Constable Around the Village (2 page)

It seemed a reasonable night’s work. From eight o’clock until nine, therefore, I patrolled the beat with holly sticking from one pannier and a fair tonnage of coal in the other, ending my first half of the tour at home for supper. I tucked into a warm pie before the fire and laughed with Mary as I explained my forthcoming “duties”. The children were tucked snugly in bed and Mary said she would go upstairs when I left home at quarter to ten.

It would be a lonely New Year for her, but with the children so tiny it was impossible to go out and baby-sitters were difficult to acquire on such an evening. Stoically, Mary accepted her domesticity and I kissed her farewell as I began the second and most arduous part of my tour of duty.

As there had been no sign of Sergeant Blaketon and no other official calls upon my time, I decided to pay an early visit to all the pubs on my patch. Sight of the uniform would remind the revellers of the presence of the law and that alone should cause most of the merry-makers to enjoy themselves within reasonable limits and to refrain from punch-ups and wild drunkenness.

I discovered that at every pub there was a party. As each had been granted an extension of hours, every bar, lounge, hall and passage was full to overflowing, with many of the landlords putting free food at the disposal of the customers. In addition, there was a stock of streamers, balloons, funny hats and kissable young ladies; even at this early hour, a good time was assured.

Cars and motor-cycles were noticeably absent; I was pleased to note the basic common sense of the merry-makers and mentally praised them for leaving such liabilities at home. In every case, the pub atmosphere was superb. Every building radiated happiness and
bonhomie
as its inmates worked towards the explosive climax that was 12 midnight. That would be the signal for everyone to kiss everyone else, for the champagne to flow, for First Footers to roam the streets and for all kinds of resolutions to be made. It would be a time of joy and fun.

Outside those doors, it was a different world. The bucolic lanes were silent. No one moved between these isolated centres of population. Everyone was at home, waiting for midnight. There was no moon and the countryside lay dormant with just a hint of frost. The only moving thing was my motor-cycle with me astride it. I began to ponder upon the value of this presence. Eleven o’clock came and went without incident. Other than the controlled revelry in the pubs, the countryside was at its most peaceful and serene. Houses with lights at the windows dotted the remote parts showing there was life beyond the pubs and,
for five minutes, I sat astride the machine at the top of Aidensfield Bank and looked across the landscape spread below me. I felt no part of tonight’s excitement. I felt as if I was a total outsider. I thought about the excitements, the friendships, the fellowship, the happiness and even the unsung misery being played out in the villages down there. From my hilltop vantage-point, I could see nothing but a carpet of darkness dotted here and there with pinpricks of light. Those lights however, represented happiness, distant lights with friendship behind them. And I was alone on my hilltop.

It’s a miserable job being a policeman on such occasions. I knew I could not join the people in their merry-making because my uniform would immediately freeze any
atmosphere
of pleasure. I had to patrol alone. And so I did. I kicked the bike into life and moved off.

Occasionally I parked and walked the streets of peaceful villages in order to increase the circulation of my blood. It kept my fingers and toes warm and I made my allotted points at selected telephone kiosks. Surprisingly, the time passed quickly. It would soon be New Year.

After my eleven-thirty point at Elsinby, I paid a quick visit to the Hopbind Inn. I caught George’s eye and waved at him across a sea of pink faces and hovering glasses. He beckoned me to the counter in the passage, leaned across and said in true landlord’s style:

“Have one with us, Mr Rhea?”

I pondered. I did not normally drink on duty, but on this occasion he recognised my hesitancy and pressed home his advantage.

“Just a quickie. Small whisky? To see the New Year in?”

I looked at my watch. There was twenty minutes before Mrs Mitchell and my First Footing obligation. There was no sergeant about. I was cold and lonely …

“Aye, all right, George. For Auld Lang Syne.”

He invited me into the packed bar but I tactfully declined, and he drew me a measure of finest malt whisky. In the passage, I raised the glass, toasted him and his customers and wished them all the happiness of the New Year, now only eighteen minutes away.

