8

“Even a child is known by his doings.”

Book of Proverbs, XX 11.

It was William Blake who wrote “when the voices of children are heard on the green, and laughing is heard on the hill”, but I suspect that the author of that resounding phrase “Children should be seen and not heard” lived in a village. Playing children do make a terrible noise and the larger their numbers the greater the noise. In play, children display a desperate desire to shout louder than their friends and their high-spirited physical antics tend to annoy those residents whose gardens receive footballs, whose greenhouses swallow cricket-balls and whose chimney-pots fly badly routed kites.

Rural children are better off than their city and suburban cousins because they have acres of fields and lots of open space to use for the noisy release of their excess energies, but this does not encourage them to play away from home all the time. Somehow they contrive to play where nobody wants them. All children love playing near their homes or, better still, near someone else’s home. While most adults will tolerate their good-natured noise and their unintentional vandalism of rose-beds and windows, there is a hard core of householders who persistently telephone the village constable to complain about playing children.

Since the beginning of constabulary duties, policemen have suffered from this incessant complaining. They have been told loudly of children sliding down icy roads, jumping on rickety roofs, torturing cats or plaguing dogs, building houses in unsafe trees, killing each other or demolishing valuable property….

And always, by the time the policeman arrives, the children have vanished and the misdeeds have ended. Policemen know how the system works, consequently they do not rush to the scene of a complaint in a flurry of blue lights and rising dust. Instead, they proceed at a leisurely pace, knowing full well that the subjects of the irate complaint will have scarpered into prearranged hiding-places at the first hint of trouble from long-suffering adults. By arriving at an empty scene, the police officer preserves everyone’s dignity. The system operates something like this. The children have succeeded in annoying their victim, which is what they require; the victim has called in the police, who have responded, so he is happy, and the policeman is content because, knowing human nature somewhat better than most, he realises that his leisurely “action” keeps everyone sweet. There are no upset parents, no children to brag about being nicked and no reports or summonses for him to waste time in submitting. It is a very diplomatic arrangement, practised over the nation by discerning police officers. It keeps politicians happy about the incidence of juvenile crime and professional social workers happy that their skills are producing fruit.

It is true, however, that children’s games can get out of hand. This is frequently the case when children discover a victim who responds violently to their taunts. The more he responds, the better the children like it, and the more he will be taunted by them. They knock on his door and run away, they smear paint on his windows or pull up his plants, they perpetrate all manner of hooligan pranks upon the unfortunate person who rises to the occasion for their entertainment.

Children like nothing better than an outraged adult threatening hell, fire and thunder from the safety of his curtilage. And another thing, no sensible adult will attempt to chase the children—this hasn’t a hope in hell of achieving anything, other than a grievous loss of dignity by the adult and a repeat performance by the kids in the very near future.

It is far, far better to ignore their taunts. Children whose actions do not raise a flicker of interest from their victim rapidly lose interest. Quite often, the teasing of adults by children is a psychological battle which the youngsters win due to their instinctive understanding of human nature. Adults do not react in quite the same instinctive way and very often provide a memorable display of free entertainment.

The policeman must always bear in mind that children can get out of hand and wreak damage or injury if not checked. Old people can get hurt or shocked by youthful actions, but somewhere in the centre of this long-running conflict there is a level of tolerance which can be achieved by all parties. It is the duty of the village bobby to find that middle course.

I found myself seeking such a course in Ashfordly one autumn afternoon. It involved a formidable lady who stood almost six feet tall in her silk stockings and had a nose as long as Saltburn pier. Domineering and undoubtedly severe, she lived alone in a rambling house on the outskirts of Ashfordly and dressed characteristically in tweed skirts with pleats, brogue shoes with the tongues sticking out and hats that looked like fish-wives’ bonnets. Her dark hair was severely styled with large slides holding it back above the ears and she spoke with a heavy accent which suggested a lineage of high-class breeding. She was Miss Deirdre Finlay who may have been in her mid-forties and who drove a little Morris estate car which was always full of plant pots and fertilizer sacks. She strode about the town as if she wore seven-league boots.

I do not believe she had a job of any sort. I understand she existed on a legacy from Daddy although she did grow plants of all kinds which she sold to the local greengrocers, fruiterers and market traders. Certainly this activity alone was insufficient to support her but it kept her occupied and probably brought in a few pounds cash every week, tax-free.

Her garden was one of the old-fashioned enclosed type, surrounded entirely by a tall brick wall a good eight feet high. Inside, it was suitably secluded and private and within those high walls Miss Finlay grew her widely assorted plants. One corner was devoted to apple-trees, all neatly pruned and all expert at producing a wide range of Bramleys, Cox’s Orange Pippin and other soundly established varieties. She sold these too and made a useful income from her stock of sixty trees.

Late that autumn afternoon, it was fortuitous that I was patrolling the Ashfordly area. I had parked the motor-cycle and was enjoying a leisurely foot patrol around the market square, admiring the shops, the pubs and the pretty women who always seemed to be going somewhere important. During those blissful perambulations, I wandered through the streets away from the town centre and found myself patrolling along Water End. This was where a small stream, which meandered from the surrounding hills, joined the river and it was a very pleasant and pretty part of the town.

Miss Finlay’s house was upon the side of this beck and it was by sheer chance that she poked that formidable head around her gatepost just as I was passing.

“Constable!” she called loudly as she noticed me. “A minute, if you don’t mind.”

I approached her with a smile on my face. Although we had never spoken before, I knew of this lady and her fierce reputation. I decided to be pleasant to her.

“Yes?”

“You are new?”

“I am. I’m P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield. I’m patrolling the town this afternoon.”

“Then I have work for you. I have caught a thief.”

“A thief?” I must have sounded surprised.

