Country copper's confessions

It was Christmas Day and I was on duty. As the new village constable of Aidensfield, I was allowed to remain in my Police House for the entire shift but would have to wear uniform and deal with any police matter that arose within my area of responsibility. This concession permitted me – hopefully – to spend Christmas Day with our four children and help Mary with the festivities. The lounge fire was ablaze with scented logs, the Christmas tree stood in a corner with glittering parcels around the base, all the decorations and lights were in place and there was palpable juvenile excitement as the time for Christmas dinner approached. Presents would be opened following the Queen's Speech after dinner, although overnight gifts from Father Christmas had already been enthusiastically unwrapped.

In Aidensfield, and throughout the Christian world, this scene was enjoyed by countless families and I prayed nothing would take me from the celebrations. Today of all days I was confident there would be no urgent call for a policeman.

But I was wrong. Just before eleven, PC Jim Finn from Ashfordly Police Station rang.

"Sorry about this, Nick, but there's been a hit-and-run accident. The Inspector wants you to deal with it. Now."

"Is it serious?" I wondered whether an ambulance was required.

"Damage only. No injuries."

Jim said the accident had happened at quarter past one as the regulars at Midnight Mass had been leaving Maddleskirk Abbey Church.

Their departure had coincided with several faithful from the White Lion in Maddleskirk being homeward bound to Aidensfield, just as a Morris Minor was being driven erratically from Maddleskirk village. It hurtled through the crowd to miss people by inches but damaged a white car driven by a worshipper. The erratic Morris had failed to stop but a quick-thinking church-leaver had noted its registration number. When Jim Finn revealed it, I knew the car belonged to Samuel Boston, son of an Aidensfield farmer whose spread I could see in the dale below our lounge windows. We were almost neighbours.

"You'll update us when you've interviewed him?" prompted Jim. "Book him for failing to stop and whatever else turns up. Sounds like careless driving and probably no insurance or tax, mebbe a learner driver."

The Bostons were lovely people but I was now faced with a most unpleasant Christmas Day task just as everyone was happily preparing festive dinners. But I knew that seasonal jollifications must not impinge upon the execution of constabulary duty and so I put on my cap and tunic, explaining to Mary that I didn't expect to be long. I could walk to the farm in ten minutes and should be back in time to carve the turkey.

Outside, the weather was chilly but dry and there was a hint of snow. Clouds called snow packs were forming on the eastern horizon and I could smell the approach of snowflakes. The onset of snow produces a curious smell that is recognised by many country-folk and I knew Aidensfield could expect a white Christmas.

As I approached the Bostons' farmhouse, their dogs barked the anticipated

warning, and as I crossed the tidy

farmyard I could see Mrs Boston in her kitchen. A plump silver-haired lady in her middle years, she was wearing a flowered pinny and a generous smile. She opened the door before I reached it.

"I saw you heading this way, Mr Rhea, so come in. But fancy calling on Christmas Day! They shouldn't make you work at Christmas, not with such a young

family."

As I stepped into the cosy kitchen that was rich with Christmas atmosphere and scents, I heard George Boston as he approached from the adjoining room.

"He'll have come for his duck," he growled as he entered the kitchen, a large farmer of fifty years or more wearing his flat cap and working clothes. "T'bobby allus comes for his duck at Christmas."

"Well er…" I began as George stood before me like an impassive bull and so I removed my police cap and tucked it under my arm, the polite thing to do.

"Noo then, deearn't stand there umming and ahhing, lad, and shut t'dooer, it's cawd oot yonder. There'll be snaw afoor lang. Ah can smell it. So what aboot a Christmas snifter? Whisky mebbe?"

"No thanks, George, not now," and I tried to look very serious as I struggled to break the bad news.

"Git him his duck oot o' t'larder, Betty lass," he ignored me as he addressed his wife. "An' if he won't 'ave a whisky, git him a coffee or summat warm."

"No thanks, nothing," I had to be firm. I could not accept what might be interpreted as a bribe, even on Christmas Day. I had a job to do. "George and Betty," I began nervously. "I'm here on duty, I'm sorry to say. This is what happened…"

"E's nut gahin ti be bribed, is he?" grinned the genial farmer.

"Well, lad, oo wiv it. It must be summat serious if thoo has to work on Christmas Day."

With as much detail as possible, I told them about the incident but left identification of the suspect driver until the end. I concluded, "That Morris Minor bore the same registration number as your Sam's car."

George and Betty remained silent for a few seconds, then George sighed heavily. "Aye, that's oor lad's car. Is onnybody hurt?"

"No but there'll be damage to both vehicles."

"So if he'd stopped there and then, it might 'ave been sorted out on t'spot?"

"More than likely." I wondered if Sam had been drunk at the time – that was a good reason for failing to stop.

