Free Constable Across the Moors by Nicholas Rhea

won’t mind a few bumps and buried rocks, and if they don’t want to come, they deserve to suffer a bit.”
    “I’m P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself. “I’m the new policeman over at Aidensfield.”
    “This is a bit off your beat, isn’t it?” He closed his car door.
    “Not now,” I said. “Since they issued us with motor bikes, they’ve closed some beats and extended the boundaries of others. I cover a large patch now, including this end of the moor.”
    “And me,” he said, offering me his hand. “Norman Taylor, insurance man.”
    We shook hands warmly.
    “I’ve noticed you coming and going, and having those massive meals,” I laughed. “It seems all and sundry can just stop and eat with them.”
    “They’re offended if you go away unfed at dinner time. It’s as natural to these folks to feed their visitors as it is for, say, a policeman to give advice to a lost motorist. I think it stems from the days when visitors took days rather than hours to reach these remote places. If anyone came, they’d need feeding beforethey left, and I reckon these folks are continuing that custom. They haven’t realised that our cars and bikes get us from place to place within minutes rather than hours.”
    Together, Norman and I walked to the back door which was standing open and he entered without knocking. He walked straight to a teapot on the mantelpiece, lifted the lid and took out a £1 note. He made an entry in a book which lay beside the teapot and smiled at me.
    “Monthly insurance premium,” he said. “She always leaves it here.”
    “They’re trusting folk,” I commented.
    “They are; they trust those who call, as if they were their own family. Mrs Tweddle is a good payer, she never forgets to leave her £1 for me once a month.”
    “I’m looking for John, his firearm certificate’s due for renewal .”
    Norman looked at his watch. It was twelve o’clock, and he said, “He comes in for his dinner at quarter past twelve. Elsie will be here soon – there’ll be a potato and onion pie warming in the Aga.”
    And he sat down.
    I pondered over my next action; I ought to go into the buildings to seek my customer and Norman recognised my hesitation.
    “Sit down,” he advised me. “They’ll be in soon, and it’ll save you chasing about the place.”
    I settled in one of the Windsor chairs and he occupied the other. We talked about our respective jobs, and it transpired he lived at Milthorpe, a hamlet on the northern edge of my beat. His agency embraced the whole of the North Yorkshire moors, a huge slice of countryside with scant population, and he told me how he enjoyed every minute of his work.
    As we talked, a large rosy-cheeked woman entered the kitchen.
    “Hello, Elsie,” greeted Norman.
    “Hello, Norman. Nice morning,” she smiled happily. “By, Ah’ve just been down hedging in our five acre. Ah’m famished – have you checked the pie?”
    “No, P.C. Rhea came and we’ve been talking.”
    “Oh,” she said, looking at me. “Thoo’ll be after our John?”
    “Firearm certificate,” I told her. “It’s due for renewal.”
    “He’ll be in soon,” and she went about her business of examining the pie in the Aga. A delicious smell wafted into the kitchen as she opened the door and examined her handiwork. There were no introductions, no fuss over me, no false niceties. I was here, and that was it.
    She lifted the steaming pie from the oven and prodded the thick, brown crust with her finger. It was contained in a huge brown earthenware dish and there was enough for a table of eight or nine people. She placed it on the Aga to keep warm and laid the table. She set four places, I noted, four knives, four forks and four spoons. No table cloth and no condiments. There was a good deal of pleasant small-talk between herself and the insurance man, and then big John entered. He saw me and Norman, nodded briefly and went to the sink where he washed his hands thoroughly with a