CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 3

  Although visitors did sometimes join local boats for paid fishing trips, I never anticipated stepping on board any of them, either British or foreign.

  But it did happen.

  The first time was when I was on early duty, my beat taking me along the harbourside.

  My 6.35 a.m. point was at the telephone kiosk in the fish market, and on this occasion there was a call for me.

  ‘It’s Stan in the office,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve a pleasant little job for you.’

  ‘Fire away.’ I took my notebook from my tunic pocket and opened its pages on the coinbox so I could write in it.

  ‘It’s from a Mrs Maureen McPherson.’ He spoke slowly, allowing me time to take down his words. ‘From Aberdeen,’ and he gave me the address.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, having noted those details.

  ‘Her son, Ian, is a crewman on the fishing boat Waverley — it’s in our harbour all this week. It’s registered in Aberdeen, you’ll find it easily enough. We’ve got a request message for him — tell him that his mother rang. It’s to say that his wife, Joan, has given birth to a baby boy. She’s in the maternity hospital in Aberdeen, and both are doing well. Maybe he’ll give his mother a call as soon as possible?’

  ‘I’ll be delighted,’ I said. The delivery of these so-called ‘request messages’ was a task we often undertook for those people who did not have a telephone. On this occasion it was a pleasant message, but more often than not we had to deliver news of deaths or severe accidents. News of a happy birth was a very welcome change.

  I went cheerfully about my task and soon found the fishing boat. It was moored midway along the harbourside and lay beyond a further three, well into the centre of the full harbour. All seemed at rest, for there was no obvious work going on.

  I climbed down to the deck of the nearest boat and by stepping across other decks soon reached the Waverley. There was no one on deck, so I tapped on the cabin door, where I was greeted by a thick-set fisherman in the customary heavy navy-blue sweater. In his late forties, he oozed power and authority, a formidable man to cross, I guessed.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said as he opened the narrow door.

  ‘Wha’ is it?’ There was more than a hint of suspicion in his gruff Scots voice. ‘It’s no’ bother, is it?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s good news. Is Ian McPherson below?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Could I have a word with him?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘He’s busy, doon the galley, but Ah’ll fetch him.’

  I watched his broad back disappear below and waited until a younger man arrived. He was dark-haired and swarthy, if a little more slender than the previous one. He’d be about twenty-six years old but was almost a carbon-copy of the older man. He was powerful too, thick-set with a strong chin and deep chest. I reckoned he and his father could cope with any kind of ‘bother’ as they called it.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Ian McPherson?’

  ‘Aye, Ah’m Ian, that other was ma dad.’

  ‘Oh, well. It’s good news. I’ve got a message from your mother. It’s to say you’re a proud dad, Ian. A lovely baby boy, born in Aberdeen maternity hospital. Your wife and baby are both fine. I was asked to inform you. Oh, and you’ve got to ring your mother.’

  His dark eyes misted at my news, and this was followed by the quivering of his bottom lip, both signs of a happy new father. This tough, stolid Scotsman was doing his best not to show any emotion, but he was losing the battle.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said.

  ‘Aye,’ he wiped an eye with the rough sleeve of his ganser. ‘Look, officer, come along doon. We’ll need to celebrate de noo.’

  It was rather early in the morning to be drinking, I thought, but I did not like to appear churlish in his moment of happiness, so I followed him downstairs into the tiny, cramped galley. It was spotlessly clean and tidy. I noticed the table was laid for five breakfasts, and as I reached the end of this tiny table, Ian shouted.

  ‘Hey, fellers. Listen to this! Ah’m a dad, a new dad, a little lad, so we’ve got another crew member, heh?’

  Four men rushed in, one of them still in pyjamas, and they slapped him on the back, congratulated him and praised him. Then they turned to the man I’d first met and offered him their congratulations on being a new grandfather. I did likewise.

  ‘Ah’ve fetched the constable doon for a celebration,’ said the new father. ‘Set him a place, Donal.’

