Constable Around the Village by Nicholas Rhea

Author:Nicholas Rhea [Nicholas Rhea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780719805073
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 2012-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

I never really knew whether Sergeant Blaketon disliked members of the Roman Catholic Church, or whether his remarks were deep-seated jokes understood only by himself. In truth, there were few occasions when religion entered my work as a village policeman, but I must confess that on one occasion the rigid faith of a little old lady completely thwarted me.

To put the story in perspective, it began with the death of a Mr Abraham Potter whose home was a lovely cottage in Aidensfield, just up the street from the pub. Awd Abe, as everyone affectionately called him, had been a lifelong Methodist of the strictest kind, never drinking liquor, never smoking, never swearing, never gambling and never working on Sundays. He led an exemplary life and was a true pillar of the chapel. There, he cleaned and gardened, painted and decorated and wrote the notices for Sunday in his beautiful copper-plate handwriting. Then he died.

My arrival at Aidensfield coincided with his death, so I never met Awd Abe. From his reputation, I guessed his name would live on as an example of righteousness and Christian standards. His death meant that his little cottage would be sold and, within a few weeks, the “For Sale” signs appeared in the garden. His relatives had been traced and had agreed to sell the house, but no one had foreseen the conditions he’d imposed upon the sale.

I learned of these by pure chance, for I was patrolling the village street as the estate agents were erecting their “For Sale” boards. As village constables are wont to do, I stopped for a chat.

“Will it sell?” I asked, for rural properties at that time were not fetching very high prices. It was before the boom in country cottages.

“It would, if it wasn’t for Awd Abe,” said the man.

“He’s dead,” I remarked, wondering if he knew.

“Aye, we know, but he’s left a will saying what’s got to be done with this spot, if his nephews sell it.”

“Has he? What’s he said?” I was interested now.

“You knew him?” the man put to me.

I shook my head. “No, he died just before I was posted here.”

“Big chapel man, he was,” I was told. “Very straight sort of a chap. Lived by the Bible, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” Awd Abe’s reputation lived on.

“Well, he’s put conditions on the sale of this spot,” the man told me guardedly. “I reckon we’ll have a job selling it.”

“What sort of conditions?”

“Well,” he said. “First, it mustn’t be sold to or occupied by a Roman Catholic. And the person that buys it must not read Sunday papers, mustn’t play cards, mustn’t drink alcohol, mustn’t have children, mustn’t keep animals, mustn’t smoke, mustn’t gamble and mustn’t work on Sundays. And they must be regular attenders at chapel, not church.”

“He will have a job selling it here!” I laughed. “Practically every other family is Catholic and I imagine most folks nowadays read Sunday papers…. why the Sunday papers bit?”

“He didn’t believe in working on the Sabbath,” said the estate agent’s man.

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