“Yes, a thieving youth, a good-for-nothing layabout. He was stealing my apples.”

I looked around the gate-post and into her spacious grounds but saw no captured youth.

“Where is he?”

“I have locked him in my potato store,” and she suddenly grinned. “That’ll teach him, what?”

“Take me to him,” I suggested. I wondered what sort of thief this was.

She took me into the well-kept grounds and at the side of her beautiful home there was an array of outbuildings, one of which was resounding with loud thumps and frenzied cries of “Let me out.”

“In there.” She pointed to a closed door. It was of solid wood with a padlock slipped neatly through a stout hasp, securely imprisoning the villain.

“Who is it?” I called through the door before releasing him.

“I cannot say.” She shook her notable head. “I have not seen him before.”

The door rattled and banged as the incarcerated rogue attempted to regain his freedom, so I shouted, “It’s the police.”

The banging stopped and I heard a whispered voice inside say, “Oh, bloody hell.”

“Who’s in there?” I called through the wooden panels.

No reply.

I began to slip the padlock from the hasp, so she warned me. “He’s quick, Officer, you’ll have to watch him. I had trouble, you know; it’s a good job I’m fit. Hockey, you know. It keeps me trim.”

I smiled an unspoken answer to that claim and carefully unbolted the door. It opened easily and there, blinking in the sudden flood of daylight, was a diminutive youth with carroty hair and elfin features set in a freckled face. He made no effort to gallop to freedom, possibly because both I and Miss Finlay occupied the doorway of the potato-house and effectively prevented any exit. To this tiny lad, the opposition must have looked formidable.

“And who are you?” I put to him.

“Ian Fenwick,” he said with a faint Scots accent. He didn’t look into my eyes, but spent most of the interview contemplating the dusty stone floor of his cell.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“You’re very small for sixteen,” I said, for he looked no more than fourteen, perhaps even less.

“I’m an apprentice jockey,” he said. “Jockeys are small.”

“And where do you live?”

“Here, I’m with the racing stable round the back.”

I knew the place. It was a successful racing stable on the outskirts of Ashfordly, positioned literally a stone’s throw behind Miss Finlay’s house. Some good winners had been bred here and the proprietor, a big Irishman called Brendan O’Shea, was building himself a useful reputation in this highly competitive field. He employed around a dozen stable-boys and apprentices and inevitably they found themselves in trouble from time to time. But I’d never caught one stealing apples before.

“O’Shea’s place?” I asked, waiting for his confirming answer.

“You won’t tell Mr O’Shea, will you?” He raised his brown eyes from the floor and looked at us both. I recognised a genuine look of sorrow on his face. This was no regular thief.

“Let’s hear your story.” I decided I must know a little more about this curious episode. “Miss Finlay says she caught you stealing apples. That’s a crime, you know, and at your age it could mean a court appearance.”

“Oh, Jesus!” He blanched. “Not that … not for apples….”

“You must admit it then?” I put to him as we contained him in the shed.

He hung his head.

“I’m sorry, it was for the horse.”

“The horse?” I said. “What horse?”

“The one I ride most, Nature’s Signal. She loves apples and there are times she won’t behave unless she gets one. I didn’t have one so I came over the wall. She was getting stroppy, sir….”

“And I was waiting,” came in Miss Finlay. “Caught him red-handed, I did.”

“Did you get any?” I asked the lad.

“Aye, three,” he said. “She took them off me.”

“It is not the first time my apples have been attacked,” she countered. “It seems that some children regard my walls as a challenge, Constable….”

“Is this your first time?” I asked the little youth.

He nodded. “We usually have a good stock of apples for the horses, and for Nature’s Signal in particular, but, well, there weren’t any and she was getting stroppy … all I needed was four or five….”

“If he’d asked, would you have given him some?” I asked Miss Finlay.

“I’d have sold him a pound or two, perhaps,” she said without batting an eyelid.

“You know it’s wrong to steal?” I put to Fenwick, still treating him like a child in spite of his age. His diminutive stature was off-putting.

“I didn’t know whose they were and it was urgent,” he explained. “I’m not a thief….”

“I’ve a good mind to tell your boss!” Miss Finlay suddenly interrupted, and I wondered if she was softening a little, perhaps regretting her hasty action and hard attitude.

“Please, no. He’ll sack me, I know he will. He’s tough, sir, very tough with us.”

“If you go to court, it will be all over the papers anyway,” I pointed out, knowing I’d have to interview this youth formally in the presence of some adult if I was to take official action.

“What are you going to do with him, Constable?” I couldn’t help noticing that Miss Finlay’s voice had softened considerably.

“Well.” I decided to put a little bit of pressure upon her. “There are several courses open to me. If you are prepared to attend court as a witness and give evidence, I will take him to the police-station. His guardian will be called and charges of larceny will be preferred. He will appear at a juvenile court in due course. That’s one course of action.”

She swallowed, but did not commit herself to being a witness.

“The second is for me to report him for summons. You would still be required as a witness in court during the hearing, but I would not have to arrest the lad. I would simply take his name and other details, visit his guardian’s home. There I would report him for the offence of larceny in the presence of Mr O’Shea.”

“And what will happen to him?” she asked with genuine interest.

“Who can tell?” I shrugged my shoulders. “The maximum penalty for simple larceny is five years in prison, but in this case we would probably proceed under Section 36 of the Larceny Act 1861, which is purely a summary offence with a small fine as the penalty. If this is Ian’s first offence—and it seems it was a sudden urge as he says—the court may let him off with a conditional discharge or probation.”

“Is it really necessary for him to go to court?” she asked and I knew now that she was weakening greatly.

“Miss Finlay, you have arrested a thief, and you have handed that thief over to me, having accused him of a serious crime. I am duty-bound to take official action.” I thought I’d let her stew awhile with those thoughts.

