Constable Around the Village Page 2

  “Just a quickie. Small whisky? To see the New Year in?”

  I looked at my watch. There was twenty minutes before Mrs Mitchell and my First Footing obligation. There was no sergeant about. I was cold and lonely …

  “Aye, all right, George. For Auld Lang Syne.”

  He invited me into the packed bar but I tactfully declined, and he drew me a measure of finest malt whisky. In the passage, I raised the glass, toasted him and his customers and wished them all the happiness of the New Year, now only eighteen minutes away.

  “Thanks, George,” I returned the glass. “I appreciate that. Now I must dash—I’m First Footing at midnight.”

  “All in the course of duty!” he laughed and returned to his generous hosting.

  The whisky had warmed me nicely and I felt the beginnings of a glow of happiness as I guided my little machine through the dark, deserted lanes. As I glided into Aidensfield, I could hear singing in the pub. All its lights were aglow as I parked the machine against the wall of the village hall. Like everyone else, I was in my home village for New Year. I checked my watch. It was two minutes to twelve. I waited. I knew I must not enter Mrs Mitchell’s house before midnight, as that would bring bad luck. It was a long wait.

  Finally, the church clock began to chime. Its long, measured tones brought the anxiously awaited news and the pub erupted into a cacophonous din. Trumpets blew, bagpipes wailed, voices were raised in song and a badly-tuned piano began to pick out the notes of Auld Lang Syne. Inside, it must have sounded heavenly. Outside, the racket was appalling. I waited and listened, feeling very very miserable and very very lonely. Then the door burst open and two men rushed out, each wearing a paper hat and carrying a balloon. At exactly the same time, both noticed me. I was about to move towards Mrs Mitchell’s house but was too late.

  “It’s t’bobby!” I heard one of them splutter in slurred language and with some effort. “He’ll do it … You ask him …”

  “Yessh, … good idea, John … very, very good idea … you asshk him.”

  Brave with drink, the two men came towards me, both evidently about to ask me something serious.

  “Misshter Conshtable,” said one of them. “Your presshensh issh required insshide, immediately if not sshooner,” and he giggled at his little joke. “Now, immediately,” and he saluted.

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  “No trouble, offissher, just Firsht Footing. There’ssh no one who can Firssht Foot, you sshee, because they’re all in there now. It mussht be a stranger.”

  “All right, all right,” I said.

  “Great, great,” and in they ran. I broke a little piece of holly from the adequate supply in my pannier, broke a piece of coal to gain the necessary lump, tore off a corner of bread and found a penny of my own.

  Thus armed, I sallied into the smoky, alcoholic and happy atmosphere of the Brewers Arms. A huge shout of welcome erupted as my uniform materialised through the haze and I was manhandled through the crowd, being kissed by countless women until I reached the fireplace. There I knew I must deposit the coal, bread, money and holly. Surprisingly, the entire place fell silent. There was not a word as I made an exaggerated action to perform the necessary First Footing act and straightened up to find a huge glass of whisky before me. To have refused would have been churlish.

  Cheers erupted about my ears as I brought guaranteed good luck to the Brewers Arms for the coming year and I raised my glass to wish happiness to everyone. The job over, the singing resumed, the kissing continued and the music commenced to the accompaniment of much back-slapping and hand-shaking as I quickly consumed the fiery contents of the glass.

  Refusing another whisky on the grounds that I had an urgent appointment, I left the pub to make my way towards Mrs Mitchell’s little house. It was now ten past twelve. I was ten minutes late and I found that my head was noticeably light and my walking action somewhat erratic. I had drunk the whisky far too quickly and the cool night air was causing me to amble from side to side. Nevertheless, I collected the necessary goods from my panniers and reached the cottage.

  I knocked.

  “Come in,” she called from inside.

  “It’s P.C. Rhea,” I opened the door and announced myself in case she thought it was a burglar.

  Holding the coal, holly and slice of bread before me, I walked into her cosy living-room and swayed ever so slightly across the rug. Carefully, I placed one hand on the mantelshelf to steady myself and even more carefully placed the coal, holly and bread in the hearth, followed by the coin. My head was swimming slightly, but I was able to stand upright and wish her “Happy New Year”.

