Constable Around the Village (22 page)

I couldn’t ignore my other responsibility and already, the dance was beginning to warm up. Dinner-jacketed men and ladies in flowing gowns were arriving thick and fast, so I entered the hall and found the organiser, Colonel B. J. Smithson. I told him of the development and asked him to excuse my absence, saying I’d return as soon as possible.

“Not a bit, old boy, good hunting.” He dismissed me with a wave of his elegant hand.

I spent a hectic half hour searching the village and calling Stephen’s name, all to no avail. I returned to the village hall and found the police dogs had arrived with two handlers. I decided we should visit Stephen’s home first, to see if the parents had any further news.

Mrs Matthews was at home, waiting in case the absent pair returned, and Mr Matthews was out with a neighbour, searching some nearby woodland.

“I’ve got two police dogs, Mrs Matthews,” I said. “We’re just deciding where to deploy them.”

“Will they hear Skip bark, Mr Rhea?” she asked.

“They might make him bark. Now, what time did Stephen set off?”

The dog-handlers and I listened to her story and we learned he’d eaten his tea about half past five and had then watched television for a while. At seven he had left the house and hadn’t been seen since. We obtained a
description
of the clothes he wore, together with the dog’s particulars, and I decided it was time to circulate them to all our mobiles and fixed stations. Some patrolling police officer might see them on the road somewhere. A lorry could have picked them up—anything could have happened.

I was not satisfied about the reason for Stephen’s
departure
. Mrs Matthews did not give a reason and I found it odd that a child of six would suddenly take his dog away from the house in the dark. I wanted to know why he had left the house.

I began to probe and she broke down in tears; it seemed her husband had lost his temper with the dog because it kept scratching the paintwork of his newly painted front door and he’d threatened to shoot the bloody animal if it persisted….

Stephen had cried for a long time about this and at seven o’clock he’d slipped out of the house with Skip. At the time, mother was washing the pots and Dad was attending to something in the garden shed.

This news made the search even more important. On a cold December night, a child could perish from hypothermia if left out in the open, and I recognised the urgency of our actions. There was no time to lose, but where should I begin?

As I knew the village terrain very well, I suggested areas of immediate search by each of the two dogs, while I
continued
to examine the open buildings about Aidensfield. At eleven o’clock, Sergeant Blaketon materialised with five more officers, having been told of our lack of progress by the dog-handlers over their radios. By now, the matter was growing desperate. Stephen and his dog had been missing four hours with no indication of their whereabouts.

We asked questions around the village, but no one had seen the lad and his dog. Darkness and the fact that many villagers had been indoors preparing for the dance meant they had managed to wander off without being noticed.

With Sergeant Blaketon now in charge, the hunt assumed new proportions and I was pleased to have the vital assistance of my colleagues from the Sub-Division. I secured a map of Aidensfield and district and we apportioned a given area to each police searcher, with me providing local information about the dangers of deep waters in the streams, dangerous and ruined buildings, likely woodland hiding-places, little known routes and so forth.

Through our police radios, we were able to keep closely in touch with each other and by eleven thirty the inspector arrived, having been told of the unsuccessful search. Now Aidensfield was alive with police vehicles, dogs and vans; men with powerful torches and loud-hailers patrolled the
outer areas, all searching to a pattern and all desperately anxious to find the little fellow before the awful chill of winter took its inevitable toll.

Inside the dance-hall, the huntsmen and their followers were unaware of the drama being played nearby. At half-past midnight, I decided to tell Colonel Smithson of the importance of our search and to apologise for my continued absence from his function.

I found him doing a waltz with a titled lady from an adjoining hunt and I waited until he drifted past in a cloud of her expensive perfume.

“Colonel, could I speak with you?”

“Ah, Mr Rhea, of course. Found that child, have you?”

“No, we haven’t,” I said. “I’m just explaining my absence from your function….”

“What child is this?” asked her ladyship, with deep
interest
.

I told them both of the extent of our search and of the desperation now setting in. Her ladyship asked some very sensible questions about our methods of searching and the numbers involved, and Colonel Smithson did likewise. Their interest was intense.

“You know,” he coughed, “here we are, all enjoying ourselves and that poor child is out there, on a bloody cold night…. Mr Rhea, let us help.”

“That’s most generous of you,” I began….

“Generous be damned! It’s a public duty! Look—all these people know this district like the backs of their pampered hands! They’ve all hunted over these fields and rivers, every inch of them … I’ll stop this bloody dance for you and ask for volunteers … how’s that?”

