Constable Around the Village (15 page)

But Arnold did not move yet. He waited until a tiny farm lady appeared. She wore a dull green mackintosh, black wooden clogs and a headscarf about her head. She carried a butter-basket in one hand and a hessian bag in the other, climbed aboard, asked for a “York return” and settled in a front seat.

And so it continued. We took children to catch trains, old folks to visit relatives in hospital, but the most amazing was Arnold’s action in York City. The eggs were bound for York market which is tucked behind the city in a narrow
marketplace
. Because of sheer numbers, it was impossible to carry them from Arnold’s terminus, so he took his bus and its load right into the market-place and halted near a stall.

There, the reverse procedure was adopted; the rearmost passengers flung open the door and the clog-shod little woman masterminded the operation from outside. Every tray of eggs was delivered to the market trader who counted them and paid in cash, as Arnold sat in his seat, ignoring the hoots of protest from cars and vans around him. As the job was under way, he disgorged his other passengers and retreated to his official bus-stop, there to offload his grocery orders, parcels and messages.

After that first trip, it was a regular sight to see the familiar shape of Arnold’s bus jolting along farm tracks, or turning around in stackyards, as it took aboard the produce of the district. Arnold’s contribution to the economy of Ryedale was immense. Although he was supposed to follow a prescribed route, he totally ignored it and went wherever he was needed. Somehow he knew who was waiting on any particular day and he provided what amounted to a house-
to-house
bus service. Furthermore, it was expected of him.

With a service of this nature, coupled with his
unauthorised
diversion into the city centre, it was
inevitable
that the Traffic Commissioners would learn of his methods. I waited for that day with some trepidation. But it wasn’t the Traffic Commissioners who caused my first legal brush with Arnold—it was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.

Arnold halted his creaking bus at my shoulder one morning as I walked through Aidensfield
en
route
to the post-office. His face was like thunder and he was in a highly agitated state. This was most unlike him—Arnold was usually the epitome of pleasantry and
bonhomie
,
but it was clear that trouble was afoot.

“Mr Rhea,” he hailed me by leaning out of his window.

“Morning, Arnold. Something wrong?”

“I’ll say there is.” He left his seat and emerged from the bus. On the street, he took my arm and steered me from the flapping ears of his passengers. “It’s that bloody man
Greengrass
.”

“Claude Jeremiah? What’s he done to you?”

“He’s pinching my customers, that’s what.”

“You don’t mean to say he’s bought a bus!” I cried, horrified at the ramifications of this and remembering the problems of the pigs and donkey.

“No, he’s got an old car, a right old heap it is, Mr Rhea. He’s running it ahead of me on my market-day runs, picking folks up and charging them less than me. He’s ruining me.”

“He can’t get many in his car, surely?” I said, wondering what sort of enterprise Claude Jeremiah had evolved.

“I’ve seen him with seven packed into that old Austin,” Arnold growled. “And he comes back before me, charging each customer sixpence less than me. He’s taking trade off me, Mr Rhea. He’ll have to be stopped.”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“He needs stopping, Mr Rhea, words are no good. He’s behaving illegally, so he is.”

“What law is he breaking?” I had been taught a good deal about public service vehicles at Training School and knew sufficient to appreciate that Claude Jeremiah could be
running
an unlawful public service vehicle. In those days, it
was illegal to charge passengers separate fares in private cars, because this brought the car within the realm of a public service vehicle. Besides, ordinary motor-car
insurance
didn’t cover such use so it seemed there’d be an insurance offence too.

I wanted to know if Arnold knew the rules. He did. He promptly reeled off a list of rules and regulations likely to be broken by the enterprising Claude Jeremiah.

“You won’t have mentioned this to anyone else, have you?” I put to Arnold.

“No, but I’ve grumbled a lot, to my passengers, my regulars.”

“I was thinking of the Traffic Commissioners,” I told him.

“No, should I tell them?” he asked in all innocence.

“They might investigate your affairs too, Arnold—like your carriage of goods for reward….”

“Oh.” He saw what I was driving at. “Oh, aye, well. I see. Can this be dealt with quietly, Mr Rhea?”

