Constable by the Sea (12 page)

A distinctive aura surrounds a Strensford fisherman. It is difficult to define but doubtless comes from centuries of extremely tough work in appalling conditions on the North Sea. His clothes are sensible and ideal for the task, if almost a uniform; his skin and face are hard, weather-beaten and tanned; his language is also hard and liberally spiced with a dialect all of his own, a dialect that even his colleagues from Scandinavia can understand.

These fishermen live in a closed community, their familes having lived and worked here since Viking times. It is rare, indeed very rare, for them to marry outside their own kind.

That is why Nathan’s wife was so different. She was not from a Strensford fishing family but hailed from the Midlands. It seems she and Nathan had met as young people when she came to Strensford for a holiday, and much to everyone’s surprise they married. She became the brains behind his various business enterprises, but she was not like the wives of the other fishermen.

Those other wives had emerged from days, fairly recent days, when the women virtually lived on the fish quays, drying the fish in the open in summer, gutting crans of herring and stones of cod, packing them in large ice-boxes, mending nets and baiting lines in spite of the weather and in spite of the hour. Being a fisherman’s wife was hard, very hard.

Laura Fleming had had none of those experiences. She’d been reared near the Trent, the daughter of a shopkeeper in Stoke, and she had no intention of sitting all day among stinking
fish and their bloody innards. So, by her own conduct, she was a woman apart, but a thoroughly decent woman who became a loved and respected member of Strensford society. She was President of the Townswomen’s Guild, a strong Methodist and sincere chapel-goer as well as a tireless worker for charity.

I’d seen her once or twice. I’d noticed her supervising the assistants in their shops or at the summer-time whelk stall. She was a smart woman in middle age who enjoyed a light, peachy complexion which was such a contrast against the dark ruggedness of the other fisherfolk. Her features alone marked her out as a stranger among the local people, and her uncharacteristic mode of speech was another difference. Her mousy hair, just turning grey when I knew her, was always tightly tied in a bun, and she always wore sensible shoes, thick stockings and clothes which concealed her figure. Like Nathan, she was always busy with something, either running the shops, raising money for worthwhile causes, such as the Royal National Lifeboat Institution or various other maritime charities, or going about chapel business.

Being a policeman means that it is possible to acquire a knowledge of people without even realizing it; as citizens like Laura go about their daily routine, and as the policeman does likewise, their paths cross, they chat and they begin to discover more and more about one another, albeit unintentionally. Gossip, parade-room chat and frequent talks with my
Strensford
colleagues all provided little snippets about Nathan and Laura which I stored in my memory, usually subconsciously. It was all part of local knowledge, such an asset in police work.

The other fishermen’s wives accepted Laura; there was no antagonism, and this may have had something to do with the fact that she was the wife of the respected Nathan Fleming, or it could have been due to Laura’s own personality and quiet charm. Or a combination of both.

But it was Nathan I saw more than his wife. When he was not on his boat or seeing to his whelk stall, he was driving his van around the outskirts, pulling up in the streets as his customers flocked to buy what he described as the freshest fish in town. Whenever he stopped near me, I would gaze in admiration as he
wielded his knife to provide every customer with a choice piece of the right weight, and he always found a morsel for the cats which rubbed their chins against his van wheels during these sales.

There were times when I wondered when he slept or took a break from his fishing and the business it generated. He was always busy, always to be seen around town, always happy and pleasant with people, always making a pound or two here and a shilling or two there. He did not run a car, so I wondered how he spent his hard-earned cash, although his home was beautiful. It was a large, old house which his wife, with her tasteful talents, had decorated and renovated, but I wondered when he found the time to enjoy it.

He did employ others though; sometimes a young man would serve at the whelk stall, or wheel barrow-loads of fresh fish from the quay to the shops, or drive the van because Nathan was at sea. But the moment he returned, he did those tasks himself, apparently tirelessly.