“Excellent idea, Benji,” beamed his lady companion. “Yes, let’s join your hunt, Constable.”

I was somewhat taken aback by this response but before I knew what was happening the colonel had stopped the orchestra and was addressing the assembly through the microphone. He told of the little boy’s absence and of the hunt now in progress, then asked me to detail precisely what the police were doing. I took the microphone from him and gave the whole story of the missing boy and his
dog. I provided a brief description of young Stephen and the clothes he was wearing, and informed the gathering that the inspector’s official car, parked on the garage forecourt higher up the village, was the focal point. He had radio contact with all searchers and with Force Control at
Headquarters
, so this made his car the ideal Command Vehicle.

The colonel took over again.

“Right, gentlemen,” he spoke into the microphone. “I think this is an occasion for us to volunteer to join the search. Everyone here knows this countryside intimately, and I’m sure the police would be grateful for any assistance. Have I any volunteers to report to the inspector’s car and be allocated an area to cover?”

In the moment of silence that followed, I thought no one was going to raise a hand, but as if on an unspoken command a sea of hands was raised and he beamed with obvious delight.

“Right, that’s it. Go home and change into something more useful for tramping across the landscape. And, P.C. Rhea, if we don’t find the lad tonight, we will continue tomorrow on horseback….”

What followed next was truly amazing. Well over half the dancers reported to the inspector’s car in their
evening-dress
, ladies in their long flowing gowns and fur coats, and gentlemen in dinner-jackets with Wellingtons drawn from their car boots. The colonel took charge of his contingent and I could see he was thoroughly enjoying himself being back in the field of action. Others had gone home to change into more suitable attire.

By one o’clock that morning, we had well over two hundred people searching for Stephen and his dog. We allocated one policeman to each party of hunters because it meant we could maintain radio contact with our base, should the lad be discovered. I was with a party of young huntsmen and their girls from the York area, and we combed the district bordering the parish boundaries between Aidensfield and Maddleskirk. That comprised some rough landscape, thick with thorn-bushes and laced with dangerous marshland, all interspaced with deep streams and expansive open fields. We combed the area
intensively by torchlight, thrashing bushes with sticks, calling the names of both boy and dog and examining every possible hiding-place. We found nothing. Even in spite of our activity, the cold was striking through our clothing.

I knew from the response on my personal radio set that the others were experiencing the same result. Nothing. There was not a clue; no sightings, nothing. It was as if the child and his dog had been spirited away.

Meticulous attention was paid to the stream which ran along the valley floor. It meandered gracefully through the fields and woods, sometimes spilling over the edge to form dangerous marshes and pools which were traps for the unwary. One team, plus a police dog, were given the specific task of searching the entire length of that stream for three miles each way. They found nothing.

Heart-warming response came from the caterers who had been booked to feed the dancers. Mr Humphries, the proprietor of the catering firm in question, had dashed home in his van to return to the scene with hot soup and sausage rolls. Although the search was of a most serious nature, it was gratifying to see the
esprit
de
corps
that was generated by these willing people. It was evident they were enjoying themselves, although carrying out their task with a high degree of professionalism.

None of us went to bed that night. The bitter chill gave way to an even colder dawn and as daylight broke we were a tired and bedraggled sight. Those who had not gone home to change looked a sorry mess, suits mud-spattered and torn, long elegant dresses stained and ripped and the people red-eyed and weary. We had been searching for twelve hours without a break.

At nine o’clock that morning, the inspector had to make a vital decision. His men needed rest. They needed sleep, refreshment and warmth if they were to continue; without that, there could be further casualties among the searchers. He knew the risks and I saw him look at his watch.

He called me in for a conference and we sat in his car.

“Nine o’clock, Nick. And not a bloody sausage.”

“These people have been marvellous, sir,” I said. “They
said they would go home and get horses at dawn, if he hadn’t been found.”

“They’re incredible. And our lads too—they’ve tramped miles tonight in appalling weather….”

“Where is everyone now, sir?” I asked.

“Still out there. Have you seen the parents?”

“The father’s out somewhere and Mrs Matthews is still at home, standing by the window. I saw her as I came in.”

“Let’s give it another couple of hours, Nick. Can you stand it?”

“Sure,” I said. “Thank God for Jack Humphries and his grub!”

I returned to my little party and left the inspector to relay his decision to the troops. We moved our group another half mile to the west and began yet another systematic search of the scrubland upon the foothills which rose towards the grim moors behind. It was tiring in the extreme.

