Constable in the Dale (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 5) Page 17

  During my short time at Aidensfield, I’d had several confrontations with him, many when he was fighting fit on a Saturday night, and fortunately I managed to cool his earthy antagonism; he was good enough to respect the uniform I wore, and sensible enough to take my regular advice to “get away home before there’s any more trouble”. Without me there, he would speedily launch himself into any situation, good or bad, and at times would emerge with black eyes, bruised groins and flattened nose. Sometimes he was the victor, sometimes the vanquished.

  Even though I had taken him to court for many motoring offences, and dragged him off umpteen opponents outside dance halls and pubs, there was a peculiar kind of respect and friendship between us. In his sober, upright moods, he would do anything for me; he once saved me from a beating up when some thugs came from Stokesley to do battle with the Ashfordly youths. In return, I always assured him that if he needed the kind of help I could give, he should not be afraid to ask.

  And so here he was, standing at my garden gate one Sunday morning. He was casually dressed in a rough shirt and jeans, and his muscular arms were bronzed and firm after working out of doors for so long. He pushed open the gate and approached me. He looked rather nervous, for he was well out of his territory; visiting police establishments voluntarily was not in keeping with his character.

  “Hello, Mr Rhea.” He always referred to me in this way, never by my Christian name.

  “Hello, Gordon,” I greeted him. “This is an honour — do you fancy a coffee?”

  “Er, well,” this meant he must enter the awesome portals of the police house, but he accepted and followed me into the lounge. I took him there because I was off duty, and because I felt he’d come for reasons which were not official. Mary produced two cups of coffee and closed the door as Gordon sweated over the purpose of his visit.

  “Now, Gordon, what’s troubling you?”

  He played with the cup of coffee, moving it nervously in his heavy hands. He kept his eyes averted from me as he tussled with his problem.

  I waited; I had seen this kind of hesitancy before and knew that any prompting from me might cause him to dry up entirely; whatever was on Gordon’s mind must be important because it was most unlike him to enter a police house or to make an initial approach of this kind. But I had him cornered — he was not outside a pub where he could walk off; he was on my settee, in my lounge, with a cup of my coffee in his hands.

  I sipped my coffee, waiting, and then he looked at me earnestly.

  “Mr Rhea,” he began, “you might have heard about me…”

  He paused, as if expecting a reply, but I did not know what to say.

  “You mean something recent?” I put to him.

  “Aye. About me getting married,” he blushed vividly.

  “Married?” I cried. “No, Gordon, that’s news to me. Well, is it true?”

  He nodded and a shy smile flitted across his features. “Aye,” he said, “It’s right enough. That’s why I’ve come to see you.”

  “Go on,” I inched forward in my seat. “First, though, congratulations. I think you’ll enjoy married life.”

  “Aye, well, it’s summat I’m not used to, being settled. I’ve allus gone where I’ve pleased. I mean, my old mum looks after me, washes my clothes and does my food and things… and there’s all sorts I don’t know…”

  “About the ceremony you mean?”

  “That as well. But everything. Flowers and the church, all that.”

  “The vicar will help you with the formalities,” I advised him. “In fact, I think he’s got a little book that tells you step by step how to organise everything from the organist to the reception, even the honeymoon.”

  “I’ve him to see next,” he said. “Me, seeing a vicar!” and he raised his eyes as if to Heaven.

  “Mr Clifton will make sure things are running smoothly,” I assured him. “Is this why you wanted to see me?”

  He nodded, and took a long drink from the mug of coffee, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Aye,” he said, “Well, I’ve done a bit of asking about, to try and find out what I’m to do, and…”

  He paused again, took another long drink as I awaited his next worry. He was approaching another difficult speech.

  “Go on, Gordon,” I tried to ease the problem out of him.

  “Well, they say the most important bloke at a wedding is the best man. He’s got to make sure things go right, hasn’t he? Get the bride to the altar, fix the reception and things. You know, jolly things along, and keep things right, make speeches and all that.”

