1

“Ill customs influence my very senses.”

Sir George Etherege, 1635–1691

Somewhere across the map of North Yorkshire there lies an invisible line which separates the north of that county from the south. People in counties Durham and Cleveland will accept a north North Yorkshireman as a northerner, but those unfortunates who live in the southern regions of North Yorkshire, in the soft warmth and built-up wilderness of cities like York and Ripon and boroughs like Scarborough and Harrogate, are considered southerners.

In every northerner’s eyes, a southerner is suspect. There is something not quite right about them. If that southerner happens to qualify only because he lives in the southern part of North Yorkshire, then that makes no difference. Anyone unenlightened enough to live south of that unseen line is indeed a person to be pitied, more so if he happens to live in a town. Pity is perhaps not the right word; tolerance is not totally apt and neither is deplore. A feeling of despair may not be absolutely accurate, nor is excruciation, agony, passion, or anxiety.

If there is difficulty in finding a word suitable to describe that feeling, the north North Yorkshireman will come to the rescue by saying, “Ah can’t abide southerners.” Having said that, he knows what he means. He can’t abide them; there’s a lot that a Yorkshireman can’t abide, but, as a group, southerners are definitely the least abideable of anyone.

The snag is that the all-important, but invisible line is very difficult to define or determine. No one is quite sure where it lies, least of all the self-appointed northerners.

In my capacity as the village constable at Aidensfield, I lived somewhere on that line. I appreciated that fact when I was posted there; having been reared in a genuine northern district, the moorlands of the North Riding of Yorkshire, I had been brought up in the knowledge that the area around Aidensfield was definitely “south”. Even though the outer limits of Aidensfield beat encompassed the southern edges of the North Yorkshire moors and lay well within the North Riding’s administrative area, the village was definitely “south” in the eyes of many.

Once I moved into Aidensfield, however, I did not consider it “south”. In my view, it was north because the folks who lived there spoke the same language as my ancestors and adopted the same hard-headed attitude. In fact, the villagers considered themselves “north”; in their view, southerners lived at York or beyond and occupied those indeterminable areas of suburbia between there and London, which was a biggish town located at the bottom end of the Great North Road.

Having been nurtured as a northerner, finding myself working in what they consider a southern district was disconcerting. Even so, I was confident that Aidensfield really was “north”. But who could decide the issue? There had to be some definitive method of settling the matter. Somewhere, somehow, there had to be a rule which clearly and permanently categorised North Yorkshiremen. Perhaps a road, a river or a parish boundary or two? By chance I stumbled upon the answer. It lay in the ancient custom of First Footing, a matter in which I, as the local constable, soon found myself deeply involved.

First Footing of the genuine kind does not take place in the south. That is a golden rule. Worse still, in some southern areas the people attempt to copy the custom by doing it on Christmas Day! That is sheer impudence. First Footing is purely a northern custom and, because the villagers of Aidensfield and district take part in the custom, they must be northerners. In those days the people of York didn’t genuinely First Foot while those in the West Riding, at centres like Leeds and Bradford, certainly did not. Further away in the deep, deep south of Yorkshire, at Sheffield, (which is halfway to London), the matter was not even considered. Down there, they thought First Footing was a building term. But Aidensfield did First Foot. That classified it as north and that made me happy. It meant I had not trespassed beyond the bounds of true northern credibility by emigrating into unknown southern regions and, even if my old colleagues continued to categorise Aidensfield as south, I knew it wasn’t. That the custom of First Footing occurred in Aidensfield assured me it was a northern village and for that I was eternally thankful. For a northerner to be mistaken for a southerner was akin to a Catholic being mistaken for a Holy Roller.

First Footing is a very ancient and noble custom. It is practised with alacrity on New Year’s Eve and its misty origins matter very little to those who enjoy it in our modern society. Nonetheless, there are certain rules which must be obeyed.

First and foremost, it is a New Year ceremony, the purpose of which is to bring good luck and prosperity to the household. The method of First Footing is very simple, albeit undertaken within the accepted but unwritten code of conduct.

The term means “first into the house”. A First Foot is therefore the very first visitor to a house in the New Year. He must arrive as soon as possible after midnight on New Year’s morning and he must bring with him certain gifts which symbolise a lasting supply of food, warmth and prosperity. These items are fairly simple—there must be a piece of coal to symbolise heat and light, a coin to symbolise continuing wealth or perhaps a little salt in lieu, and a piece of bread to fulfil the food requirement. In Aidensfield and some other areas of North Yorkshire, a piece of holly must also be carried, this evergreen being an ancient symbol of everlasting life.