She licked her lips and I saw the lad’s eyes turn away from us. He resumed his worried contemplation of the flagged floor.

“You just happened to be walking past….” she began, almost apologetically.

“There is another way of dealing with the matter,” I said slowly and she regarded me quizzically.

“Tell me,” and there was a note of appeal in her voice.

“If you decide not to press charges, it would be possible for me to deal with the matter here and now.” I played my trump-card.

“Really? I wanted him taught a lesson, people must learn that they cannot help themselves to other’s belongings….”

“I won’t do it again, I promise….” cried our prisoner.

“What must I do?” she turned to me. I knew she’d abandoned the idea of a prosecution.

“You’ve a lot of apple-trees.” I turned and regarded them.

“Sixty,” she said. “All fruit-bearing as you can see.”

“And you pick all that fruit yourself?”

“I pay someone, it’s a long job working alone. Too long when I’m busy.”

Now I turned to Ian.

“Do you like picking apples, young man?”

He didn’t answer. I think he knew what was going through my mind.

“Miss Finlay, if this young man agreed to pick all your apples without payment, would you drop your charges of larceny?”

For a moment, her face did not crack, and suddenly she smiled, showing acres of large brown teeth.

“I think that’s an excellent compromise, Constable. But how can I be sure he picks them?”

“If he doesn’t, we will tell Mr O’Shea what he’s done.”

“And if he does pick them?”

“We do nothing else. We don’t tell Mr O’Shea, we don’t trouble the courts with this, and you will not have to take time off work to give evidence.”

She looked at the shivering lad, still held in the potato-shed, and said, “Well?”

“I’ll start tonight,” he whispered. “I’ll do it—I’ll pick them all for you, honest.”

“Right,” I said. “That’s it. The problem is solved.”

I told the lad to leave us immediately and when he had galloped out of sight I said, “Make sure he does it, Miss Finlay. Make him pick all your apples. If he doesn’t, you must come back to me and I’ll speak to Mr O’Shea.”

“I like your idea, Constable. To be truthful, I couldn’t bear the thought of him going to court….”

I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t relish the idea of prosecuting the lad for stealing apples; what the inspector would have thought if I had, I daren’t even consider. I left her garden feeling confident that Ian Fenwick would return to begin the long chore of picking stones of apples.

A fortnight later, I was in Ashfordly again and decided to check with Miss Finlay, just to ensure the deal had been carried out. She was delighted to see me, so much so that she invited me in for a coffee. As I sat at her scrubbed table in the rustic kitchen, she produced a hot coffee in a large mug.

“Mr Rhea, isn’t it?” she asked, as if reminding herself of my name.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“Mr Rhea, that apple-picking idea was marvellous. That young man has carefully picked all my apples, and in fact comes round to work in his spare time. I pay him, of course, for this extra work. He’s excellent, and a real nice young man. And that horse—she’s a beauty, a real temperamental filly, and he knows just how to handle her…. I give him apples, for the horse, you know … and he has tea with me sometimes….”

And as she prattled on I could see the light of lost motherhood in her eyes. Miss Finlay had become a very happy woman.

 

One eternal problem for the police officer is the gang of youths who persist in misbehaving. Such gangs are found everywhere, in all nations and in large cities or small towns. They are often male-dominated although girls are known to join them and indeed the so-called gentle sex can prove formidable leaders.

Even villages produce gangs of youngsters and the effect upon the neighbourhood is the same as that produced by their larger and more violent counterparts in the city. They worry the public. Policemen know that these gangs are inevitable; every year new gangs form as the older ones decline and, in the urban areas, they often call themselves by distinctive names as they compete for power against others of similar background. Such competition is rare in the small villages of North Yorkshire; occasionally, a rival mob from a market town will descend upon a dance in a peaceful village and wreak havoc among the local youths but juvenile demonstrations of this kind of strength are seldom a real threat to the peace and tranquillity of a community. They are little more than a temporary nuisance.

Aidensfield had its own gang. I could see it blossoming as the warmer nights took control. Several youths began to congregate around the memorial seat beside the telephone kiosk and this became their meeting-place. Each evening around six-thirty, six or seven of them would gather, some with motor-cycles and others without. Several of them showed their masculinity by smoking and laughing loudly as the citizens passed by, and the gathering was little more than a typical youthful show of collective strength. On their own, these lads were fine, but when placed within a gang they could be led into all kinds of situations, chiefly those of mischief and trouble.

From the policeman’s viewpoint, these gangs are an interesting phenomenon. Every year, the pattern repeats itself—youths gather, dress alike, act alike, make a lot of noise, ogle girls and upset older folks. They make noise and laughter, leave litter and beer-cans around and within two years disappear as their maturing members make their way in the greater world. Then another gang takes its place; younger youths begin all over again and the pattern is repeated….

Head-shrinkers and clever people attempt to find reasons for such assemblies, but I’m sure it is a natural phenomenon among the youths; they meet their own kind for social reasons; they show off, brag about their strength and powers, challenge adults and the law, and generally let off steam. If vandalism creeps in, then it is part of the charade of youth and never a serious threat to society, albeit, very annoying at the time.

It is part and parcel of a police officer’s duty to deal with such gangs and it can be a shade daunting for a young officer to confront a fierce and threatening gathering of youths in order to curtail their more effusive outflowings. As a young bobby, before coming to Aidensfield, I had had my share of such gatherings and somehow managed to escape unscathed. In those days, people did not physically attack policemen and the gangs of youths nurtured a grudging respect for the policeman who moved them along or who compelled them to pick up their waste chip papers or empty bottles.

My early days of coping with rebellious urban youths was excellent training for the time I might have to cope with similar problems at Aidensfield. Sure enough, the occasion did arise.