  “Yes, that’s true, Gordon. Most men, when they are thinking of getting married, make sure they choose a good best man for that reason. He’s got all sorts of jobs to see to — he keeps the wedding running smoothly. Yes, you need a good best man.”

  “Well,” he licked his lips. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  At first, his words did not mean a lot; I thought he was asking me for my advice, but it gradually dawned that he was asking me to be his best man.

  “Me?” I cried. “You’re asking me to be your best man, Gordon?”

  “Aye, well, none of my mates are up to it, and I’ve no brothers and no dad, and I do want things to right and real smooth…”

  “Who’s the lucky girl, then?” I had to know this before committing myself.

  “Sharon Pollard, she works over at Thirsk in one of the hotels. Lives in.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know her, Gordon. Where’s the wedding to be?”

  “In Aidensfield,” he said.

  “Not Thirsk?”

  “No, she’s not a local. She’s from Liverpool, just working here, and doesn’t want to go back there. So she’ll live in our house, as a lodger, before the wedding.”

  “Well,” I said, “this is a turn-up for the books, Gordon! You’re the last man I expected to see going to the altar. She must be a real cracker to have caught you.”

  I paused, and I knew he was awaiting my answer. I knew his earthy background, and his equally earthy relations, most of whom were petty villains of one kind or another. He was from a noted family of local villains. What they would think to a policeman being best man at Gordon’s wedding was something I could never guess, but he had asked me as a friend. In some ways, I was very flattered, if a little puzzled by his odd request.

  “All right,” I smiled, realising it must have been a difficult request for him to make, “I’ll do it. Gordon, it will be a pleasure. I will be proud to be your best man.”

  His face lit up and he leaned across to shake hands with me. “Mr Rhea,” he said, “this has made me a very happy man.” After he’d gone, I told Mary the news.

  “You’ve what?” she gasped.

  “I’ve agreed to be best man for Gordon Murray,” I repeated. “Why?” she demanded.

  “Because he asked me,” I answered. “He came specially to ask me, and I agreed. I think it’s a great honour.”

  “You must be stupid!” she said flatly. “If a man like that asks a policeman to be best man, you can bet there’ll be a catch in it.” “I owe him a favour,” I tried to justify my actions. “He says none of his relations or friends is capable…”

  “They’ll all be drunk, that’s why,” she said. “You should hear the gossip about the Murrays in the shop. They’re a right lot — there’s that cousin of his who’s a scrap-dealer and always in court for stealing, there’s that other cousin from Eltering who got fined for dealing in drugs, and another who steals cars… Nicholas, what have you let yourself in for?”

  “I am going to be best man at the wedding of a friend!” I said, “and that’s final.”

  I must admit that Mary’s misgivings had given me cause for concern, and it was probably wise to keep this assignment from the eyes and ears of Sergeant Blaketon and the other officers at Ashfordly. Later, when Gordon confirmed the date and time of his wedding, I applied for a day’s leave and it was approved. Over the weeks that foll
owed, Gordon came to the house a good deal, and he accepted his new responsibilities with remarkable aplomb. I liked him in these moods; he was affable, courteous and very anxious that his wedding day would be a success.

  Mary grew to like him too, for she kept us supplied with coffee, and when the official invitation came, she was included as a guest. Gordon readily accepted the practices governing the bride’s parents, her family and guests, and those of the groom, and I could see he was genuinely looking forward to his new state of matrimony.

  Some six weeks before the May wedding, Sharon arrived at his mother’s house, and Gordon brought her to the police house to meet us. She was a pretty girl, extraordinarily thin with long black dull hair and a pale smooth face. She had the slender figure of a model, and the unmistakable accent of a Liverpudlian. Her clothes were on the dowdy side, her shoes down at heel and her finger-nails black with dirt. But Gordon loved her.