In addition to the required gifts, the First Foot must also comply with certain personal rules. He must always be a man. Women must never perform this task, otherwise it brings bad luck, and the Sex Discrimination Act has not yet been amended to change this rule. In order to qualify, a man must never be flat-footed or cross-eyed, and his eyebrows must not meet across the nose. In addition, he should have dark hair. In the ideal situation, he should be a total stranger who chances to enter one’s house at the right time, but, as honest midnight visitors of this sex are rare and indeed open to close police interest, most northerners make do with someone they know, provided he is suitably qualified.

To ensure that each household is visited at the necessary time, plans are made well in advance. The selected First Footer is approached and asked if he will execute this noblest of deeds for the everlasting benefit of the household in question. Invariably, he says he will be happy to oblige. Thus committed, he must equip himself with sufficient bread, money or salt, coal and holly, for each house upon his itinerary and he will be expected to kiss every lady encountered en route.

The selection of a suitable First Footer, or Lucky Bird as he is often known, is therefore a matter of some importance. Tall, dark men are in demand as careful plans are laid. As zero hour approaches, the doors are locked until the arrival of the First Foot. It would be disastrous if someone else entered to ruin the luck of the coming year.

It ought to be said at this stage that there is another seasonal custom in the north. This also takes place over New Year’s Eve and well into the early hours of New Year’s Day, and it is known as Boozing Late. All the pubs and clubs work hard to cater for massive thirsts and seasonal celebrations and it is fair to say that a high proportion of the indigenous population inhabit these places as the Old Year changes into the New. Much singing and high-spirited jollification takes place and a great deal of last-minute First Footing is arranged at these celebratory gatherings.

It follows, therefore, that the role of the country constable is somewhat unspecific over those midnight hours. The pubs make brave attempts to comply with the law by seeking permission from Their Worships to open late. This is seldom refused, if only because Their Worships also enjoy the occasion, and the customers play their part by never drinking away from their home village at New Year. Thus they are all “friends of the licensee” which means they drink later than normal and this also obviates the constable’s worries about drunks navigating ungovernable vehicles about the place. Everyone walks, or tries to. Another feature of this arrangement is that, by walking, one can call at many houses en route, ostensibly to check that the First Foot has performed his annual ritual. If he hasn’t, entry is refused; if he has, everyone is welcome to take cheese and gingerbread, laced with ginger wine.

On my very first New Year’s Eve at Aidensfield, therefore, I found myself on duty and having to perform half nights. It was a shift beginning at 6 pm on New Year’s Eve and ending at 2 am on New Year’s Day. This fact registered itself with horror on my mind, but as the newest newcomer to Ashfordly section it was my lot to be allocated this duty. It meant I would have to patrol my beat for eight miserable hours while everyone else was welcoming the New Year in the traditional northern manner.

The pubs would be full of merry-making and the houses noisy with parties. The streets would be deserted, at least for the final throes of the Old Year. My role would be to enforce the law that night, to patrol my wide-ranging beat on a cold, noisy motor-cycle and to return home in the early hours of New Year’s Day frozen to the core and reeling at the absence of pure enjoyment. It threatened to be a miserable time.

But the general public had other ideas. Because I was almost six feet tall with dark hair and eyebrows that did not meet in the middle, plus the fact that I was, in truth, a stranger to the district and a person of the male sex to boot, I was deemed eminently suited for the role of a First Footer. Little did I realise, as I embarked on my evening patrol shortly after six o’clock, that my New Year’s Eve would be both memorable and enjoyable.

As I began that final Old Year tour of duty, I made a mental note to First Foot at my own house on New Year’s Day. I would be my own First Footer at two o’clock that morning. If all else failed, I would achieve that honour. But as I chugged into Aidensfield, parked my motor-cycle and embarked upon a foot patrol to the pillar-box a lady hailed me.

She was middle-aged with greying hair and wore a flowered apron about her ample body. It transpired she had spotted me marching past her tiny cottage and had rushed to the door to call me. In the blackness of that early evening, I must have looked horrifying in my crash-helmet, goggles and motor-cycle gear, but it did not frustrate this determined woman.

“Mr Rhea, Mr Rhea,” she called. “Have you a moment?”

I halted, turned and beamed at her from beneath my heavy clothing.

“Hello, Mrs Mitchell.”

“I’m glad I caught you.” She was panting slightly. “I wonder if I might ask you a favour?”

“Go ahead,” I invited, wondering what lay in store.

“Tonight,” she smiled. “It’s New Year’s Eve and I haven’t a First Footer.”