“Thanks, George,” I returned the glass. “I appreciate that. Now I must dash—I’m First Footing at midnight.”

“All in the course of duty!” he laughed and returned to his generous hosting.

The whisky had warmed me nicely and I felt the
beginnings
of a glow of happiness as I guided my little machine through the dark, deserted lanes. As I glided into
Aidensfield
, I could hear singing in the pub. All its lights were aglow as I parked the machine against the wall of the village hall. Like everyone else, I was in my home village for New Year. I checked my watch. It was two minutes to twelve. I waited. I knew I must not enter Mrs Mitchell’s house before midnight, as that would bring bad luck. It was a long wait.

Finally, the church clock began to chime. Its long, measured tones brought the anxiously awaited news and the pub erupted into a cacophonous din. Trumpets blew, bagpipes wailed, voices were raised in song and a
badly-tuned
piano began to pick out the notes of Auld Lang Syne. Inside, it must have sounded heavenly. Outside, the racket was appalling. I waited and listened, feeling very very
miserable
and very very lonely. Then the door burst open and two men rushed out, each wearing a paper hat and carrying a balloon. At exactly the same time, both noticed me. I was about to move towards Mrs Mitchell’s house but was too late.

“It’s t’bobby!” I heard one of them splutter in slurred language and with some effort. “He’ll do it … You ask him …”

“Yessh, … good idea, John … very, very good idea … you asshk him.”

Brave with drink, the two men came towards me, both evidently about to ask me something serious.

“Misshter Conshtable,” said one of them. “Your presshensh issh required insshide, immediately if not sshooner,” and he giggled at his little joke. “Now, immediately,” and he saluted.

“Trouble?” I asked.

“No trouble, offissher, just Firsht Footing. There’ssh no one who can Firssht Foot, you sshee, because they’re all in there now. It mussht be a stranger.”

“All right, all right,” I said.

“Great, great,” and in they ran. I broke a little piece of holly from the adequate supply in my pannier, broke a piece of coal to gain the necessary lump, tore off a corner of bread and found a penny of my own.

Thus armed, I sallied into the smoky, alcoholic and happy atmosphere of the Brewers Arms. A huge shout of welcome erupted as my uniform materialised through the haze and I was manhandled through the crowd, being kissed by
countless
women until I reached the fireplace. There I knew I must deposit the coal, bread, money and holly.
Surprisingly
, the entire place fell silent. There was not a word as I made an exaggerated action to perform the necessary First Footing act and straightened up to find a huge glass of whisky before me. To have refused would have been
churlish
.

Cheers erupted about my ears as I brought guaranteed good luck to the Brewers Arms for the coming year and I raised my glass to wish happiness to everyone. The job over, the singing resumed, the kissing continued and the music commenced to the accompaniment of much
back-slapping
and hand-shaking as I quickly consumed the fiery contents of the glass.

Refusing another whisky on the grounds that I had an urgent appointment, I left the pub to make my way towards Mrs Mitchell’s little house. It was now ten past twelve. I was ten minutes late and I found that my head was noticeably light and my walking action somewhat erratic. I had drunk the whisky far too quickly and the cool night air was causing me to amble from side to side. Nevertheless, I collected the necessary goods from my panniers and reached the cottage.

I knocked.

“Come in,” she called from inside.

“It’s P.C. Rhea,” I opened the door and announced myself in case she thought it was a burglar.

Holding the coal, holly and slice of bread before me, I walked into her cosy living-room and swayed ever so slightly across the rug. Carefully, I placed one hand on the mantelshelf to steady myself and even more carefully placed
the coal, holly and bread in the hearth, followed by the coin. My head was swimming slightly, but I was able to stand upright and wish her “Happy New Year”.

“And a Happy New Year to you, Mr Rhea,” she beamed. I had done well. The silence before this exchange was part of the ritual. It has been deemed that as the First Foot enters with his traditional gifts everyone must remain silent until he has deposited them in the hearth. Only then can the silence be broken.

“I have your drink ready,” and she passed a glass of sherry to me.