I had watched the growth of the Aidensfield gang soon after my arrival. The summer nights brought them out and these teenage lads began to assemble near the memorial seat, as generations of previous lads had done. They did nothing alarming, although one or two elder folk did express concern. This was inevitable—a collection of high-spirited lads in outrageous clothes kicking a football about the road or chasing empty beer-cans to the accompaniment of loud shouts and curses was a little disconcerting, albeit harmless.

Their ages would be from fifteen to seventeen or eighteen, chiefly schoolchildren or sometimes those unable or unwilling to find work. Boredom brought them together and bravado compelled them to elect a member to visit the pub in an attempt to buy cider or beer. The landlord knew them and refused, so they drank lemonade or bottled shandy.

The problem was what to do with them. If they were not checked, their boisterous fun could lead to trouble. From a policeman’s point of view, his duty is to maintain law and order and when assemblies of big lads begin to cause alarm he must do something about it. Inevitably, there are complaints from the residents if the situation gets out of hand, and occasionally the parish council sounds off by writing to the Press or to the Chief Constable. But what can a policeman do against a pack of cunning lads who behave when he’s there and who promptly retaliate the moment his back is turned?

Some police officers have started youth clubs, others have created sporting clubs for football or cricket and all kinds of youth organisations have grown in an attempt to keep bored teenagers off the streets and away from situations of conflict with society. Such schemes had been running in and near Aidensfield for some time. There was a very good youth club in Ashfordly, a billiards club in Maddleskirk, several football and cricket teams, and still the lads congregated in villages with noisy bikes and foul language.

I had words with them; I even threatened to take them to court and for a time peace reigned. But the moment I was away the villagers began to complain. The lads were playing football in the street, upsetting motorists and kicking balls into gardens. Beer-bottles and waste paper were left around or smashed on the footpaths, old folks were jeered and vandalism began to materialise. On two occasions, car aerials were broken and windows smashed….

This was now serious. I decided to take a hard look at the members of this troublesome set-up. Most of them were ordinary decent lads, somehow caught up in the relentless pressure put on them by more senior and more forceful characters. Each time I patrolled Aidensfield, I noted the names of the lads gathered in the village street, sometimes stopping to talk with them and sometimes merely passing by. If I became too strict with them and too niggardly about their behaviour, they would react against me and cause even more trouble when my back was turned. So I had to find another way. And my earlier days at Strensford helped.

There was one youth in the Aidensfield gang who was clearly the leader. Every gang has its leader and this was a dark-haired youth of striking good looks but whose personality was defective in some way. He was always at the centre of trouble, I noted, always making a noise, always shouting the loudest. I learned that his name was Alan Maskell.

I wanted to learn more about the lad. Over the next few days, I learned he lived in a council house, that his father had run off with a bus-conductress from York and that his mother spent her money and her time in the pub. Alan had gone to the local secondary school and had achieved moderate success in spite of his background, but at the age of sixteen there seemed no real future for him. He had no desire to leave the village and no real chance of a worthwhile job here. He could become a labourer on a building site, or a washer-up in a local hotel, but little more. It wasn’t a bright future and his rebellion could be understood.

Tall and good-looking, he was a powerful lad. His active eyes told me he had a natural intelligence, if no great academic qualities. I could imagine him displaying a manual skill of some kind—bricklaying perhaps, or metal-work of some sort. When I talked to him man to man, alone and without his audience of adoring youngsters, he was fine. I liked him and in some ways felt sorry that his family background had let him down. With help and encouragement, this youth could do well. But who was to spend the necessary time and energy sorting him out?

I learned he was fond of animals and that he bred white rabbits; alone at home as a younger child, he had spent his spare time with his rabbits and now had a very good collection. At home, with his rabbits, he was a totally different character. Gentle and loving towards them, he worshipped the creatures and it was difficult to link this gentle lad with the toughie who ruled the others in the village street.

During that summer, I had repeated complaints about the conduct of the lads, and indeed the gathering was growing. Others from afar came to join them and I knew that if I wasn’t careful I’d have serious trouble on my hands. The matter came to a head late one August evening.

I was on duty in Ashfordly and was unaware that some two dozen lads had congregated in Aidensfield, many with motor-cycles. They had started to race up and down the street and this bit of fun had developed into a noisy and dangerous battle. Cheering, drinking and shouting abuse at the villagers had developed and the incoming bunch had virtually taken over. The local lads were jealous of their hard-man image too and so a battle of pride developed.

I received a telephone call about it; someone in the village had telephoned Mary who managed to trace me in Ashfordly and I drove in the section car to my own village. When I arrived, Alan was still there with the local lads, and one or two outsiders remaining, chortling at my presence.

My first job was to check all driving licences and insurance for their motor-cycles, and then to check the machines themselves for noisy exhausts and other legal defects. Next, I warned the motor-cyclists about the illegality of dangerous driving, careless driving and racing on the highway, and threatened court action against anyone found in the future doing any of those actions. And a court appearance could lead eventually to disqualification of their hard-won driving licences. I made a list of all their names and addresses, motor-cycle registration numbers and their own appearances. I then told them I would circulate those details to all my colleagues in the district—any more motor-cycle problems would result in heavy penalties against the offenders.

Next, I turned to the local lads without motor-cycles. They had been carried away by the excitement of the situation and continued to laugh and swagger about in group bravado as I lectured on their behaviour. Finally I turned to Alan Maskell.

“Alan,” I said loudly, “I’ve a special message for you.”

Before his adoring audience, he swaggered over to me, chewing something and winking at his friends.

“Yeh?”

“I’m putting you in charge of these lads,” I said.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“In charge of them?” The swagger had gone already.

“Yes, in charge of them.” I had to get the message firmly home, and they all listened.

He looked about them all and grinned. “Hey, you lot. I’m the boss.”

