CONSTABLE ALONG THE LANE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) by Nicholas Rhea

Author:Nicholas Rhea [RHEA, NICHOLAS]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books cozy crime and mystery
Published: 2020-04-19T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

The love of money is the root of all evil.

ST PAUL, d. circa AD 67

One of the less publicised aspects of constabulary work is the quiet assistance that police officers give to members of the public; it would be possible to fill a book with glowing examples. This help comes in many forms, such as assisting in the repair of a broken-down car; catching stray budgies; helping with the formalities of bureaucracy or coaxing worried souls through the maze of complex problems that life throws at them.

I recall one example which involved a colleague of mine. He was performing night duty on a main trunk road and came upon a family car which had broken down. It was a major defect and there was no overnight garage in the area. He learned that the occupants were heading for London; driving through the night to catch a morning flight for a long-overdue visit to an aged relative in Australia. Marooned as they were in the middle of the North Riding of Yorkshire, the constable promptly ended his shift by taking some time off duty. He was able to do this because of some overtime previously worked, and with no thought of being paid or even thanked, he drove the stranded family to London in his own car. It was a distance of 250 miles each way and they caught their flight.

Countless minor tasks are completed during a police officer’s daily round, each in itself a small thing, albeit of great value to the person who is helped. One feature of this work is that it provides a vivid insight into the private lives of others.

One example which occurred on my patch at Aidensfield involved Awd Eustace, whose real name was Eustace Wakefield.

His problem was that he could not light his fire, a fact which came to my notice early one winter morning. The house next door to his was empty for three months while the owners were overseas, and I was keeping an eye on it. This meant regular visits to ensure it hadn’t been broken into or vandalised, and it was while examining the rear of this house that I noticed Eustace. He was chopping sticks just over the separating fence, so I said, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” He was a slight man with long, unkempt grey hair and stooped with age. Ragged old clothes, over which he wore a tattered cardigan, attempted to protect him against the icy winds of winter and he wore woollen gloves without any fingers. He was hacking away at some small logs and chopping them into kindling sticks.

“That’ll warm you up,” I said, mindful of the Yorkshire notion that the act of chopping sticks warms you twice — once when chopping them and again when blazing on a fire.

“It would if Ah could get that bloody fire o’ mine going,” said the little fellow. “Damned thing, it won’t draw. Them sticks is wet, mebbe.”

“They look OK to me,” I peered across the fence to examine them.

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