that Susan had fractured an ankle and had suffered lots of bruising to her body. Colin had a broken arm, a minor fracture to his skull and lots of cuts about the face; the chauffeur, a man from York called Eric Wallis, had fractured six ribs and had facial injuries due to impact with the steering-wheel and windscreen. The tractor driver, a 56-year-old farm worker called Eddie Harper, had been knocked from his machine to suffer a broken shoulder blade, a broken arm and severe lacerations to his face and hands.

  The following day, I rang the two motor patrol officers to explain about my battles to get the junction made safer either by more signs, better advance warnings and a clearer view from the minor road and they assured me this would be incorporated in their report. Their enquiries, based on witness statements, suggested that poor old Eddie Harper had pulled out of the minor road with his slow-moving tractor and trailer, and the fast-moving Jaguar had crested the blind summit of that hill driven by a man who was accustomed to city traffic, not country roads. The Jaguar had hit the tractor, and the following cars had each collided with another vehicle. Nine of them were damaged, and fifteen people had been injured.

  It was the worst accident on my patch and I hoped it would result in some improvements to that road. And then, about six or seven weeks later, I received a phone call.

  ‘It’s Colin Blenkiron,’ said the voice. ‘We’re out of hospital, Mr Rhea, Susan and me, and we wondered if you and Mrs Rhea would like to see the wedding presents? I know it’s a bit late, but we’re having friends in, a few at a time … how about Sunday afternoon, say three-ish?’

  ‘We’d love to!’ I enthused.

  ‘Drive carefully!’ he said, laughing.

  It was pou
ring with rain as we went along to their lovely cottage and we found both of them still wearing dressings on some of their injuries and both chuckling at the absurdity of the situation.

  ‘That crossroads has got it in for us!’ Colin laughed as he poured the wine. ‘It’s put us in hospital twice now … I never go that way when Susan’s with me. I’m not risking another accident, I can tell you!’

  ‘You met me because of Pennyflats Cross!’ she retorted with good humour.

  ‘And I got put in hospital twice because of it!’ he said. ‘And that first accident was all your fault …’

  ‘It wasn’t! It was yours!’ she cried. ‘You were going far too fast …’

  ‘Here’s to the pair of you!’ and as the driving rain beat upon their cottage, a flash of lightning was followed by a crack of thunder which rattled the windows.

  I raised my glass to them and then, for some odd reason, I remembered the words of Samuel Beckett in, I think, All That Fall. I quoted them as a toast, “What sky! What light! Ah, in spite of all, it is a blessed thing to be alive in such weather, and out of hospital!’

  And Colin kissed Susan.

  7

  ‘A difference of taste in jokes is a great strain on the affections.’

  George Eliot, 1819–80

  Society will have its jokers. Throughout the ages there have been many classic pranks, some on a large scale and others of a very minor nature. In the countryside, April 1st has always been a good time for practising pranks upon one’s friends, relations and workmates. I remember one joker who claimed that hens’ eggs could be stretched if they were collected immediately after being laid because at that moment, their shells are still soft. He said they could be stretched to appear larger and so fetch a better price.

  In our area, one newspaper printed a story that the castle at Barnard Castle was to be demolished to make way for a bridge across the River Tees, and there was a joke that almost went wrong when a man walked into a park and picked up a new park bench under the nose of a policeman. He was stopped on suspicion of theft and claimed he wanted the seat for firewood. He was promptly arrested and when he explained that it was merely a joke no one believed him. He did, however, manage to prove that the seat was his own, as he’d bought it specially for the joke only the day before.

  One Yorkshire lad tricked his family and friends when he organised a spoof wedding. He and a girlfriend had apparently got married, had their photographs taken, and then driven around town in their wedding outfits for all to see.

  One of my favourite jokes was the news that British time was to be decimalised. It claimed that, in order to rationalise Great Britain with the move towards metrication and decimalisation, the year would no longer have twelve months. Instead, Britain would have 10 months, each comprising 10 weeks; there would be 10 days to each week, and 10 hours to each day. Each hour would have 10 minutes and each minute would be split into 10 seconds. A year would be called a Kiloday, a month would be a hectoday, a week would be known as a decaday, while a minute would become a centiday and so forth.

  Furthermore, to coincide with the change, Big Ben would become digital and there would be wage adjustments to cope with each Leap Kiloday.

  Harmless, and at times very believable, jokes are great fun, such as the time our local zoo claimed they had found the Loch Ness Monster and even fooled the Scottish police into halting them at the border as they tried to smuggle out the carcase. It was in fact a huge type of seal, but the police had unearthed a byelaw which forbids the taking of certain rare species out of Scotland and so they were halted at the border in the belief they had the Loch Ness Monster in their possession!

  One ‘animal’ which is a regular victim of April Fool jokes is the famous White Horse of Kilburn. It overlooks the North Yorkshire countryside from its vantage point just below the rim of the escarpment near Sutton Bank.