“Yes, Alan, and that means you are responsible for their behaviour. If anything happens in this village—broken windows, litter, complaints about trouble, vandalism—then you will go to court. You, Alan. I’m making you responsible for the conduct of this lot. If they behave, you don’t go to court. If they misbehave, you will have to answer in court for them. Do you understand?”

There was silence as Alan and the others began to comprehend the magnitude of the situation.

“You mean if he puts a window through, you’ll have me, Mr Rhea?”

“Yes, Alan, that’s what I mean. I’ve had enough of you and this lot. People are always complaining, and I’ve got to leave more important things to come down here, like tonight, and give you a bulling. So, as from today, you’re the boss. It’s your job to keep them straight. I’m going to pass the word around my colleagues and, if there’s any more trouble in Aidensfield, they’ll come looking for you.”

“Bloody hell, Mr Rhea, you can’t do that….”

“I’ve just done it, Alan. It starts now. I mean it—every word.”

“I could be fined or sent away?”

“You could, so you’ll have to sort them out, eh?”

I could see the lad was shaken by his responsibility. Whether it would work, I didn’t know. Alan was certainly the ring-leader, but whether the others would obey him when he called for good behaviour was a different matter. I knew some of the younger element worshipped him and I felt they would behave out of respect or admiration for him, not wishing him to suffer on their behalf.

As I stood my ground, the crowd of youths began to disintegrate. The motor-cyclists drove away, not revving and roaring out of the village as was their normal practice, but driving sedately through the houses. Next time they came, I would check their documents and vehicles again…. and so would my colleagues. We’d soon sicken unwelcome troublemakers.

Alan and his crowd of locals drifted away too, wandering towards their homes as I remained near the seat.

The next night, no one turned up at the seat. I walked around Aidensfield seeking them and wondered where they’d gone. Eventually I found them on the cricket field. They were playing a practice game and Alan was organising them into two teams. He saw me and came across.

“I asked the cricket captain for permission, Mr Rhea, and he said….”

“Fine, Alan, you’re doing a good job. Why not challenge the village team to a game one day? When your lads are practised up, eh?”

His eyes lit up. “Aye,” he said. “Aye, I’ll do that.”

Alan and his pals caused me no further trouble. They did congregate near the telephone kiosk from time to time, and they did ride their motor-bikes around the place, but always in a reasonable manner. Later that year, Alan joined the Army and was subsequently posted to Germany. His gang caused me no further trouble because they had grown up.

Next year, another set of noisy lads would take their place and that meant I’d have to find someone else to take charge.

I would start my search immediately.

 

Another problem child was young Stephen Matthews. He was six years old with a round, cheeky face and mischievous blue eyes. His hair was sandy in colour and his fit little body spent its time galloping everywhere noisily in the sheer exuberance of youth. He was not a criminal; even if his activities had been of the kind that could be classed as criminal, he would not have been prosecuted due to his tender age. His problem was simple—he kept getting lost.

Stephen had a propensity for running away. If his beleaguered mother took him shopping in York or Ashfordly, it could be guaranteed that Stephen would lose her. The poor woman must have spent hours seeking him and the police officers in the area knew Stephen by name and description. His longest period of absence was one full day; on that occasion, he went with a school outing to Scarborough and promptly got lost among the trippers. His mother was there to supervise him, but he managed to give her the slip; she knew him well enough to remain where she was, and that he’d return eventually. But on that occasion he did not, for he spent the afternoon sitting in the police-station until mother arrived distraught and anxious.

At home in Aidensfield, his disappearances were monotonously regular. He would vanish on the way home from school, or from the pack of cubs he had joined; he wandered off into the woods and fields, looking for rabbits or birds, seeking excitement in nature. Time and time again, Mrs Matthews called me to help in searching for the little lad, and time and time again we found him wandering the lanes blissfully unaware of the panic about him. No amount of tellings-off and advice seemed to penetrate his mind, for Stephen would always get lost. I felt sorry for his parents and wondered what his maturity would be like. I could see his wife would have problems.

It was natural that I rapidly grew acquainted with both the little lad and his parents. I developed the practice, whenever I saw Stephen alone, of asking him where he was going, whom he was going to see and whether his mother knew where he was. This oft-repeated dialogue gradually resulted in Stephen’s telling me the answers before I asked the questions, and if he saw me in the village he would say, “Mr Rhea, I’m going to see my Aunt Phyllis and Mummy knows about it.” or “Mummy sent me to the shop, Mr Rhea, for some tea and bread. I’m going home now and won’t be late….”

He was a marvellously confident little chap, and most likeable, but in the summer he performed yet another of his vanishing tricks. Mrs Matthews telephoned to ask if I’d seen Stephen because he had not come in from school. I had to say I had not seen him. As things were, I was about to walk down the village to talk to a farmer about a movement licence for his pigs, so I promised Mrs Matthews I’d keep an eye open for her errant child.

As I entered Norman Berriman’s farmyard, the very first person I saw leaving was young Stephen. He had a pup with him.

“Now, young man.” I adopted a stern attitude. “I’ve had your mum ringing me about you. You didn’t go home from school and she’s worried….”

“I’m going now, Mr Rhea. I just called in to see Mr Berriman about this puppy, you see….”

And off he went. I watched the pair of them walk along the village street, the lad towing the disinterested pup with a long piece of string until they turned down the road towards Stephen’s home. I thought no more of the incident until I had concluded my business with Farmer Berriman and happened to mention Stephen’s name.

“Aye,” said Berriman. “Yon little chap came in and asked if he could have a pup.”

“I wonder if his mother knows?” I said, almost to myself.

“Now, that’s summat I don’t know,” the farmer said. “He told me his mam did know and said it was all right. I gave him yon dog—it’s a mongrel dog pup, and grand little animal. I can’t do with more dogs than I’ve got and was pleased to give it a home….”