And then, at half past nine, came some marvellous news. Stephen had been found and he was still alive—and so was the dog.

I was thrilled to hear the cheers rising from the hunters spread all over the countryside as the news was passed over the police loud-hailers and radio sets. We were all asked to return to base. It was all over.

By the time I returned, Stephen had been whisked off to hospital in one of the cars belonging to a huntsman, and his dog had been taken home. As everyone gathered around the inspector’s car, he decided to thank everyone there and then, and explained how the discovery had occurred.

Miss Gabrielle Gladstone, a member of the Slemmington Hunt, had gone home to get her horse at dawn, and had decided to ride back to the Control Point via the fields. Her home was in Ploatby, several miles by road but a short ride across the fields. She was a pretty young woman of about twenty-five and as she had ridden through the fields in daylight she had recalled some of her own childhood
adventures
. There was a derelict mill deep in a wood, well off the beaten track, and she had decided to examine that during her trip.

And there was the boy. He had somehow found his way
into that awful place in the darkness, lost his torch and fallen. He had broken an ankle, she said, and had been unable to move. He had lain all night on a pile of sacks and the fact he was indoors helped him survive. But, she said, he owed his life to his dog. It had remained with him all the time and, when she found them, the boy was curled up asleep with his arms around his faithful friend. The dog had kept the boy’s body temperature sufficiently high for him to survive.

Afterwards, Mr Matthews praised the dog, he praised the hunt and he praised the police. He was overwhelmed and overjoyed at the response by the public of Aidensfield and their friends.

I never knew how the youngster had managed to find that remote place at night and I don’t think he knew himself. It was so far off the beaten track that it might have escaped our attention, and I found myself wondering whether we’d have found the lad if he’d chosen to run away on a night when there was no Hunt Ball.

That Hunt Ball was a success in many ways and,
thereafter
, young Stephen didn’t wander very far. I do know that later in the year he was a guest of honour of the hunt, who took him around the kennels to see the puppies and the foxhounds. In fact, he was presented with a whip by the Master of Foxhounds, but with strict instructions never to use it on his own dog!

There is no doubt that families of children can lead to friendships and understanding between their respective parents and in a village community many lasting
relationships
have developed because parents met at school events. When our three children were too young to attend primary school, we sent them to play-school. The eldest, Elizabeth, started by going once a week. There she met and played with other youngsters and this developed her ability to mix with those of her own age before attending school. We felt it an important part of her development and it helped at primary school.

Two of her little pals were Paul and Sarah Parker, instantly recognisable as twins. Mrs Parker was then a frail slip of a girl and she lived with her twins in a council house at Maddleskirk. Her no-good husband had left her when she was nineteen, having presented her with these bairns at a very tender age. They had now reached school age and started the primary school with my Elizabeth.

Julia Parker had to be admired. Somehow she managed to earn a few pounds each week and, although she depended heavily upon the State to maintain herself and her family, she did her best to keep her youngsters well-fed and neatly clothed. Both Mary and I had a deep sympathy for her in her plight; alone, she had to support those youngsters, run the house, pay her bills and somehow retain her sanity. I do not think her awful husband ever paid a penny towards their
keep in spite of repeated court orders. Certainly, he never came near the village.

Julia herself was thin and wiry; she looked eternally underfed and hungry, although she was a pretty girl with delightful eyes and a lovely face. She was never heard to complain about the plight in which she found herself, and there is no doubt that the entire village liked her. Even her twins were nice—they were pleasantly mannered kiddies and seemed able to mix well with others of their age. She had every right to be proud of them as they came towards their sixth birthday.

It was with some horror, therefore, that I received a
telephone
call from York Police one Saturday afternoon to ask if I knew a woman called Mrs Julia Parker of Maddleskirk.

“Yes,” I said to the unknown constable at the other end. “I know Julia Parker.”

“Describe her, can you?”

I did my best, emphasising her dark hair, her slenderness and her general appearance. I put her age at about
twenty-three
. I followed this with, “Why are you asking?”

“We’ve a young woman in the nick,” he said. “She says her name is Julia Parker from Maddleskirk, but can’t prove her identity. She named you as somebody who can identify her.”

“Does my description fit the girl you’ve got there?”

“It does,” he said. “Thanks.”

“What’s the matter with her?” I asked.

“She’s been nicked for shoplifting,” he said flatly. “She’s pinched some kids’ toys from a shop in town.”