“Do you want me to find one?” I asked, innocently.

“Well, no, not exactly.” She didn’t lose her smile. “I thought you might do it for me.”

“Oh.” I must have sounded surprised, then realised I was being paid a compliment. “Well, yes, I will. I’m sure I can manage that.”

“At midnight,” she told me. “You must come at midnight, or as soon as you can afterwards.”

“Let me see.” I made a mental calculation of the conference points I had to make. I had one at eleven-thirty at Elsinby and my next was twelve-fifteen at Aidensfield.

“Yes, I can be there,” I offered. “I’ll do your First Footing.”

“You’ll need a piece of coal, some holly, money and bread,” she said seriously. “I’ll get them for you.”

And with no more ado Mrs Mitchell returned to her home and moments later reappeared with the necessary items. I opened one of the panniers on the motor-cycle and popped in the coal and holly. I slid the £.s.d. penny and slice of bread into my overcoat pocket.

“Midnight,” she said, “not before.”

“I’ll be there,” I assured her.

Having settled that little issue, I completed my journey to the pillar-box, popped in a birthday card I had to post and began the return trip to my motor-cycle. As I did so, I reflected briefly on the honour she had bestowed upon me. I felt this request had come to me because of my comparatively recent arrival in the village, but at the same time it showed that I was accepted. It proved I was allowed into the homes of the people otherwise than in the course of my duty. I was part of the life of the community. That’s how I interpreted this request and it pleased me.

Within the next three hours, I was approached by seven further villagers, all wanting me to be their First Footer. I was given lumps of coal which filled one pannier while sprigs of holly were pushed unceremoniously into the other. I had a coat pocket full of sliced bread wrapped in greaseproof paper and lots of coins jangling about my uniform. The situation had now arrived whereby I had to make notes about the precise timing of my First Footing activities.

Mrs Mitchell could be accommodated just after midnight, for I would then have returned from Elsinby in readiness for my twelve-fifteen point at Aidensfield telephone kiosk. This was no problem. I had also to remember that Sergeant Blaketon was on duty tonight and he was quite likely to pay me a call, so I didn’t dare miss any of my rendezvous points. So it was to be Mrs Mitchell at midnight, Stan Williams at ten past, my point at quarter past, Mr and Mrs Collins at twenty-five past, Mrs Collins’s mother next door at half-past, the elderly Misses Bush and Rowe at quarter to one, Alan and Sue Bentley at one o’clock and the Leech family at quarter past one. I would make my one-thirty point at Thackerston and that would get me home at two o’clock, there to perform my final and most important First Foot duty. My night of threatened misery had taken a turn for the better and time would fly.

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.

Members of the public view policemen in a particular light. They view them firstly as people and secondly as law-enforcement officers. I was sure that my status in the village as a person had been deemed satisfactory—my first few months had helped establish me in that sense, with my wife and young children helping enormously to make vital contacts. I had sealed that side of the business with my First Footing. But how could I prove myself a truly capable rural bobby in the eyes of the great British public? I required an important event, a big issue or emergency of some kind.

I waited for a suitable opportunity. It might be a crime to solve or a major incident to cope with. There might be a tough villain to conquer or a rescue operation of some kind. As the weeks went by, nothing happened. No crimes were committed, no villains fought me and no damsels required my rescue expertise.

As I patrolled my beautiful beat, alternating between the motor-cycle and my own size nines, I remained vigilant as I anticipated the right opportunity. It almost became an obsession. I knew I had to show that I could be a policeman, as well as a person. But how? Nothing dramatic seemed to happen. No one got murdered or raped, no one had his house broken into or his car stolen, no one got lost on the moors or attacked in the street. Life was so unpleasantly peaceful. The sergeant grumbled because I didn’t submit offence reports and the inspector nattered because I had recorded no arrests.

It was during one of my low spells, when I wanted drama to enter my mundane life, that I sensed a dramatic occurrence. I noticed a farmer, clad in carpet-slippers and corduroys, galloping along Aidensfield village street at six o’clock one morning. I was forlornly standing outside the telephone kiosk making a point, having been on an abortive motor-cycle patrol since 4.30 am, and wishing something would happen. This could be it! Trouble of some kind!

I watched his approach. He wove from side to side with his head down, his flat cap perched on the front of his head and his feet twinkling across the road surface as he panted towards me. Knowing I could help, whatever it was, I stepped forward and said, “Hello, Mr Stanhope, nice morning.”

He slowed momentarily in his tracks, looked at me and said, “Aye,” then darted into the kiosk.