  Mary brewed the inevitable coffee, and Sharon played with our children as we made small talk about weddings, bridesmaids, honeymoons, and that sort of thing. Sharon did not talk about her background, other than to tell us her father was dead, and there were seven of them in her family, she being the youngest. She had come over to Thirsk for work, because there was so little in Liverpool; the Thirsk job had come to her notice through one of her father’s old Army friends.

  I was pleased to meet Gordon’s chosen bride, and when they’d gone, Mary said, “She’s pregnant.”

  “Never!” I chided her. “She’s too thin…”

  “She is pregnant, Nicholas,” Mary affirmed. “I can tell — any woman can tell. It’s the skin and the eyes… Gordon’s going to be a dad, and this is obviously a rushed job. She’s nice, though, isn’t she, even if she’s a bit scruffy.”

  “She’ll be good for Gordon.” I believed that to be true. “He was telling me they’ve been allocated an estate cottage at Briggsby, so that’ll get him from under his mother’s feet.”

  As the weeks passed, I began to appreciate that Mary’s diagnosis had been correct. Sharon did look a little more plump around the waistline, but it was not a plumpness which would be noticed by a casual observer. I did not hear any other hints of her condition during my patrolling, nor did I seek any clarification on that point. The fact was that Gordon loved her, which he told me several times, and it was evident that Sharon loved him. I believed it would be a fine match, if a little volatile at times.

  On the night before the wedding, Sharon’s mother and two of her little nieces arrived in Aidensfield and were accommodated in a holiday cottage, rented for the weekend. There was no room with Gordon’s family, and the cottage was an ideal solution. So that Sharon’s mum could take her rightful part in the ceremony, it was arranged that the taxi would collect Sharon from the cottage, together with the bridesmaids, so that it would appear as if she was leaving the family home. One of her brothers was to give her away — he would drive over on the morning of the wedding.

  The great day arrived. The wedding was at eleven o’clock in the parish church, followed by a reception in the village hall, the food and drink being supplied by the Brewers’ Arms. Gordon had hired a nice car for his honeymoon in the Lake District, but he had concealed this arrangement, and the car, from his boisterous friends who wanted to find it and tie old tins to it, then smear it with shaving cream. As the time for the ceremony approached, I kept him calm; I had the ring, I had fixed all the taxis, got money for the vicar and organist, supervised the reception, ordered flowers and drinks and arranged for the telegrams to be delivered…

  I spent the final minutes soothing his fevered brow and then took my place at his side in the front pew. Gordon stood close to me as we awaited the blushing bride. She came two minutes late to the familiar strains of Here Comes The Bride, and everyone turned to admire her.

  Sharon really did look beautiful; the flowing skirts of her white dress concealed any evidence or hint of little things to come, and she had a glow of happiness about her. Her tattiness had gone too. Beside me, Gordon was looking his best; his suit was new and smart, his hair had been neatly cut and washed, and he cut a very fine figure. He’d even cleaned his shoes.

  Behind me, on his side of the church, I could identify the unmistakable scent of premature celebrations, for I knew the menfolk had been to the Brewers’ Arms for a quick one or two before the ceremony. On the bride’s side there were similar scents and many hiccups. But all this was behind me as Sharon moved with considerable grace down the aisle. She had shampooed her long black hair and it glistened in the lights, a pretty contrast to her white gown. The vicar was waiting with a smile on his face, and the congregation was hushed as Sharon took her final dainty steps to the altar.

  At that moment, someone burst into a noisy bout of weeping, and I turned to see it was Sharon’s mother. She was bolding a handkerchief to her face as the tears cascaded down her plump cheeks. Apart from this, the church was silent as the Rev. Roger Clifton opened with those famous words, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony…”

  My part in the ceremony was not over-taxing, but the service and its non-musical, watery accompaniment by Sharon’s mum caused the time to pass rapidly and before I knew what was happening, I had handed over the ring, Sharon and Gordon were pronounced man and wife, and everyone was filing outside for the photographs.