  “And a Happy New Year to you, Mr Rhea,” she beamed. I had done well. The silence before this exchange was part of the ritual. It has been deemed that as the First Foot enters with his traditional gifts everyone must remain silent until he has deposited them in the hearth. Only then can the silence be broken.

  “I have your drink ready,” and she passed a glass of sherry to me.

  I hadn’t bargained for this. When accepting all these commitments, I thought my duties were merely to enter with the gifts and break in the New Year, but at every house I was expected to join the compulsory toast. I didn’t dare refuse in case my lack of courtesy brought bad luck to everyone.

  I gulped Mrs Mitchell’s sherry because my point time was due and, after making something approximating an apology to her for my hurry, I rushed out to stand swaying near the telephone kiosk. My face was warm now and my entire body was responding to the liquor. Inside that hot motor-cycle gear I was sweating profusely and decided that New Year duty wasn’t too bad after all, even on half nights. No one rang me. Sergeant Blaketon did not make an appearance to wish me a Happy New Year and so I was left with the honourable duty of fulfilling all my other First Footing appointments.

  At this stage, it was difficult to remember anything after Mrs Mitchell’s sherry. I know that I did call upon all my other customers and a good many more besides. People kept pushing lumps of coal, sprigs of holly and slices of bread into my hands and I must have visited almost every house in Aidensfield, plonking coal, bread and holly into their hearths and downing indescribable concoctions as I offered slurred toasts to all and sundry. It must have been a happy time.

  Instinctively, I knew I was in no fit state to ride the motor-cycle back to my house and somehow, during the festivities, it got forgotten. The passage of time was also forgotten. I had no idea what the time was and became aware only of other demands for me to First Foot. It seemed that the entire population of the Brewers Arms took me into their homes to bring them luck.

  After it all, I made my slow, laborious and hiccuping way back up the hill to the police house. I managed to fit my key into the lock and staggered inside, sweating and panting. I wiped my brow and my feet but recalled sufficient about my responsibilities to go into the living-room and place the coal, bread, coin and holly in the hearth. I must have remembered to bring these from my panniers, but as I stooped and swayed above my own fireside I noticed my hearth already contained those objects.

  They weren’t mine. Someone else had been. I had been surreptitiously First Footed! My gifts were still in my hands, all black with coal-dust and cold after the night’s excesses. I stood for some minutes, wobbling before the sight in the hearth. Some unknown person had First Footed in my house. While I had been diligently patrolling, solving major crimes and protecting the public, someone had crept into my home and First Footed. Who? How? It was all too complicated for my fuddled brain and I simply placed my gifts beside the others, turned and struggled upstairs.

  Memories of that awful ascent are hazy to say the least, the stairs presenting an almost insurmountable obstacle to my progress. I can recollect opening the bedroom door as quietly as possible before tripping over a chair and crashing unceremoniously onto the bed. Mary said something about it being a Happy New Year and I fell asleep, fully clothed, on top of the coverlet.

  Next morning I was in severe trouble
. My coal-black hands and motor-cycle clothing had smeared the bed-clothes, the staircase, the walls and the living-room, to say nothing of the bathroom which had received me on occasions during those night hours. It looked as if a sweep had rampaged through the house. To make things worse, Sergeant Blaketon had come to the house at 2 am, expecting to find me booking off duty. On failing to find me, and thinking I had dodged in home early, he’d knocked on the door and had roused Mary and the children. He had then tried to overcome his error performing our First Footing, pinching my coal and breaking a twig off the holly-bush near the gate. From evidence thus acquired, it seems I had returned to base around 4 am, but I can’t remember much about it.

  On the credit side, my efforts did bring luck to the villagers. Later that year, Aidensfield Parish Council presented them with a street lamp.