Feeling snubbed, I stood at a discreet distance as he began his urgent telephoning. Several of the glass windows of the kiosk were broken and I could not help overhearing his words. It didn’t take long for me to appreciate he was having trouble with the telephone. I could hear him shouting uselessly into the mouthpiece and it was evident there was a total lack of response. After two minutes of futile efforts, he emerged and addressed me.

“Mr Rhea, can thoo work this contraption?”

“I can, Mr Stanhope. What’s the matter?”

“Ah’ve a cow aboot ti cawf and ah need a vetinary. Ah’ve nivver used yan o’ these new-fangled telephoning contraptions. Ah’ll etti git him there sharp, she’s very nigh due.”

“Well,” I said. “It’s quite simple. You call the operator, ask for the number you require and then she’ll tell you how much money to put in. You can see the coin-box just there. When the money’s in, she’ll ring the number and when you are connected you’ll be told to press button ‘A’. That’s on the side of the box. Then you can talk.”

“Oh,” he said, obviously failing to comprehend my advice. I knew I’d have to show him. I exhorted him to enter the cramped box and I followed, squeezing him inside as I stood at the entrance holding the door open with my foot. This was in the days long before decimalisation and long before STD became commonplace in telephone-boxes. Those kiosks were solid edifices with a large money-box inside and a little tray to help get your money back, if the call was not connected.

“Ah see’s where Ah’ve been gahin wrang,” he laughed. “Ah thowt there was a choice of prices. Ah thowt Ah’d ’ave t’cheapest on offer. Ah mean, a penny’s nowt is it?”

I knew the coin-box had “penny”, “sixpence” and “shilling” written on the top, with appropriate slots for each coin. I didn’t know what he’d done so far, but he seemed to be coping. I dialled “O” to link him with the operator and left him to it. He had a pile of coppers on top of the coin-box and seemed content.

“Number please,” I could hear the strident voice of the lady operator.

“Hello,” he shouted. “Hello, Ah want oor vetinary.”

“Which veterinary?” I heard her ask.

“That’un that cums tiv oor farm ivvery Thursday,” he said blandly.

“Look, sir,” the girl replied in a softer voice. “I need to know his number before I can put you through.”

“Number?” gasped the farmer. “He hasn’t gitten a number, has he? He’s nut a convict or a policeman or owt like that. Our policeman’s gitten a number on his shoulder, but oor vetinary hasn’t …”

“No, sir, his telephone number …”

“Nay, lass, Ah knows nowt about that, that’s your job. Look, just git hod on him and send him along. Ooor Primrose is gahin ti cawf and he’s needed there right sharp. She’s very restless, thoo knaws.”

“Who is that calling, sir? I will try to find a veterinary surgeon for you …”

“Stanhope from Aidensfield.”

“And where is the trouble, Mr Stanhope?”

“In my cow-shed. If he doesn’t get there quick, I fear for t’awd lass.”

“I appreciate that, but where is your cow-shed?”

“Next ti t’pig-sties. We’ve gitten fifteen pig-sties and yon cow-shed’s right next door …”

“No, I mean your address! Where shall I send the vet if I find him?”

“Oh, just to our farm. Stanhope, tell him. Me and my family’s been farming there for generations. Tell him Stanhope, he’ll know where to come.”

“But I don’t know which is your vet, Mr Stanhope …”

“Oh, it’s young Singleton from Ashfordly.”

“Look, Mr Stanhope, you get along home and I’ll ring Mr Singleton for you. It’s a cow that’s calving, and she’s in your cow-shed. Now, what’s your address?”

“High Brow Farm. He can’t miss it, thoo knows and any rooad, he’s been before.”

“All right, Mr Stanhope. You get along and I’ll ring him.”

“Thanks, miss,” he said.

He replaced the handset and emerged happily, collected his pile of unused pennies from the top of the coin box and grinned at me.

“Well?” I asked.

“Grand,” he grinned wickedly. “Grand. Yon telephone lass is telling Singleton to get himself there as sharp as he can.”

“So things will be right, eh?”

“Aye,” he said, “things’ll be right. Nice awd cow is our Primrose. Thoo’ll be coming along to have a look at her, eh? There’ll be a cup of tea about seven, I reckon, after t’vet’s done his stuff.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look forward to that.”

“Think nowt on it,” he said. “Yon phone call cost me nowt, did it?” He smiled craftily. “I reckon you and me’s earned our cup of tea this morning.”

As he stomped away, I wondered what this early morning encounter had proved. I hadn’t dealt with a major police crisis but, somewhere, crafty old Stanhope had taught me a lesson in Yorkshire thrift.