“Has Stephen been here before?” I asked.

“Aye, more than once. He oft comes in after school, checking the dogs and seeing to the cows. Canny little lad, isn’t he?”

“He drives his mother up the wall,” I laughed. “She never knows where he gets to….”

“He seldom stays long,” smiled Norman Berriman. “Comes in here, feeds the hens mebbe or watches me milking sometimes, then off he goes, running down the street. Always at a gallop, isn’t he?”

As I talked, I got the distinct feeling that Mrs Matthews would know nothing of the acquisition of that pup. Knowing of Stephen’s cunning, he would have chatted to Mr Berriman until the farmer had given him the dog. But it was no problem of mine. It was something the Matthews family would have to sort out with the farmer. However, when I returned home, I rang Mrs Matthews to inform her that I had seen Stephen and that he was heading for home.

“Yes,” she said gently on the telephone. “He arrived home safe and sound, Mr Rhea—and he had a pup with him. He said the farmer gave it to him.”

“He did, I talked with Mr Berriman about it.”

“I knew nothing of that, Mr Rhea. The young monkey’s gone and got himself a dog without our permission, and now he won’t part with it….”

“It might keep him at home,” I said wryly. “If he has to feed his dog and exercise it, he might come straight home from school.”

“But we don’t want a dog, Mr Rhea. I don’t know what my husband will say when he comes home.”

“I’m sure Mr Berriman will take it back when he knows the truth. He thought you knew all about it.”

“I’ll have words with him. Thank you, Mr Rhea.”

I have no idea what transpired between father and son, father and mother, or mother and son, but the outcome was that Stephen kept the dog. Thereafter, I often saw them together, with Stephen eternally running and the growing dog galloping at his side. Sometimes the dog was on a lead and sometimes it ran free beside its young master. They were a happy sight.

Although the dog was a mongrel, it had the appearance of a black and white cur, typical of the sheep-dogs in this area. It was a pleasant and lovable animal and Stephen named it Skip. Over the weeks, the pair became inseparable. Where one went, the other followed. I never spoke to Stephen’s father about the animal as I seldom saw him, although Mrs Matthews did chat with me from time to time as she went about the village. I learned that the unexpected acquisition had caused a lot of friction in the home, especially from Stephen’s dad, who disliked animals at the best of times. But the lad’s pleas and his mother’s backing had beaten Dad, and the dog became part of the family.

The other bonus was just as I had anticipated—Stephen did not get lost quite so often, especially on his journeys home from school. He always galloped home to take Skip for a walk, although he was sometimes late from these expeditions. Mrs Matthews rang me less and less, for now she had a growing boy and a growing dog to get lost, but between them the wandering couple always returned home.

I wondered if the dog was responsible for taking Stephen home. A hungry dog will find its way to a known food supply and as the dark nights of autumn approached I received fewer calls about Stephen’s disappearances.

But when I was next asked to help it was a very serious matter indeed. I don’t think anyone realised at the time just how worried I had become.

I was on duty late on Friday evening because the Slemmington Hunt was holding its annual Ball in Aidensfield Village Hall. This was one of the highlights of the year. The Ball was always held on the first Friday in December in Aidensfield’s beautiful village hall. This spacious building has a sprung floor which makes it ideal for ballroom dancing, and there is also a balcony, lots of anterooms and space for a bar, and although it is a somewhat remote village it has been host to many important functions. I had to be on duty in case of public order problems and at nine o’clock began to patrol the village on foot. It was bitterly cold, with a hard frost and a forecast of snow before dawn. I was well wrapped up and it would be around 9.30 that evening when Stephen’s father, Desmond Matthews, hailed me outside the dance hall.

“Mr Rhea,” he said and in the light of the doorway I could see the worried expression on his face. “It’s Stephen again.”

“Another absence?” I asked.

He nodded. “He went out about seven o’clock and hasn’t come back. It’s dark, you see, and he never stays out in the dark…. I’ve searched everywhere, and my wife too. He’s taken a torch and just vanished—and the dog with him.”

“Did he give any idea where he was going?” I asked, and a fleeting thought crossed my mind that it was unusual for Mr Matthews to come to me. On every previous occasion, his wife had set the ball rolling.

“No, nothing,” was all the man said.

I could sense the concern in his voice and instinctively knew I had a major problem on my hands. A search for a child at any time is harrowing, but on a bitterly cold December night it has much more relevance and urgency. Cold can be a vicious killer.

The problem was where to begin and who should conduct the search. Could one father and one policeman adequately search the wild and expansive acres of this area in the dark? Even if we had some clue as to his whereabouts, it would not be easy, but with no idea of his probable location it seemed impossible. The sheer size of the area and the time element combined to produce immense problems.

“Wait here, Mr Matthews, I’ll ring Sergeant Blaketon at Ashfordly to see if we can get reinforcements.”

I went to the Brewers Arms next door to the village hall and asked if I could use the telephone. Consent was immediate and I rang my section office. There was no reply. I next decided to ring the Sub-Division and managed to raise a constable on the enquiry desk.

“It’s Nick,” I announced. “Have you any idea where Sergeant Blaketon is, Harry?”

“He booked off the air at Eltering about half an hour ago,” Harry told me. “Shall I ring him?”

“Please. I’ve got a missing child at Aidensfield—I’ll begin the hunt now, and will return to the village hall on the hour. I reckon we might need help.”

“What about police dogs? Delta Four-Seven is on the air with two dogs. I can send them over if you like.”

“Yes, fine. When can they be here?”

“Twenty minutes I reckon. Can you wait?”

“I’ll make a point of waiting. Can they meet me outside the village hall at Aidensfield?”