As policemen are prone to do simply by keeping their ears and eyes open, I did learn what Nathan had secretly done with some of his hard-earned money. He did a lot of cash dealing, and over the years he had managed to siphon off a considerable amount of money. This had accumulated to such an extent that he had difficulty knowing what to do with it. To spend it on new equipment or a new business venture might exercise the curiosity of HM Inland Revenue who could begin to ask awkward questions. Worse still, I learned, was that he had managed to accumulate this nest-egg without the knowledge of his dear Laura. That alone suggested cunning of a very high standard.

According to tales which were circulating the police station, through Joe Tapley’s intimate knowledge of the fisherfolk, Nathan had kept his growing wad of cash on his boat. It had been concealed from everyone behind a clever piece of panelling, but the time had come, several months before my arrival in Strensford, for Nathan to do something about it. There was too much even for the place of concealment so he had either to confess to its presence and spend it on the business or
bank it, every action being likely to arouse official scrutiny of his income.

The other alternative was to buy something expensive, such as an oil painting or piece of furniture, but that would cause Laura to ask too many questions. Besides, he wasn’t one for admiring paintings or acquiring furnishings of excess quality.

So he bought a racehorse.

Very few people knew about this acquisition; it was a very odd thing to do because Nathan had never shown any interest in either horses or racing. We did wonder if it was done upon the advice of another businessman, the logic being that
horse-racing
, especially betting on the outcome, is one of the finest and speediest ways of getting rid of money.

Joe Tapley was one of the few people who knew of Nathan’s purchase, and I know he did not spread the news
indiscriminately
. Nonetheless, he did tell me during one of our lone patrols, and he provided me with the history of Nathan which I have just related. This revelation and life history were prompted when we saw Nathan hurrying to his boat at 3.30 one morning.

Joe told me the horse was called Beggar’s Bridge because it had nothing to do with fish.

‘Has it won much?’ I asked, not being a racing fan and therefore not knowing the reputation of this animal.

‘It hasn’t raced yet,’ he said. ‘It’s due for its first outing later this year.’

‘There’ll be a lot of local interest in it,’ I said almost as an aside. ‘The whole town will be backing it, surely?’

‘They won’t!’ said Joe. ‘No one knows it’s Nathan’s, not even his wife. He hasn’t told her.’

‘You’re joking!’ I cried. ‘Surely he’s told his wife? I mean, it’ll cost a bomb to train and keep …’

‘He can’t tell her, can he? She’ll ask where he got the money to buy it and train it. Besides, she’s a big chapel lady and doesn’t hold with gambling. God knows what she’d do if she discovered Nathan owned a racehorse! Nathan will never tell her, Nick. So the fewer folks know about it, the better, then she’s not likely to find out, is she?’

I knew that the code among Nathan’s men friends would
never allow Laura to learn of her husband’s investment, but it seemed inevitable that one day she would learn from someone else about Nathan’s secret racehorse.

I thought no more about it until one Saturday in late July. It was a warm, bright day with dark clouds scudding across the sky, interspersed with periods of intense sunshine, so typical of the month. I was working a beat just out of the town centre where I had to supervise the indiscriminate parking of cars by visitors and day trippers. My job was to ensure that all the coaches were left in the official parks provided by the Urban District Council.

This was before the days of yellow ‘No Parking’ lines and traffic wardens, and one major problem was that thoughtless drivers would park all day in the side streets and so block entrances to the homes of the local people. Even shops and other business premises found themselves blocked in with parked cars. We tried to solve the problem by positioning ‘No Parking’ signs at frequent intervals, but some motorists would move the signs so they could park their cars! We hit back by booking them for ‘Unnecessary obstruction of the highway’, but often they had dumped their cars and departed before we could catch them. In those days we did not tow cars away to compounds, and so the poor townspeople often had to tolerate this gross inconvenience. It was a constant battle – the motorists thought we were harassing them, and the locals thought we were doing too little about them.

Over my lunch of salad sandwiches and coffee in the muster room of Strensford’s ancient police station that Saturday, Joe Tapley was chattering as usual, and I was listening to his fund of local yarns.

‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘Who’s having five bob on Beggar’s Bridge today? It’s in the 3.15 at Thirsk.’