  This huge white shape of a horse, over 105 yards long, was cut from the hillside in 1857 from plans drawn by John Hodgson, the headmaster of Kilburn village school. Helped by his pupils and a group of local men, Hodgson carved the horse from the hillside where it remains a landmark for miles around. It is the only hillside sculpture of its kind in the north of England and can be seen from over 70 miles away. It was filled with white lime and so the outline of this magnificent horse continues to dominate the countryside around Kilburn, not far from Aidensfield. But on April Fool’s Day, the horse is liable to change! From time to time, it has been transformed into a zebra, a cowboy’s horse with a rider and, in recent times, a well endowed stallion.

  I think it is fair to say that most of us enjoy a clever but harmless joke and police officers are no exception. A clever April Fool joke is always appreciated and so are jokes perpetrated at other times of the year.

  I well remember one young rookie constable who was ordered to place traffic cones around York Minster one Sunday morning which happened to be April 1st. He had been told that today was the annual Archbishop’s Foot Race, when every clergyman in the York Diocese was expected by the Archbishop to run a short race around the Minster, all dressed in their cassocks and surplices. The lad had therefore coned off the entire Minster moments before the regular services were due to start. If he kept his cones there, no one could enter the Minster.

  The situation was rectified at the last minute when he received a radio call, supposedly from Police Headquarters, to say the race had been cancelled because the Archbishop had influenza.

  Other jokes included leaving notes for the night-shift sergeant to the effect that the Chief Constable had requested an early call at 5am, and a similar one backfired when an unsuspecting constable was ordered to wake up the warden of the local dogs’ home at 5am by knocking on his door. He was told that the warden had made this request and that he had insisted that the police keep knocking until he answered the door. He was a noted over-sleeper and had a very important meeting that day. The truth was that the warden didn’t live on the premises; in fact, no one lived on the premises except hundreds of dogs, and the resultant continuous loud barking roused the entire town.

  It was when I called at Eltering Police Station one day on duty that I found myself involved in a practical joke on a new constable who had recently arrived. His name was Justin Pendlebury, a man of about twenty-eight years of age, and he came from a very wealthy background; it seemed his family were from the stockbroker belt of Surrey, but Justin had decided to break away from both family and environment to become a constable in the North Riding of Yorkshire. We never knew why he had done this, but in fact he proved himself a very capable young officer.

  But he had one annoying character trait. He was rather pompous and always boasted about the style and quality of his clothes. Certainly, he dressed well, far better than the rest of us. His suits were beautifully cut, he wore hand-made shirts and shoes, exquisite silk ties and his casual wear was of the very highest quality.

  Justin certainly looked very stylish and smart, but he made everyone aware of the fact, telling us tales of how his tailor was the very best in London’s West End, how the fellow made all his suits by hand and dressed film stars, politicians and City business people. Justin scorned the cheap suits and flannel trousers that we wore, saying we ought to be more clothes-conscious. But none of us copied him or ever tried to emulate his style. If our clothes kept us warm and dry, then that was good enough.

  Although everyone liked Justin and admired his professionalism when on duty, we did get sick of his continual talk of fine clothes, men’s fashions and popular styles. He talked of Ascot, Glyndebourne and Epsom as we talked about the back row of the Empire Cinema or the cheap end at Thornaby Races and Cargo Fleet Greyhound Track.

  As I entered Eltering Police Station that day, I walked into a discussion about clothes. And, as usual, it was led by Justin. He was having an animated conversation with PC. Alf Ventress and two visiting officers, PCs George Henderson and Harry Pitts.

  Alf Ventress was known to us all as Vesuvius because his unifor
m was always covered in ash and he was likely to erupt at any time; he was a huge, grizzly-haired constable of the old-fashioned type whose trousers always needed pressing, whose tunic was constantly smothered in dandruff and cigarette ash, whose boots always needed cleaning and whose shirts always sported crumpled collars. He was the last person to be discussing smart clothes with Justin.

  ‘Ah, young Nick,’ he said as I walked in. I had my bait-bag with me, bait being the name for my sandwiches and coffee. I was to take my meal-break here this evening.

  ‘Hello.’ I nodded at them all as they were seated around the kitchen of the police station, with the kettle boiling and a bottle of milk on the table.

  ‘Just the chap!’ said Vesuvius to me. ‘Nick, a few months ago, you were telling us of a tailor you knew, one of the old-fashioned kind who makes suits by hand. He sits on his table cross-legged, you said, and you can see him at work through his window.’

  ‘Golding,’ I said. ‘John Golding,’ for this was his name and I remembered telling them about him.

  ‘The best for miles around, you said,’ continued Vesuvius and he winked at me in what I recognised as the beginnings of a conspiracy of some kind.

  ‘He does a lot of work for the local folks,’ I agreed. ‘Yes, he turns out some good stuff, our farmers love him.’

  ‘Justin here was saying he needed somebody local to make him a good suit,’ Vesuvius continued. ‘I was telling him of that chap you mentioned; couldn’t think of his name or where he works.’

  ‘Ah, well, John Golding,’ I said to Justin. ‘He’s a bit old-fashioned, but he sits there in full view of the street making suits, jackets, trousers and so on. He’ll tackle women’s costumes, children’s coats and, well, everything, even rugs for horses or car travellers. He’s always busy.’

  ‘Really, where’s he operate?’ asked Justin.