“I’ll fix that, Nick. And I’ll get Sergeant Blaketon to rendezvous with you as well. I take it you’ll need volunteers?”

“I’m sure I will, but I think we’d better make a preliminary search of the village. I don’t want to drag everybody out if he’s lying asleep in a local barn. I’ll ring you back if I need more help.”

Now that the official wheels had started to turn, I told Mr Matthews what I’d done. I asked him to return home to make a further thorough search of the house and its surrounds, and also Stephen’s known haunts. I said I’d do a quick recce of the village territory, including Norman Berriman’s farm buildings and other likely places. There were the school grounds, the cricket pavilion, the churchyard, the river-banks and so forth.

I couldn’t ignore my other responsibility and already, the dance was beginning to warm up. Dinner-jacketed men and ladies in flowing gowns were arriving thick and fast, so I entered the hall and found the organiser, Colonel B. J. Smithson. I told him of the development and asked him to excuse my absence, saying I’d return as soon as possible.

“Not a bit, old boy, good hunting.” He dismissed me with a wave of his elegant hand.

I spent a hectic half hour searching the village and calling Stephen’s name, all to no avail. I returned to the village hall and found the police dogs had arrived with two handlers. I decided we should visit Stephen’s home first, to see if the parents had any further news.

Mrs Matthews was at home, waiting in case the absent pair returned, and Mr Matthews was out with a neighbour, searching some nearby woodland.

“I’ve got two police dogs, Mrs Matthews,” I said. “We’re just deciding where to deploy them.”

“Will they hear Skip bark, Mr Rhea?” she asked.

“They might make him bark. Now, what time did Stephen set off?”

The dog-handlers and I listened to her story and we learned he’d eaten his tea about half past five and had then watched television for a while. At seven he had left the house and hadn’t been seen since. We obtained a description of the clothes he wore, together with the dog’s particulars, and I decided it was time to circulate them to all our mobiles and fixed stations. Some patrolling police officer might see them on the road somewhere. A lorry could have picked them up—anything could have happened.

I was not satisfied about the reason for Stephen’s departure. Mrs Matthews did not give a reason and I found it odd that a child of six would suddenly take his dog away from the house in the dark. I wanted to know why he had left the house.

I began to probe and she broke down in tears; it seemed her husband had lost his temper with the dog because it kept scratching the paintwork of his newly painted front door and he’d threatened to shoot the bloody animal if it persisted….

Stephen had cried for a long time about this and at seven o’clock he’d slipped out of the house with Skip. At the time, mother was washing the pots and Dad was attending to something in the garden shed.

This news made the search even more important. On a cold December night, a child could perish from hypothermia if left out in the open, and I recognised the urgency of our actions. There was no time to lose, but where should I begin?

As I knew the village terrain very well, I suggested areas of immediate search by each of the two dogs, while I continued to examine the open buildings about Aidensfield. At eleven o’clock, Sergeant Blaketon materialised with five more officers, having been told of our lack of progress by the dog-handlers over their radios. By now, the matter was growing desperate. Stephen and his dog had been missing four hours with no indication of their whereabouts.

We asked questions around the village, but no one had seen the lad and his dog. Darkness and the fact that many villagers had been indoors preparing for the dance meant they had managed to wander off without being noticed.

With Sergeant Blaketon now in charge, the hunt assumed new proportions and I was pleased to have the vital assistance of my colleagues from the Sub-Division. I secured a map of Aidensfield and district and we apportioned a given area to each police searcher, with me providing local information about the dangers of deep waters in the streams, dangerous and ruined buildings, likely woodland hiding-places, little known routes and so forth.

Through our police radios, we were able to keep closely in touch with each other and by eleven thirty the inspector arrived, having been told of the unsuccessful search. Now Aidensfield was alive with police vehicles, dogs and vans; men with powerful torches and loud-hailers patrolled the outer areas, all searching to a pattern and all desperately anxious to find the little fellow before the awful chill of winter took its inevitable toll.

Inside the dance-hall, the huntsmen and their followers were unaware of the drama being played nearby. At half-past midnight, I decided to tell Colonel Smithson of the importance of our search and to apologise for my continued absence from his function.

I found him doing a waltz with a titled lady from an adjoining hunt and I waited until he drifted past in a cloud of her expensive perfume.

“Colonel, could I speak with you?”

“Ah, Mr Rhea, of course. Found that child, have you?”

“No, we haven’t,” I said. “I’m just explaining my absence from your function….”

“What child is this?” asked her ladyship, with deep interest.

I told them both of the extent of our search and of the desperation now setting in. Her ladyship asked some very sensible questions about our methods of searching and the numbers involved, and Colonel Smithson did likewise. Their interest was intense.

“You know,” he coughed, “here we are, all enjoying ourselves and that poor child is out there, on a bloody cold night…. Mr Rhea, let us help.”

“That’s most generous of you,” I began….

“Generous be damned! It’s a public duty! Look—all these people know this district like the backs of their pampered hands! They’ve all hunted over these fields and rivers, every inch of them … I’ll stop this bloody dance for you and ask for volunteers … how’s that?”

“Excellent idea, Benji,” beamed his lady companion. “Yes, let’s join your hunt, Constable.”

I was somewhat taken aback by this response but before I knew what was happening the colonel had stopped the orchestra and was addressing the assembly through the microphone. He told of the little boy’s absence and of the hunt now in progress, then asked me to detail precisely what the police were doing. I took the microphone from him and gave the whole story of the missing boy and his dog. I provided a brief description of young Stephen and the clothes he was wearing, and informed the gathering that the inspector’s official car, parked on the garage forecourt higher up the village, was the focal point. He had radio contact with all searchers and with Force Control at Headquarters, so this made his car the ideal Command Vehicle.

The colonel took over again.