I groaned. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said. “The manager caught her and she’s admitted taking the things. We’re going through the
necessary
procedures right now—she’ll be at court next Tuesday.”

“You’ll be bailing her?” I put to him.

“I see no problem, she says she has twins with a
baby-sitter
in your village.”

“Yes, it’ll be Mrs Hird,” I guessed.

“That’s the name she gave. She seems a nice kid,” he added.

“She is,” I said and then gave him a genuine account of Julia’s family circumstances and the problems she had surmounted. He expressed sorrow but we both knew the law must take its course. I asked the constable to pass a message to Julia, asking her to pop in to see myself and Mary when she returned. She had to know she had friends.

That evening, a tearful Julia knocked at my door and we admitted her. Mary took her into the lounge where our three children were being entertained before bed and, once inside the house, she burst into tears.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she began….

Mary made a marvellous job of comforting the girl. As the tale poured from her, we learned it was the twins’ birthday next Wednesday. They would be six years old and she’d had no money to buy them anything; everything had gone on food and clothes and, in a last desperate act, she’d tried to steal a couple of toys. Other children got toys for their birthdays, she said, but hers wouldn’t on this occasion….

It was a very sad case, and so out of character. I knew there was no answer to it—she had stolen the toys, worth about £1 each, and had admitted it. I knew she would go to court and be fined a small amount; the magistrates might, however, decide upon a conditional discharge. Whatever happened, though, it meant Julia would be dragged through the courts and her name bandied about as a common thief. We did our best to comfort her and Mary said we would try to find some toys for the children before Wednesday. At least, they’d be happy.

Julia remained with us as our youngsters were taken upstairs and we all settled down for a coffee, all the time trying to find some way of helping Julia to accept her fate and to take a positive grip on her future. She had done so well up to date, but this one slip threatened to destroy all her past efforts. She had cracked under intolerable strains and would need help and guidance over the coming weeks. Mary took it upon herself to help this slip of a girl.
Eventually
, she left us with a smile, and I felt happier about her. She appeared to be calm in the face of her coming ordeal.

That all occurred on the Saturday evening and, on Monday night, my telephone rang. It was the same
constable
from York and he told me his name was Geoff Lewis.

“It’s about that girl, she’s due at court tomorrow,” he said. “I would like you to make sure she comes, Mr Rhea.”

“We’ve already talked to her,” I told him. “I’m on day off and my wife has some shopping to do, so we’ll fetch her through. She’ll be there, you can rest assured on that.”

“That’s good of you. Could you fetch her into the police office first? The inspector wants a word with her.”

This was unusual, but I agreed.

On the Tuesday morning, we stopped the car outside Julia’s tidy home and she ran to join us, having arranged for the children to visit a neighbour if she was late. No one knew of her secret and I hoped the newspapers wouldn’t make too much of a fuss about it. Although she was tearful, she seemed to be in control of herself as I told her about the message from York Police. I parked at the police-station, close to the River Ouse, and escorted Julia inside. I asked for P.C. Lewis and he appeared, smiling when he saw me. I guessed it was with relief at her presence.

He recognised Julia and said, “Can you come upstairs to the inspector’s office?”

She looked at me and I said, “I’ll come with you if you like,” and turned to the policeman for his approval. He nodded. Mary and I followed them up the steep, winding staircase.

P.C. Lewis introduced me to the inspector and explained my presence; I told him of our links with Julia. He looked at me and smiled his understanding.

“Sit down, all of you,” he invited.

“Julia,” he addressed the worried girl. “We have been doing a bit of research into your background, and we now know that what you told us on Saturday is true. P.C. Lewis has spoken to P.C. Rhea about you.”

Julia merely nodded and I’ve no doubt she regarded this as just another portion of routine court procedure. I didn’t, but I had no idea what was happening.

“Julia,” continued the inspector, “we have spoken to the manager of the shop about you. He has decided not to prefer charges—if he fails to give evidence, we cannot proceed. He will not come to court.”

Tears came into her eyes. “Does that mean I will not be fined?”

“It means there will be no court case at all,” he said gently. “You are free to leave and,” he delved under the desk, “here are the toys. Give them to your children with our best wishes.”

“But I must pay for them….” She began to open her handbag.

“No,” he said. “We’ve something else for you.”

He pushed an envelope across the desk and it bore her name.

She regarded it solemnly and glanced at me. “Open it,” I said.

She did, and inside were fifty £1 notes.

“Money…?” she said.