I hadn’t bargained for this. When accepting all these commitments, I thought my duties were merely to enter with the gifts and break in the New Year, but at every house I was expected to join the compulsory toast. I didn’t dare refuse in case my lack of courtesy brought bad luck to everyone.

I gulped Mrs Mitchell’s sherry because my point time was due and, after making something approximating an apology to her for my hurry, I rushed out to stand swaying near the telephone kiosk. My face was warm now and my entire body was responding to the liquor. Inside that hot motor-cycle gear I was sweating profusely and decided that New Year duty wasn’t too bad after all, even on half nights. No one rang me. Sergeant Blaketon did not make an appearance to wish me a Happy New Year and so I was left with the honourable duty of fulfilling all my other First Footing appointments.

At this stage, it was difficult to remember anything after Mrs Mitchell’s sherry. I know that I did call upon all my other customers and a good many more besides. People kept pushing lumps of coal, sprigs of holly and slices of bread into my hands and I must have visited almost every house in Aidensfield, plonking coal, bread and holly into their hearths and downing indescribable concoctions as I offered slurred toasts to all and sundry. It must have been a happy time.

Instinctively, I knew I was in no fit state to ride the motor-cycle back to my house and somehow, during the festivities, it got forgotten. The passage of time was also
forgotten. I had no idea what the time was and became aware only of other demands for me to First Foot. It seemed that the entire population of the Brewers Arms took me into their homes to bring them luck.

After it all, I made my slow, laborious and hiccuping way back up the hill to the police house. I managed to fit my key into the lock and staggered inside, sweating and panting. I wiped my brow and my feet but recalled sufficient about my responsibilities to go into the living-room and place the coal, bread, coin and holly in the hearth. I must have remembered to bring these from my panniers, but as I stooped and swayed above my own fireside I noticed my hearth already contained those objects.

They weren’t mine. Someone else had been. I had been surreptitiously First Footed! My gifts were still in my hands, all black with coal-dust and cold after the night’s excesses. I stood for some minutes, wobbling before the sight in the hearth. Some unknown person had First Footed in
my
house. While I had been diligently patrolling, solving major crimes and protecting the public, someone had crept into my home and First Footed. Who? How? It was all too complicated for my fuddled brain and I simply placed my gifts beside the others, turned and struggled upstairs.

Memories of that awful ascent are hazy to say the least, the stairs presenting an almost insurmountable obstacle to my progress. I can recollect opening the bedroom door as quietly as possible before tripping over a chair and crashing unceremoniously onto the bed. Mary said something about it being a Happy New Year and I fell asleep, fully clothed, on top of the coverlet.

Next morning I was in severe trouble. My coal-black hands and motor-cycle clothing had smeared the
bed-clothes
, the staircase, the walls and the living-room, to say nothing of the bathroom which had received me on occasions during those night hours. It looked as if a sweep had rampaged through the house. To make things worse, Sergeant Blaketon had come to the house at 2 am, expecting to find me booking off duty. On failing to find me, and thinking I had dodged in home early, he’d knocked on the door and had roused Mary and the children. He had then
tried to overcome his error performing our First Footing, pinching my coal and breaking a twig off the holly-bush near the gate. From evidence thus acquired, it seems I had returned to base around 4 am, but I can’t remember much about it.

On the credit side, my efforts did bring luck to the villagers. Later that year, Aidensfield Parish Council presented them with a street lamp.

If my start to the year did not please Mary and the sergeant, it did please the village. From being a comparative stranger, I was now accepted as a villager, albeit with further
reservations
. I knew that I was regarded as a local person. My efforts at First Footing had ensured that, but I still had to prove myself as a policeman in the old-fashioned sense of the word. There’s a big difference between a “person” and a “policeman” and my next task was to firmly establish myself in my official capacity.

This is more difficult than it seems. For one thing, it is never easy for a policeman to prove himself in the eyes of other policemen. To achieve that rare distinction, he must have an infinite capacity for arresting villains, drinking copious quantities of ale, dealing with “hard” men and sorting out problems of every kind. Proving oneself as a policeman in the eyes of the
public
is a totally different matter.