“Right, gentlemen,” he spoke into the microphone. “I think this is an occasion for us to volunteer to join the search. Everyone here knows this countryside intimately, and I’m sure the police would be grateful for any assistance. Have I any volunteers to report to the inspector’s car and be allocated an area to cover?”

In the moment of silence that followed, I thought no one was going to raise a hand, but as if on an unspoken command a sea of hands was raised and he beamed with obvious delight.

“Right, that’s it. Go home and change into something more useful for tramping across the landscape. And, P.C. Rhea, if we don’t find the lad tonight, we will continue tomorrow on horseback….”

What followed next was truly amazing. Well over half the dancers reported to the inspector’s car in their evening-dress, ladies in their long flowing gowns and fur coats, and gentlemen in dinner-jackets with Wellingtons drawn from their car boots. The colonel took charge of his contingent and I could see he was thoroughly enjoying himself being back in the field of action. Others had gone home to change into more suitable attire.

By one o’clock that morning, we had well over two hundred people searching for Stephen and his dog. We allocated one policeman to each party of hunters because it meant we could maintain radio contact with our base, should the lad be discovered. I was with a party of young huntsmen and their girls from the York area, and we combed the district bordering the parish boundaries between Aidensfield and Maddleskirk. That comprised some rough landscape, thick with thorn-bushes and laced with dangerous marshland, all interspaced with deep streams and expansive open fields. We combed the area intensively by torchlight, thrashing bushes with sticks, calling the names of both boy and dog and examining every possible hiding-place. We found nothing. Even in spite of our activity, the cold was striking through our clothing.

I knew from the response on my personal radio set that the others were experiencing the same result. Nothing. There was not a clue; no sightings, nothing. It was as if the child and his dog had been spirited away.

Meticulous attention was paid to the stream which ran along the valley floor. It meandered gracefully through the fields and woods, sometimes spilling over the edge to form dangerous marshes and pools which were traps for the unwary. One team, plus a police dog, were given the specific task of searching the entire length of that stream for three miles each way. They found nothing.

Heart-warming response came from the caterers who had been booked to feed the dancers. Mr Humphries, the proprietor of the catering firm in question, had dashed home in his van to return to the scene with hot soup and sausage rolls. Although the search was of a most serious nature, it was gratifying to see the esprit de corps that was generated by these willing people. It was evident they were enjoying themselves, although carrying out their task with a high degree of professionalism.

None of us went to bed that night. The bitter chill gave way to an even colder dawn and as daylight broke we were a tired and bedraggled sight. Those who had not gone home to change looked a sorry mess, suits mud-spattered and torn, long elegant dresses stained and ripped and the people red-eyed and weary. We had been searching for twelve hours without a break.

At nine o’clock that morning, the inspector had to make a vital decision. His men needed rest. They needed sleep, refreshment and warmth if they were to continue; without that, there could be further casualties among the searchers. He knew the risks and I saw him look at his watch.

He called me in for a conference and we sat in his car.

“Nine o’clock, Nick. And not a bloody sausage.”

“These people have been marvellous, sir,” I said. “They said they would go home and get horses at dawn, if he hadn’t been found.”

“They’re incredible. And our lads too—they’ve tramped miles tonight in appalling weather….”

“Where is everyone now, sir?” I asked.

“Still out there. Have you seen the parents?”

“The father’s out somewhere and Mrs Matthews is still at home, standing by the window. I saw her as I came in.”

“Let’s give it another couple of hours, Nick. Can you stand it?”

“Sure,” I said. “Thank God for Jack Humphries and his grub!”

I returned to my little party and left the inspector to relay his decision to the troops. We moved our group another half mile to the west and began yet another systematic search of the scrubland upon the foothills which rose towards the grim moors behind. It was tiring in the extreme.

And then, at half past nine, came some marvellous news. Stephen had been found and he was still alive—and so was the dog.

I was thrilled to hear the cheers rising from the hunters spread all over the countryside as the news was passed over the police loud-hailers and radio sets. We were all asked to return to base. It was all over.

By the time I returned, Stephen had been whisked off to hospital in one of the cars belonging to a huntsman, and his dog had been taken home. As everyone gathered around the inspector’s car, he decided to thank everyone there and then, and explained how the discovery had occurred.

Miss Gabrielle Gladstone, a member of the Slemmington Hunt, had gone home to get her horse at dawn, and had decided to ride back to the Control Point via the fields. Her home was in Ploatby, several miles by road but a short ride across the fields. She was a pretty young woman of about twenty-five and as she had ridden through the fields in daylight she had recalled some of her own childhood adventures. There was a derelict mill deep in a wood, well off the beaten track, and she had decided to examine that during her trip.

And there was the boy. He had somehow found his way into that awful place in the darkness, lost his torch and fallen. He had broken an ankle, she said, and had been unable to move. He had lain all night on a pile of sacks and the fact he was indoors helped him survive. But, she said, he owed his life to his dog. It had remained with him all the time and, when she found them, the boy was curled up asleep with his arms around his faithful friend. The dog had kept the boy’s body temperature sufficiently high for him to survive.

Afterwards, Mr Matthews praised the dog, he praised the hunt and he praised the police. He was overwhelmed and overjoyed at the response by the public of Aidensfield and their friends.

I never knew how the youngster had managed to find that remote place at night and I don’t think he knew himself. It was so far off the beaten track that it might have escaped our attention, and I found myself wondering whether we’d have found the lad if he’d chosen to run away on a night when there was no Hunt Ball.

That Hunt Ball was a success in many ways and, thereafter, young Stephen didn’t wander very far. I do know that later in the year he was a guest of honour of the hunt, who took him around the kennels to see the puppies and the foxhounds. In fact, he was presented with a whip by the Master of Foxhounds, but with strict instructions never to use it on his own dog!