“If I take Claude Jeremiah to court, Arnold, he might hit back at you; he might complain officially to me about your activities, or he might drop an anonymous line to the Traffic Commissioners about the goods-carrying affairs of
Merryweather
Coaches.”

“I am allowed to carry parcels, Mr Rhea, and passengers are allowed to fetch parcels on board, you know.”

“I wouldn’t classify a hundred dozen eggs as a parcel, Arnold.”

“It’s serious, Mr Rhea, I am insured, he’s not. You’ll have a word with him?”

“I will,” I promised. “But you should be more careful about carrying parcels, eh?”

In the seclusion of my office, I settled down with my books to refresh my memory on the laws about public service vehicles, or PSVs as we knew them. I knew they fell into three groups—a stage carriage was one which carried passengers at separate fares while not fulfilling the
definition
of an express carriage. The ordinary town service bus or a rural bus were typical examples. An express carriage was a PSV carrying passengers at separate fares none of
which was less than one shilling or some other prescribed greater sum. Long-distance express coaches fitted this definition, like the overnight runs to London or Liverpool. The third was a contract carriage which did not carry passengers at separate fares—like a bus hired to take a party to the theatre or a football match.

The other rules and case law on buses were highly
complicated
with many exceptions and provisos. I concluded that if Claude Jeremiah was charging his passengers separate fares for their trips he was operating a public
service
vehicle. The appearance of his vehicle was immaterial. This meant he was breaking umpteen rules of the road, including motor insurance offences, public service vehicle licence offences and a host of others.

The first job was to prove that Claude Jeremiah’s old banger was a bus, and that meant catching him with a full load of paying passengers. After having words with Arnold about the most beneficial time to halt Claude’s motor, I arranged to position myself one morning on a wide stretch of road at the far boundary of my beat. This was the route taken by Claude Jeremiah, and it was an ideal place to halt a moving vehicle. Furthermore, he would have a full load by the time he reached this place.

Sure enough, soon after quarter past nine, the distant rumble of the ancient car reached my ears as it laboured towards the lofty boundary of Aidensfield beat. I was in full uniform and stepped impressively into the centre of the road as the rattling machinery approached. With a screech of brakes and a multitudinous banging and clattering, the old car groaned to a halt and Claude Jeremiah wound down his window.

“Morning, Mr Rhea.” His tiny brown face creased into an uneasy grin as he regarded me from his driving-seat. “Want a lift?”

“Morning, Claude Jeremiah. Full load, eh?” I stooped to peer inside. The car was packed with people and I counted nine heads including the driver. They were chiefly
grey-haired
ladies, as tight as baby wrens in their nest.

“Aye, just giving some friends a lift into York,” he said.

“Do you mind if I have a word with them?” I asked.

“Summat important, is it?” shrilled a woman’s voice from inside. “We’ve a busy day, Mr Policeman. We go like this because it’s quicker than yon bus, trundling down farm tracks and the like, delivering eggs and pigs. Mr Greengrass gets us there on time….”

“Are you a taxi then?” I asked him.

“No, just a friendly cove giving pals a lift—being
community
-spirited, in a manner of speaking, Mr Rhea.”

“What is the cost of your trip?” I asked the passengers.

“Half a crown apiece,” said a woman. “Two bob if you get on at Elsinby.”

“Look, Mr Rhea.” Claude climbed from his car and stood on the road, facing me. “I’m doing a public service. I can do a return trip cheaper than Merryweather and I get them there quicker. Tell me what’s wrong with that.”

“By doing what you are doing—” I tried to sound
professionally
knowledgeable and adopted an official tone—“you are fulfilling the role of a bus. That means you need licensing as a bus. You are therefore operating without the necessary licences. And you are not insured.”

“He’s doing us a favour, Mr Rhea, giving us a lift. If we decide to tip him a half dollar or pay for the petrol, that’s up to us….”

“It’s not as easy as that, Mrs Prescott,” I said. “There are rules to obey and careful safety regulations to follow….”

“If an accident happened to any of you in this car,” I said, “your families would not get compensation. Claude is not insured for paying passengers—he’s running a hell of a risk because he can’t afford to pay for your injuries or loss.”