“We had a collection among all the policemen here,” said the inspector. “We paid for your toys. There’s about two hundred of us and every man has given five shillings, so there’s money for future presents for your family. We want you to put this money into a post-office account, and use it only for Christmas and birthday presents. You’ll get a little bit of interest on the money and I know P.C. Rhea will help you to open the account. So your twins will always have presents like other children….”

Julia was sobbing as she clutched the money to her thin chest and I put an arm about her. I felt my own eyes grow moist and I know the inspector was feeling very emotional about it. Julia didn’t know what to say so I suggested she write a letter to thank them when she returned home. There was no fuss about it, no formal presentation, no publicity, just a show of genuine affection and understanding from two hundred policemen towards one girl who’d been badly treated by a man.

Later, my own family was about to increase. Our fourth child was almost due and I knew that in the very near future I would have to drive Mary to the Maternity Home near Malton. I didn’t want a last-minute panic like the previous occasion and, sure enough, the warning signals began late one evening. I rang the hospital and they accepted her;
within half an hour, Mary was in my car and we were driving swiftly but carefully across the valley to the country-based maternity home. A neighbour had come into care for the other children.

We left it closer than I’d realised. Mary said the
contractions
were beginning and I realised that a birth was
imminent
so it was with infinite relief that I reached the hospital in time. The sister suggested I wait, for surely I would be a dad yet again within a very short time.

I entered the plain waiting-room full of old magazines and hard chairs and found another young man sitting there waiting. He was clearly a farm labourer, having come straight from some smelly job in his old clothes. He sat on one of the chairs, twisting a flat cap in his powerful hands and gazing at the floor. He smiled briefly as I entered and I settled down opposite; I felt very much the experienced dad with a score of three to my credit so far.

I greeted the young fellow with “Now then” as we do in Yorkshire and he nodded a brief response, all the time wringing his cap.

“It’s not like a sow, is it?” he suddenly spoke.

“Er, no, I suppose not,” I responded to his odd statement.

“Sows eat theirs, eh? If you don’t do summat quickly, they eat their young. Cats do an’ all,” he commented.

“Humans aren’t like that,” I said by way of saying
something
constructive and helpful.

“My first.” He squeezed the hat until I felt it must fall apart in those massive hands.

“My fourth.” I felt a glow of parental pride as I realised we’d not eaten any of ours.

“It’s not like horses either, is it?” he resumed after a break in our conversation.

“Horses?” I puzzled.

“Aye, foaling. Horses foaling. They’ve got to get ropes on the feet and drag ’em out. I’ve done it many a time…. nasty business. This won’t be like that, will it?”

“No, it won’t,” I assured him, feeling it wise to refrain from explaining that some human births weren’t all that easy.

There followed a long period of silence, during which he
mangled his cap until it looked like a battered dish-cloth. Then he smiled and said:

“It’ll not be like cows either, will it?”

“Cows?” I must have sounded baffled by this time.

“Cows roll on their calves sometimes. Big hefty cows, lashing about. They roll over and smother their calves if you’re not there….”

“The nurses will look after ours,” I assured him,
wondering
about the size of his wife.

He smiled at my blithe reassurance and settled down, then suddenly paced the floor and put the mangled hat on his untidy hair. He stopped right in front of me and peered at me seriously.

“It’s not like lambs, is it?” he asked, those anxious eyes boring into mine.

“Lambs?” I shook my head.

“If the mother dies, they give the lamb to another ewe; they skin a dead lamb and hide the smell and put the skin over the orphan….”

I visualised mothers wearing wigs to confuse babies; I visualised babies being painted with some fluid to
disguise
their smells so that foster-mothers would accept them….

“It’s not a bit like that,” I said, and he returned to his chair where he recommenced his wringing motions.

We waited another five minutes and he smiled at me.

“I’m glad we’re not like cuckoos,” he winked. “Crafty old birds, those, eh? Laying their eggs in another nest and letting somebody else feed them and bring them up….”

“I think a lot of humans are just a bit like that,” I laughed with him.

The sister came through and addressed him. “Mr Winford?”

“Aye?” he leapt to his feet and clapped the mangled cap on his head once again.

“You’ve got a son,” she smiled. “And he and his mother are both well.”

“I reckon he’ll be a thoroughbred sire like his dad,” and he followed the nurse with gleeful pride in his eyes.

I waited, musing over his curious view of natural birth, and within half an hour the sister called me in.

“A daughter, Mr Rhea,” she announced. “And both are fine.”

For some reason, I thought of a fawn.