  There was some boisterous noise and rather physical jockeying for position in the photographs, through which Sharon beamed beautifully and Gordon looked every inch the handsome groom. Being best man, I did a lot of cajoling, pleading and ordering about; I started to fix the line-ups for the cameraman and brushed dust off Gordon’s suit. I did a lot of running about, but as the hustle of the photographic session continued, I became vaguely aware of some unrest.

  At first, my ears were not attuned to sounds beyond my immediate duties, and I associated the loud voices and frequent shrieks with happiness, euphoria and general high spirits. The truth was that other spirits were at work, such as gin and vodka. Sadly, they were acting upon the ample figure of Sharon’s mother, who wanted to be in all the photographs with two fingers raised to the heavens.

  At first, her insistence on being in every photograph was something of a chuckle, but when she raised her two fingers in what was definitely not a Victory sign, it was evident she had some kind of chip on her shoulders or a massive grudge of some kind. It dawned on me, as I’m sure it had already dawned on the other family guests, that Mrs Pollard was determined to cause trouble or embarrassment.

  The photographer did his best to arrange some pictures without her, but it was becoming impossible; even when he arranged a line-up of bridesmaids, she would hustle in just as he had focused his camera, and dislodge the line by charging at them like a raging bull. If there can be an analogy, she was like a cow in a china shop.

  Had I been a policeman on duty and distanced from the soul of the ceremony, I would have recognised the onset of trouble because that would have been part of my work, especially at a wedding with such characters as the chief actors. Because I was best man I was heavily committed with the internal arrangements and was not aware of the simmering brew being brought to the boil by Mrs Pollard. I learned later that she had had two half-bottles of gin in her ample handbag, and had been sipping these in church and afterwards, all the time working herself up to a pitch of antagonism.

  When I found myself thinking like a policeman instead of a best man, I sought guidance from Gordon. Having caught his eye, I took him to one side as the harassed photographer tried to arrange a picture of both mothers.

  “What’s her game, Gordon?”

  “Trouble,” he said. “She is out to cause trouble, the bitch!”

  “I can see that, but why?”

  “Because I put Sharon up the stick, and because she doesn’t like me.”

  “She was all right in church,” I said. “If she had any objections, sh
e could have made her case known before coming here.”

  “She did, that’s why Sharon left home to live here. Mrs Pollard’s a real bitch… she was supping gin in church, Mr Rhea, to get herself worked up for this.”

  “She’s going to ruin things for you, and there’s the reception to come yet, with wine and more drinks. You don’t want that ruined, do you?”

  “No,” he said, looking at me steadily. “She’s out to make a mess of my wedding day, Mr Rhea. Sharon said she would.”

  “Then we’ll have to stop her. Is there a useful heavyweight woman on your side?”

  “No, Mr Rhea, that’s not the way to do it. Anybody from my side would only stir up her lot to fight back. They’d all join in. You need somebody from her side to sort her out.”

  “But they’ll be sympathetic to her, won’t they? And they’re all from Liverpool, aren’t they? They won’t want Yorkshire folk sorting them out, will they?”

  “No, Mr Rhea.”

  I could sense the beginnings of embarrassment. All around were roughs and toughs from two warring, insensitive families, and the centre of the problem was the troublesome Mrs Pollard. Even now, she was thrusting herself before the camera with two fingers in the air, and lifting her skirts to reveal long green knickers as she did an awful rendering of the can-can. Her family laughed; Gordon’s snarled, while Sharon clung to Gordon, not knowing whether to laugh, cry or fade away somewhere.

  Their happiness was rapidly degenerating into something uncontrollable; our peaceful village was about to experience the warlike enjoyment of Liverpool’s back streets combined with the skills of some of the toughest scrappies and layabouts in Yorkshire. I was off duty, too, in civilian clothes; I was a real pig in the middle.

  I had to do something, not only for my sake, but the sake of Gordon and his bride, and for the village. Then, fortuitously, I caught Mary’s eye; she was behind a gathered knot of chortling fools who were encouraging Mrs Pollard to kick her legs higher as the poor photographer tried to get Gordon’s family group on file.