"What 'appens next?" asked George.

"I'd like to talk to Sam and examine the car."

"Me an' all," and he headed for the door. I was close pursuit as we hurried through a complex of buildings including a cattle shed with cows ruminating noisily, the heat of their bodies warming the interior. Finally we entered a garage.

"There she is," George pointed to the car.

With my official notebook in hand, I circled the car and examined the damage, recording the buckled front bumper bar, rust-free scratches on the driver's door, a smashed offside headlamp and sundry other indications of a recent impact. Then I lifted off a loose piece of damaged paint bearing a white patch and popped it into an envelope.

"What's all this business for?" asked George.

I explained I'd taken a sample of paintwork because it could prove that Sam's car had collided with a white vehicle; forensic evidence would help to prove the case. I explained the other vehicle would be examined in the same way and would probably bear paint from Sam's car.

"Ah'd better get Sam," George disappeared to return moments later with his son who was in working clothes. In his early twenties, Sam was tall, dark and very slim, a serious-faced lad but pleasant to deal with. I knew him well.

"Now Sam."

"Now Mr Rhea."

"You know why I'm here?"

"Aye."

"Is this your car?"

"Aye."

"And were you driving it past Maddleskirk Abbey at quarter past one this morning when it struck another vehicle?"

"Aye."

"Thoo should 'ave stopped!" growled George.

"Ah was scared."

"Drunk more like."

"I can't take alcohol into account." This was before the days of the breathalyser and the lad appeared stone-cold sober now; in any case, he might have had a drink after the end of his journey so I added, "I can't prove what condition he was in while driving."

"Ah should 'ave stopped," sniffed Sam.

"Too late now, lad! Thoo's made thi own mess, thoo must lie in it. Now, then, thoo'd better come back into t'house, Mr Rhea and Sam. We all need a snifter."

We returned to the living room where I sat down while Sam found his driving licence, insurance and test certificate. Meanwhile George disappeared to return with three huge glasses of whisky.

All Sam's documents were in order and I warned him he would have to attend Eltering Magistrates' Court charged with careless driving and failing to stop after a traffic accident. The summons would arrive in about three weeks' time.

"But not for drunk driving?"

"No," I said. "These are fairly minor offences and you'll probably be fined."

"Thoo's a lucky lad, our Sam," grunted George.

"Now, Mr Rhea, I think thoo's been very fair aboot all this, especially as it's mucked up thy Christmas, so 'ave another whisky. And we'll join thoo."

"I really shouldn't…"

But my protests went unheeded as we toasted Christmas and discussed country life, hunting, local pubs, the state of modern farming and a host of other subjects. I didn't realise George had regularly topped up my glass. When the room started to swim around me, however, I realised it was time to go home.

"Ah hope thy missus 'as thy dinner ready, Mr Rhea, thoo'll need summat ti sober thoo up if t'sergeant turns up."

I tried to stand up as the room twirled and twisted around me and managed to perch my cap somewhere on my head as I aimed for the kitchen door.

"Hang on, Mr Rhea, thoo's forgotten summat."

"I've got my cap," I slurred, patting my head.

"No, Ah mean t'duck. T'bobby allus calls for his duck at Christmas…."

"No, I couldn't, not after reporting your Sam…"

"It was 'is own daft fault and it could 'ave been worse. Any road, t'duck isn't for thoo, it's for thi missus and bairns…."

And so I staggered from the farm with my cap awry as I clutched a ploated duck to my chest. As I wobbled through the village and up the hill to my house, snow began to fall. In the cottages I passed en route I could see happy families, Christmas trees, lights and decorations. The snow, a strinkling as we say in our part of Yorkshire, added a touch of magic to the scene. By the time I reached my hilltop Police House, the village was covered. Christmas had truly arrived and as I wove erratically across the lawn, the children were already busy with their first attempts at building a snowman. That Christmas Mary received eleven pheasants, two brace of frozen grouse, one hare, two Christmas cakes, several bottles of wine, one umbrella and a bag of anonymous Brussels sprouts. Fortunately, I was not called out again that day but we truly enjoyed the duck at New Year.

Towards the end of January, Samuel was fined 32 and had his licence endorsed.But there was a sequel.

Many years after leaving the Force, I encountered Sam in York. We chatted about old times and then he said, "I wasn't the driver that night, Mr Rhea. My pal was driving. I'd had too much to drink but he was sober. Trouble was, he was a learner, he hadn't passed his test."

"I don't really want to know that! But by taking the blame you gave him a splendid Christmas present."

"Aye, and he gave me one, an' all." As we shook hands before going our separate ways, he added. "He paid my fine."

That Christmas, I felt justice had been done.

YP MAG 24/12/10