I pricked up my ears. This was Nathan’s horse, but how many of the men knew that? I kept quiet but said to Joe, ‘I wouldn’t mind having a crack at it. What’s the price?’

‘I can get seven to one,’ he said. ‘I’ve a friend who can place any bets for us.’

I passed over my two half-crowns and made a silent wish that
Beggar’s Bridge would carry them safely home at a profit. And having done that, I left the station and returned to the chore of instructing irate motorists to move their cars.

I had no doubt that when I returned to my beat after lunch, there would be several illegally and stupidly parked vehicles, and that I would spend hours hopelessly trying to find the drivers. We had a pad of tickets for such cases, so I could always stick one of them in each offending windscreen, asking the driver to call at the police office to explain why he had parked in a ‘No Parking’ street.

It was while patrolling one of the Georgian crescents on the West Cliff that I found a car very badly parked outside a boarding house. I decided to locate the driver by asking inside one or more of those boarding houses. After only two attempts, I entered one called Sea Vista and found the landlady in her little kitchen. She was watching television and, as I put my request about the badly parked car, I automatically looked at my watch. It was ten past three – I needed a note of the time if I was to book an offender.

The man, it seemed, was staying at Sea Vista and had just registered; he was upstairs now, having lugged suitcases and bags up several flights, and so I asked her to request him to move it the moment he had unloaded. I went outside and he appeared within seconds, flustered and full of apologies, so I directed him to a convenient car-park and decided not to report him for a prosecution. I had no intention of spoiling his holiday, for he was clearly a genuine fellow doing his best for a growing family.

The moment he’d vacated the space, Nathan’s fish van rushed into the crescent and halted in the very same spot. Out he leapt and, instead of opening his van doors, he hurried to the door of Sea Vista, knocked and rushed inside. I wondered if there was an emergency, and so, thinking the car-parking episode would give me an excuse for going back, I followed.

‘Mrs Parkin,’ I hard Nathan say. ‘Can I see your telly? Tyne-Tees? Sports.’

‘Well, Nathan, I was waiting to get my order, but …’

The set was already on and tuned into the sports programme,
and when she saw me hovering she said, ‘Dunno what he wants, but it must be interesting. Your man moved his car, has he?’

‘Thanks, yes,’ I said, and then it dawned on me! The 3.15 at Thirsk.

‘Can I watch as well?’ I asked her. ‘I’ve a little bet on Beggar’s Bridge. It’s running now, 3.15.’

‘So have I. One of my guests said it was a good bet. Come in both of you. It’s due to start.’

As the horses went to the start, she offered us a cup of tea from the ever-singing kettle, and by the time they reached the start we were all settled in silence before her TV set, the parking regulations forgotten.

Beggar’s Bridge was No. 8, which showed up clearly on the black-and-white screen, and we all sat in total silence as the starter’s flag went up. Then they were off. Nathan started shouting ‘Come on, come on,’ and I found myself watching him as much as I was watching the race.

In seconds it was all over. Nathan’s horse had won by three lengths. It was a good, substantial win. As Beggar’s Bridge crossed the line, Nathan leapt out of his chair, hugged Mrs Parkin and gave her a huge, smacking kiss, then rushed outside and came back with her order.

‘Mrs Parkin,’ he said with tears of joy streaming down his weathered cheeks. ‘You’ve made me a very happy man today. Take this fish as a gift, a memento of today. I love everybody!’

She was lost for words and looked at me in total amazement.

‘What got into him?’ she gasped.

‘I don’t know,’ I smiled, and after thanking her too, I followed him down the steps and out to his van. He had closed the doors and was walking round to the driving seat as I arrived.

‘Well done,’ I said.

He studied me for a few moments and then smiled a long, slow smile.

‘You had something on him, then?’

‘Five bob,’ I said.

‘Good,’ and he prepared to drive away.

‘You didn’t go to Thirsk to watch it run?’ I put to him.

‘How could I?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What could I tell Laura?’

‘What can you tell her now?’ I countered.

‘Search me,’ he said.

‘You’ve another problem looming as well, you know,’ I whispered to him, man to man.