  If my start to the year did not please Mary and the sergeant, it did please the village. From being a comparative stranger, I was now accepted as a villager, albeit with further reservations. I knew that I was regarded as a local person. My efforts at First Footing had ensured that, but I still had to prove myself as a policeman in the old-fashioned sense of the word. There’s a big difference between a “person” and a “policeman” and my next task was to firmly establish myself in my official capacity.

  This is more difficult than it seems. For one thing, it is never easy for a policeman to prove himself in the eyes of other policemen. To achieve that rare distinction, he must have an infinite capacity for arresting villains, drinking copious quantities of ale, dealing with “hard” men and sorting out problems of every kind. Proving oneself as a policeman in the eyes of the public is a totally different matter.

  Members of the public view policemen in a particular light. They view them firstly as people and secondly as law-enforcement officers. I was sure that my status in the village as a person had been deemed satisfactory—my first few months had helped establish me in that sense, with my wife and young children helping enormously to make vital contacts. I had sealed that side of the business with my First Footing. But how could I prove myself a truly capable rural bobby in the eyes of the great British public? I required an important event, a big issue or emergency of some kind.

  I waited for a suitable opportunity. It might be a crime to solve or a major incident to cope with. There might be a tough villain to conquer or a rescue operation of some kind. As the weeks went by, nothing happened. No crimes were committed, no villains fought me and no damsels required my rescue expertise.

  As I patrolled my beautiful beat, alternating between the motor-cycle and my own size nines, I remained vigilant as I anticipated the right opportunity. It almost became an obsession. I knew I had to show that I could be a policeman, as well as a person. But how? Nothing dramatic seemed to happen. No one got murdered or raped, no one had his house broken into or his car stolen, no one got lost on the moors or attacked in the street. Life was so unpleasantly peaceful. The sergeant grumbled because I didn’t submit offence reports and the inspector nattered because I had recorded no arrests.

  It was during one of my low spells, when I wanted drama to enter my mundane life, that I sensed a dramatic occurrence. I noticed a farmer, clad in carpet-slippers and corduroys, galloping along Aidensfield village street at six o’clock one morning. I was forlornly standing outside the telephone kiosk making a point, having been on an abortive motor-cycle patrol since 4.30 am, and wishing something would happen. This could be it! Trouble of some kind!

  I watched his approach. He wove from side to side with his head down, his flat cap perched on the front of his head and his feet twinkling across the road surface as he panted towards me. Knowing I could help, whatever it was, I stepped forward and said, “Hello, Mr Stanhope, nice morning.”

  He slowed momentarily in his tracks, looked at me and said, “Aye,” then darted into the kiosk.

  Feeling snubbed, I stood at a discreet distance as he began his urgent telephoning. Several of the glass windows of the kiosk were broken and I could not help overhearing his words. It didn’t take long for me to appreciate he was having trouble with the telephone. I could hear him shouting uselessly into the mouthpiece and it was evident there was a total lack of response. After two minutes of futile efforts, he emerged and addressed me.

  “Mr Rhea, can thoo work this contraption?”

  “I can, Mr Stanhope. What’s the matter?”

  “Ah’ve a cow aboot ti cawf and ah need a vetinary. Ah’ve nivver used yan o’ these new-fangled telephoning contraptions. Ah’ll etti git him there sharp, she’s very nigh due.”

  “Well,” I said. “It’s quite simple. You call the operator, ask for the number you require and then she’ll tell you how much money to put in. You can see the coin-box just there. When the money’s in, she’ll ring the number and when you are connected you’ll be told to press button ‘A’. That’s on the side of the box. Then you can talk.”

  “Oh,” he said, obviously failing to comprehend my advice. I knew I’d have to show him. I exhorted him to enter the cramped box and I followed, squeezing him inside as I stood at the entrance holding the door open with my foot. This was in the days long before decimalisation and long before STD became commonplace in telephone-boxes. Those kiosks were solid edifices with a large money-box inside and a little tray to help get your money back, if the call was not connected.

  “Ah see’s where Ah’ve been gahin wrang,” he laughed. “Ah thowt there was a choice of prices. Ah thowt Ah’d ’ave t’cheapest on offer. Ah mean, a penny’s nowt is it?”