  One of them set a breakfast place at the end of the table and offered me a stool; I sat down, feeling a little bewildered by this turn of events, but Mr McPherson senior said, ‘This is a family boat, constable. My lad and oor cousins, that’s who we are. It’s oors and oors alone. Noo we’ve a new man to grow in tae the business and tha’s good. Verra good. You’ll be welcome to celebrate wi’ us, seeing t’was you who brought the good news. You’ll take breakfast wi’ us then?’

  ‘I’ll be delighted,’ I said, wondering how I’d manage two breakfasts in one short morning. The hotel would have one ready when I returned around nine o’clock.

  They busied themselves in the cramped little galley, and then a bottle of Scotch appeared. It was placed in the centre of the table, and six glistening cut glasses were positioned at each of the breakfast settings. Then, as if at some unseen signal, the whole crew of five settled around the table, the pyjama-clad cousin having dressed by this time.

  Then Ian’s father, whom I took to be the captain of this boat, surprised me by saying, ‘Constable, we say grace de noo.’

  And they did. Those five hard, rugged Scotsmen bowed their heads as Mr McPherson said grace.

  Afterwards he poured a generous tipple of whisky into each glass, and we toasted the health of the new baby and his absent mother. At that, one of them left the table and brought the first course of the breakfast. It was porridge, unsweetened, thick and eaten with salt.

  I stayed there too long; I drank a little too much of their whisky and ate far too much of their plain but wholesome breakfast, but I was pleased I’d eaten a Scots breakfast on board an immaculate fishing boat with such a caring family.

  But the most memorable sight was of those five tough seamen with bowed heads meekly saying grace before they ate.

  * * *

  Another opportunity to go aboard a boat occurred when the daughter of the proprietor of our digs, the Breckdale Private Hotel, asked if I could obtain a clog for her. Anne, tall, pretty and blonde, asked me at lunchtime one day.

  ‘A clog?’ I must have sounded surprised.

  ‘Yes, a real clog, a Dutchman’s clog, one of those wooden ones. I’d love one of those.’

  ‘Why do you want a clog?’ I asked.

  ‘To bring good luck,’ she answered. ‘A real clog, as worn by a Dutch person, brings good luck.’

  I never heard of this superstition. I knew that fisherfolk the world over were highly superstitious — the local ones, for example, believed that if the family kept a black cat, it would ensure the safe return from sea of the man-of-the-house. But once at sea, the word ‘cat’ had never to be mentioned because it would bring ill fortune, although some felt it sensible to keep a black cat on board. In the event of a shipwreck, this was first to be rescued.

  Other forbidden words included drowning, witch, death, pig, dog, rabbit and rat, as well as references to clergymen and words for various parts of the human body!

  If, on their way to their boat, the fishermen met either a cross-eyed person, a woman wearing a white apron, a clergyman or a hare, there was nothing that could be done to avert a sea-faring disaster other than to turn around and go home. There is still a belief that sea-birds contain the souls of the drowned and that their cries are the cries of the dead who are warning the living against the storms and hidden dangers.

  But I knew nothing about clogs bringing good luck. A similar superstition was that if a person carried a fisherman’s sea-boots to him, they should a
lways be borne under the arm and not over the shoulder, for fear of bringing bad luck. Another belief in some places was that old shoes should be thrown after boats as they left port as a means of either bringing good fortune or, I suggest, getting rid of old shoes!

  So far as I know, Dutchmen’s clogs did not enter this little world of ancient beliefs, but because of Anne’s sincere request I promised to do my best to acquire one for her. So, whenever I worked a harbourside beat, I examined from a distance the decks of the Dutch fleet, albeit never really expecting to see a discarded clog.

  But one morning, about 6.15 a.m., I espied the very thing. It was a large, yellow-painted clog made of wood, with the familiar upturned toe, and it looked exactly right for Anne. It looked huge from where I was standing on the staithe, but it was lying on the prow of a Dutch fishing boat, resting on a pile of coiled rope as the fishermen busied themselves in preparation for sailing.