“He’s a taxi…,” bellowed a deep-voiced woman from within.

“He’s not a taxi, not when he charges separate fares and picks you up at stages, and he’s not licensed as a
hackney-carriage
either. If he wants to do this sort of thing, he could get licensed as a hackney-carriage….”

“Look Mr Rhea….”

The situation was getting out of hand. By now, all the irate ladies had disembarked and were standing around glaring at me and their voices began to rise with irritation
and anger as I pathetically tried to explain the rules and to point out the risks to themselves. But it was futile. No one wanted to know the intricacies of public service vehicle licensing laws—all they wanted was to get into the shops as quickly as possible.

“Right!” I shouted. “Listen to me,” and I banged on the roof of the car to emphasise my words.

Silence fell.

“Claude Jeremiah is breaking the law in several ways, and I intend to take action against him,” I said sternly. “And if you agree to go along with him in this you are also aiding and abetting him. That means you could all go to court, everyone of you.”

Their gabbling stopped and now they listened carefully as I explained their liability, but as I talked I heard the approaching music of Arnold’s bus. It was heading this way, as I knew it would, and it was making hard work of climbing the hill towards our present position. I kept the women there, talking in graphic detail about the fearsome penalties that could be inflicted upon those who aided and abetted the functioning of illegal buses.

As the bus appeared in view, I told them it would take me an hour to interview Claude Jeremiah about the
miscellaneous
offences that had been disclosed, and at this juncture the strident voice of Mrs Prescott shouted:

“Claude Jeremiah—give us our money back. We’re
catching
that bus….”

“But….” He stared at me and then at them.

“It could prevent you going to court,” I added slyly.

He began to fumble in his pockets and by this time the bus was upon us. I raised my hand and halted Arnold’s onward progress.

“Morning, Arnold. Going to York?”

“Aye, Mr Rhea. Got some passengers for me, have you?”

“There’s a few ladies in need of urgent transport to York,” I said.

“There’s room enough in here,” he told me and I climbed in for a look.

“Your aisles are not blocked, I see,” I smiled. “No crates of eggs or manacled pigs blocking the exits?”

“No, Mr Rhea, I run a properly conducted public service vehicle.”

And I happened to see that all 22 passengers had on their knees four or five egg-boxes, all full. A hundred dozen eggs….

“All these ladies and gentlemen are taking eggs into York market,” he said, smiling at me.

“I don’t want to know about their private arrangements.” I left the bus and watched Claude’s passengers clamber aboard. They paid their fares and with a double hoot of the horn the old bus rumbled on its way.

“That was nasty of you, Mr Rhea,” Claude grumbled.

“I’ve saved you from a fate worse than death!” I
countered
. “If the Traffic Commissioners had got hold of you, my lad, your feet would never touch the ground. I’m not taking you to court on this occasion, Claude Jeremiah, although I should do so. Regard this as a warning—no more pinching bus passengers. If you want to make money with your car, get yourself licensed as a taxi.”

“Yes, Mr Rhea.”

He looked dejected, but I think it was for the best. If I’d taken him to court, there would have been a long, involved and highly controversial case about what constitutes a bus, and I was happy to let him go with an unofficial warning.

“Do I need a licence to carry other things then?” he asked me with a crafty gleam in his eyes.

“Other things?” I asked.

“Well, folks keep asking me to deliver things in York, you see…. carry stuff for them….”

I stared at him and said, “Open your boot, Claude Jeremiah.”

He gingerly opened it and it was full of cartons of fresh eggs.

“If you convey goods for hire or reward, you need a goods vehicle licence,” I informed him. “And you need a special excise licence….”

“I’ll have to take those back then,” he said.

“I haven’t seen those, Claude, not today. I might stop and inspect your boot another day….”

“Thank you, Mr Rhea, thank you.”

He locked the boot, jumped inside his old car and roared away in a cloud of oily fumes.

Perhaps it seemed a little unfair to let Arnold’s bus
continue
to carry eggs, pigs and the like, but Claude was too much of a risk to allow loose upon the public with his car. In his case, people could suffer awful consequences—in Arnold’s case, only Arnold could suffer.