  I knew the coin-box had “penny”, “sixpence” and “shilling” written on the top, with appropriate slots for each coin. I didn’t know what he’d done so far, but he seemed to be coping. I dialled “O” to link him with the operator and left him to it. He had a pile of coppers on top of the coin-box and seemed content.

  “Number please,” I could hear the strident voice of the lady operator.

  “Hello,” he shouted. “Hello, Ah want oor vetinary.”

  “Which veterinary?” I heard her ask.

  “That’un that cums tiv oor farm ivvery Thursday,” he said blandly.

  “Look, sir,” the girl replied in a softer voice. “I need to know his number before I can put you through.”

  “Number?” gasped the farmer. “He hasn’t gitten a number, has he? He’s nut a convict or a policeman or owt like that. Our policeman’s gitten a number on his shoulder, but oor vetinary hasn’t …”

  “No, sir, his telephone number …”

  “Nay, lass, Ah knows nowt about that, that’s your job. Look, just git hod on him and send him along. Ooor Primrose is gahin ti cawf and he’s needed there right sharp. She’s very restless, thoo knaws.”

  “Who is that calling, sir? I will try to find a veterinary surgeon for you …”

  “Stanhope from Aidensfield.”

  “And where is the trouble, Mr Stanhope?”

  “In my cow-shed. If he doesn’t get there quick, I fear for t’awd lass.”

  “I appreciate that, but where is your cow-shed?”

  “Next ti t’pig-sties. We’ve gitten fifteen pig-sties and yon cow-shed’s right next door …”

  “No, I mean your address! Where shall I send the vet if I find him?”

  “Oh, just to our farm. Stanhope, tell him. Me and my family’s been farming there for generations. Tell him Stanhope, he’ll know where to come.”

  “But I don’t know which is your vet, Mr Stanhope …”

  “Oh, it’s young Singleton from Ashfordly.”

  “Look, Mr Stanhope, you get along home and I’ll ring Mr Singleton for you. It’s a cow that’s calving, and she’s in your cow-shed. Now, what’s your address?”

  “High Brow Farm. He can’t miss it, thoo knows and any rooad, he’s been before.”

  “All right, Mr Stanhope. You get along and I’ll ring him.”

  “Thanks, miss,” he said.

  He replaced the handset and emerged happily, collected his p
ile of unused pennies from the top of the coin box and grinned at me.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Grand,” he grinned wickedly. “Grand. Yon telephone lass is telling Singleton to get himself there as sharp as he can.”

  “So things will be right, eh?”

  “Aye,” he said, “things’ll be right. Nice awd cow is our Primrose. Thoo’ll be coming along to have a look at her, eh? There’ll be a cup of tea about seven, I reckon, after t’vet’s done his stuff.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look forward to that.”

  “Think nowt on it,” he said. “Yon phone call cost me nowt, did it?” He smiled craftily. “I reckon you and me’s earned our cup of tea this morning.”

  As he stomped away, I wondered what this early morning encounter had proved. I hadn’t dealt with a major police crisis but, somewhere, crafty old Stanhope had taught me a lesson in Yorkshire thrift.

  2

  “Men are suspicious; prone to discontent.”

  Robert Herrick, 1591–1674

  Like any other organised body of people and equipment, the police service cannot afford to stand still. Progress must be allowed to intrude and interfere and, because many police officers are essentially conservative in their outlook and stubborn to boot, change comes by being forced upon them. Initially, many attempt to reject this but the mighty feet of officialdom stamp forward until, by dint of enforced usage and repeated orders from above, the necessary change is effected. By then, it is time for another.

  Policemen everywhere do not agree that change or progress constitutes improvement. Progress implies a move forward, but that in itself is not necessarily an improvement. Within the service, changes are made frequently. Progress is moderately common and improvement a rarity.

  It can be argued with some justification, therefore, that the concept of Unit Beat Policing and the accompanying Collator system was “progress”, its arrival undoubtedly a useful change. For that reason it can be regarded as progress. Whether it was an improvement is for history and crime statistics to decide.