Constable Among the Heather by Nicholas Rhea Read Free Book Online

realized what he looked like beneath all that gear. Once I saw him in the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby, and it was a while before I realized that the swarthy, smart man at the bar was Rodney. Like his clothing, he was dark. He had a head of rich black hair with just a hint of grey; his eyebrows were black too, and so were his eyes. He had a black moustache and was swarthy and dark skinned, not through a suntan but through his ancestors. I sometimes wondered if he had gypsy blood in his veins, or whether some of his ancestors came from Spain or Italy.
    I liked him. I found him totally honest and reliable, meticulous in his work and always good-humoured and willing in both his private and professional duties. Oddly enough, I never did discover whether he was married or had a family, for he never spoke about his home interests.
    But of all the facets of Rodney Featherstonehaugh, the one which most intrigued me was his devotion to time-keeping.
    From time to time when I was on patrol, I would see him sitting in the hedge bottom or in the entrance to a field, with his wheeled dustbin on hand, and on such occasions I would stop for a chat. In time I realized that these occasions were his official breaks. He started work at 7.30, with a ten-minute ‘’lowance’ break mid-morning, a dinner break of half an hour at noon and a tea break of ten minutes during the afternoon, before finishing at 4.30 p.m. When I realized that these werehis break time, I avoided chatting to him then – after all, a man is entitled to some time free from the cares of office – and I tried to talk to him when he was actually on his feet and going about his daily routine. He did not mind such interruptions, but I felt he should have some privacy. My own job had taught me the value of a meal which is uninterrupted by public demands.
    Through regularly patrolling those self-same lanes, I became accustomed to Rodney’s break times. I began to realize that when he was sweeping the grit of winter from the roads, to gather it and replace it in nice heaps by the roadside, he would take his first break at 10 a.m., with dinner at noon and his tea break at 2.30 p.m., all being serviced from the flasks, sandwiches, cakes and fruit he carried with him.
    Then one bright and sunny June morning, at 9.30 a.m., I noticed him sitting in the entrance to a field just beyond Crampton Lane End. It was a junction where the lane from Crampton emerged onto the busier Malton to Ashfordly road. The road sloped quite steeply down to that junction, and Rodney’s chosen gateway was right on the corner. It gave him long views along the road and up the hill. I could see him for some time before I arrived. His bin was nearby as usual, but this was half an hour earlier than his normal time and, knowing Rodney’s meticulous time-keeping, I wondered if something was wrong. Maybe he was ill?
    I drew up and parked, then clambered out to meet him.
    â€˜Morning, Rodney,’ I greeted him. ‘All right?’
    â€˜Aye, Mr Rhea.’ He was munching a piece of fruitcake and had a flask of coffee at his side. ‘It’s ’lowance time.’
    â€˜You’re early,’ I said. ‘I thought you might be ill.’
    â€˜Nay, Ah’m fine. They’ve changed my times.’
    I presumed ‘they’ were the council.
    â€˜Oh, well, I won’t trouble you …’
    â€˜We’ve changed areas,’ he added, as if in explanation. ‘Ah was under Ashfordly, now Ah’m under Brantsford, so they’ve changed my ’lowance time. Half-nine instead of ten.’
    â€˜But does it really matter?’ I asked in all innocence.
    â€˜Aye, well, if they say half-nine, then half-nine it is. Ah mean, it is a bit early, if you ask me, but, well, Ah’m not in a position to argue.’
    â€˜No,’ I smiled. ‘We must all do as we’re told, Rodney. Well, I must be off. I’m meeting the sergeant at Ashfordly, and