Constable Across the Moors by Nicholas Rhea

back to the coach, but this did not prevent the aggrieved three from making a complaint. A day or two later, I had to interview Esme about it. Although I submitted an official report against her for careless driving, the Superintendent authorised ‘No action’, his reasons being, I suspect, that any magistrates listening to this complaint would dissolve into laughter and that would be undignified in a court of law.
    Happily, my regular official visits to Esme did not sour our relationship. She continued to regard me as a friendly caller andnever once complained about the frequency of my visits, nor did she grumble about the regular fines she attracted. She probably thought all motorists suffered in this way.
    I must admit I liked her. I remember one terrible winter morning when five or six inches of snow had fallen overnight. The roads were treacherous and the small amount of traffic had compressed the snow into a sheet of dangerous ice. Maddleskirk village was blocked at both exits, for there are steep hills climbing out at each end of the village street. The early morning traffic which comprised lorries, bread trucks, tankers, post office vans and commuters’ cars had all come to a standstill because each hill was impassable. I arrived on foot to have a look, and borrowed a shovel from a farmer who lived on the main street. With the shovel over my shoulder, I trudged through the blizzard conditions, intending to spread gravel across the glistening surface, and get the queue of traffic moving.
    As I walked to the base of the western hill, I heard a car engine behind and turned to see Esme in her immaculate white Morris Minor. She halted at my side and wound down her window.
    “Good morning, Mr Rhea,” she breezed, her lovely face wreathed in smiles and framed in a fur bonnet.
    “Hello, Esme,” I greeted her. “You’re not going out today, I hope!”
    “I must get to Leeds,” she said. “I have an appointment at a craft shop this morning and can’t let them down.”
    “You’ll never get through,” I pointed to the queue of patient drivers, all sitting at their wheels or helping to spread gravel.
    “Oh, I don’t worry about snow,” she said. “I pretend I’m on a motor rally and it gets me through every time,” and with that she set her wheels in motion. Two lorry drivers who’d overheard this remark launched into a polite cheer as the gallant little Morris approached the base of the steep hill. No one had climbed it that morning; it was like glass and the skid marks etched wildly across its surface bore testimony to their efforts.
    We all watched and wondered how long it was going to take to dig her out, but the little white car chugged forward and started to climb. Everyone watched in sheer amazement as Esme’s car stolidly climbed that treacherous incline and vanished over the top. Others tried, but all failed.
    To this day, I do not know how she achieved that, but it dawned on me that I’d never seen Esme stuck in the winter. Faith must be a wonderful thing.
    I began to think Esme was invincible. Somehow, she blazed a trail through life in her little Morris Minor and never seemed to ask help from anyone. Then, one fine morning in May, she called at my office in Aidensfield. She rang the bell, and I answered, very surprised to find her there.
    “Come in, Esme,” I opened the door and she strode in. “You’ve come to produce your licence and insurance again?”
    “No,” she smiled. “No, I’m not in trouble, Mr Rhea. I can drive without getting fined, you know. I’m not one of those silly women drivers who are always in trouble.”
    “Of course not,” I pulled out a chair for her. “Well, what’s wrong?”
    “I am going down to Stratford-on-Avon,” she said. “I’m taking a friend and we are going to see some of the Shakespearian productions at the Stratford Theatre.”
    “You’ll enjoy it,” I smiled, for I’d seen several of their skilled interpretations of the Bard’s