  My heart leapt at the sight. I’d never really expected to find Anne’s treasure, but there it was, and it looked like a cast-off because it had a hole in the sole. The hole was about the size of a half-crown, well over an inch across, and I wondered if clogs were re-soled like shoes. If so, how was it done? Then I wondered if it was a true cast-off or whether it was there to be thrown for good luck, after some departing vessel in times to come? Or perhaps it would be thrown overboard as rubbish?

  But I could not let this opportunity pass without making some effort to obtain that clog, even if it meant buying it as a present. The first problem was how to gain legitimate possession of it.

  Possession would then present the second problem, i.e. how to convey it back to Anne via the police station while I was dressed in full police uniform. This was even more of a problem because the eagle-eyed Sergeant Blaketon was on duty this morning.

  But first things first. I would make an effort to get my hands on that clog. I knew the boat was preparing to sail so I dared not wait until the end of my first period of patrolling, and I was due back at the police station at 9 a.m. to report ‘off duty’ for my refreshment break. I had to get that clog immediately so I could hand it to Anne when I arrived at the hotel for breakfast. I stared at it for a long time as I debated the best course of action. I know that my mesmeric stance caused many early-strolling visitors to peer over the harbour rails, probably wondering why the constabulary was paying so much attention to a Dutch fishing boat.

  In the midst of my thoughts, a man emerged from the cabin. He noticed me, and I waved my hands to indicate that I wished to speak with him, but he just waved back and went about his work. I decided I must be bold so I descended the steep stone steps which led down the side of the harbour wall to the level of the boats. I crossed one or two swaying decks before I arrived at the Dutch boat. The man was busy with some fishing nets.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, realizing I was speaking loudly as one tends to do when addressing foreigners.

  ‘Gut mornen,’ I think he replied, but I could see the worried look on his face.

  It was then that I realized that in other countries the relationship between the police and the public wasn’t quite the same as that which existed between the British bobby and his public. By arriving on his boat without permission, I had probably put the fear of God into this poor fellow. He probably thought I was going to impound his vessel, arrest his crew or arrange a Customs search.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I asked.

  He shook his head and continued to wear a very harassed expression. The last thing I wanted was to frighten him, and it did cross my mind that, if I antagonized him too greatly, I might have to swim back to the police station.

  ‘Does anyone on board speak English?’ I tried.

  He raised a finger as if in understanding and disappeared below; I could hear a jabbering of tongues and then five men emerged. My heart sank into my boots. I’d done it now . . . I had no chance against five powerful Dutchmen.

  ‘Good morning.’ I tried the Englishman’s traditional approach, the one which seems to be used in any situation.

  It brought no reply. They stood and stared at me in the way that cows stand and stare at those who picnic in their fields.

  I was almost surrounded by these burly, tough fishermen. I decided that perhaps Anne did not really need a clog after all.

  ‘Does anyone speak English?’ I spoke slowly now, if a little too loudly, my voice rising in pitch as if to betray my fears.

  ‘Fa,’ said one of them after a long pause. ‘I spik Inglish.’

  ‘Ah,’ I breathed a sigh of relief. Now for my strange proposition.

  ‘My-girl-friend,’ I said slowly, thinking the true relationship would be too difficult to explain. ‘She-wants-a-clog-to-keep-for-good-luck,’ and I pointed to the clog I’d earmarked.

  ‘Clog?’ asked the English-speaker.

  I smiled and nodded furiously, then continued very slowly. ‘Yes, she-believes-that-a-clog-like-that-brings-good-fortune-to-her. She-has-asked-me-to-find-a-clog-for-her. I-saw-that-clog-and-thought-it-might-not-be-wanted . . .’

  ‘Ah!’ beamed the English-speaking fellow. ‘I understand. She likes charm, hey? A charm? The clog, it will be a charm for her? For luck? She want this charm?’

  ‘Ja,’ I tried, and once more nodded furiously, hoping the reason for my presence would be fully understood.

  Now they were all smiling and laughing, and I sensed a deep feeling of relief among them.

  ‘Yes,’ said the English-speaker. ‘Yes, she can have the clog.’

  He gabbled something at the others in his own tongue, and they all smiled and laughed, and I knew how they felt. Relief swept across them and, I must admit, across me.

  ‘Come,’ said my new friend. ‘Down below, with us. For breakfast? I will get you the clog now.’

  And so I joined them all below deck, where I enjoyed a large mug of coffee in their spotless galley. They presented me with the worn-out clog, and once they discovered I was friendly, I found out they could all speak a smattering of English.

  Soon afterwards, I left with the huge clog. It must have been size 12, and I now had the problem of hiding it for the next couple of hours or so, as I smuggled it back to Anne via the police station. I couldn’t take it directly to her because the hotel was a long way off my present beat, and to be found absent from one’s beat was to risk a disciplinary charge, especially with Sergeant Blaketon on duty.

  My cape provided the answer. When on patrol, even on summer days, we carried our voluminous capes by folding them flat into several folds and then slinging them over our shoulders. They were ideal waterproof garments, and when worn about our bodies, they also concealed a great deal. I’ve known policemen do their wives’ shopping at times, and then smuggle it home beneath their flowing capes; they can hide fish and chips at supper time, Christmas presents at Christmas time, and I once knew a constable who smuggled a custard pie home beneath his cape. So, by draping my cape around my shoulders, I would be able to conceal the large, wooden clog from prying eyes.

  Although it wasn’t raining and although it wasn’t particularly chilly that morning, I completed the remainder of the first half of my patrol with my cape concealing the clog. I carried the clog in one hand, with my thumb tucked beneath the button of my breast pocket for support, and none of the passing citizens seemed to think it odd that I should be dressed for rain.

  I entered the police station to book off and decided I would make a quick dash to the counter and poke my head through the enquiry hatch without entering the office. I would call, ‘PC Rhea, booking off, refreshment break,’ and then vanish before anyone could forestall my dash from the building or ask silly questions.

  But I hadn’t bargained for Sergeant Blaketon.

  He saw me before I saw him, and called out, ‘Rhea, just a minute!’

  My heart sank. Now I had to enter the office, and there he was, with his back to the fireplace, beaming almost villainously as I walked in. The office man, a senior constable called Stan who was local to
Strensford, was seated on a tall stool at the counter, and he flashed me a brief but sympathetic smile.

  ‘Ah, Rhea,’ Sergeant Blaketon said. ‘Anything to report from No. 1 Beat this morning?’

  ‘No, sergeant,’ I smiled. ‘All correct. I’m just heading for breakfast.’

  ‘No trouble on the Dutch fishing boats then?’

  ‘Trouble, sergeant?’ I wondered how much he knew, or how much he had seen. I had not noticed him on the quayside.

  ‘Trouble, Rhea. Bother. Mayhem. That sort of thing, the sort of thing that might require the presence of a constable. Nothing like that, was there? Nothing to report?’

  The crafty character must have seen me on the deck of that boat, or else he’d been talking to someone else who had seen me. I thought I’d string him along to see what he was aiming at.

  ‘No, sergeant,’ I decided that brief answers were the best.

  ‘Oh, I just wondered, I heard that a young constable had been seen on board a Dutch fishing boat this morning. That’s your beat, so I wondered if it might have been trouble of some kind.’

  ‘No, sergeant,’ I said, and I knew I was blushing by this time. ‘No trouble.’

  ‘It was you, though, was it, Rhea?’ he persisted.

  ‘I did go on board for a chat, sergeant, just a friendly chat. Passing the time of day, you know.’

  ‘Ah!’ he beamed. ‘So my information was correct. But there was no trouble, no complaints, no problems?’

  ‘None at all, sergeant.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, that’s all right then. So long as there is no trouble. So you’ll be off for your breakfast then?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant, I must be off. The hotel likes us to be on time . . .’

  ‘Not raining on your beat, was it? Or cold?’

  I thought fast. He was moving to the subject of my cape now, so I smiled and said, ‘It was a bit chilly, sergeant, a breeze off the sea, you know. It can blow a bit chilly on the harbourside at dawn.’