remember including Leeds in my route, but did not argue.
I did wonder how she’d get back.
She returned a fortnight later and in the following days, I received twenty-five requests from police forces to visit her and report her for parking infringements, one-way street offences and careless driving on that trip, and they included places as far apart as Lancaster, Lincoln, Huntingdon, Warwick, Chippenham and Gateshead. But her Morris Minor hadn’t a scratch, and neither had she.
In communities as small as Aidensfield, Maddleskirk and the like, there is usually one eccentric motorist whose deeds are widely known to the local people, and they contrive to keep well out of the way when the said eccentric is in motion. But these villages had Esme and another. Two of them in such a small area seemed destined to bring chaos.
Cedric Gladstone was the other’s name, and he lived in a nice bungalow on the edge of Aidensfield with his lovely wife and two spaniels. Cedric was a retired motor engineer, a short, tubby gent with rimless spectacles and a bristling white moustache who had, in his working life, been something of an expert at his craft. In his retirement, he spent a lot of time in his workshop, making objects which no other craftsmen would tackle due to the time and patience needed. He fashionedobjects like keys for grandfather clocks or winding handles for gramophones, small tools for specialist tasks and knick-knacks for household use. He did this for fun, although he was not averse to accepting gratuities in the shape of bottles of whisky as payment for his craftsmanship.
Cedric ran an old Rover car, a lovely 1949 model in a delicate shade of tan with darker brown mudguards, and this was his pride and joy. He had spent years with this car, having bought it new, and upon his retirement had managed to acquire a comprehensive stock of spares. By this prudent advance planning, Cedric was able to keep his car on the road when others fell by the wayside or ended their life on waste tips and scrap metal dumps.
I liked Cedric. I loved to chat with him in his workshop as he filed and soldered precious little pieces of metal together to create some implement useful for an obscure task. Even in his advancing years, a pride of creation and inventiveness remained . He showed me some of the things he’d produced – trowels, a ball-point pen, thousands of keys for hundreds of jobs, a toasting fork with a shield to protect the hand from the heat of the fire, all sorts of gadgets for working in car engines, a rack for shoelaces, a toothbrush holder and so forth. It’s fair to say I spent many a happy hour watching him at work in his hessian apron and battered old flat cap.
But in that beautiful car, Cedric was a changed person. His big problem was drink, and I must admit it was a long time before I realised he was an alcoholic. I might have guessed because his home was stacked with an infinite variety of whiskies , collected over many years from the Highlands of Scotland, and drunk deeply every day by a thirsty Cedric. He was a frequent visitor to the local inns where he happily drank their whisky, or the whisky of anyone who would pay for the pleasure of seeing it vanish down Cedric’s throat.
It is difficult to recall exactly when I became aware of this black side of Cedric’s character. Certainly, his lovely Rover was at large most days, always immaculately polished and chugging beautifully along the lanes or through the villages as Cedric and his wife, Amelia, went about their business and pleasure. I had often seen the car during my patrols, and there was never anyreason to halt it or to check the driver for illegalities. It had always been carefully driven, then one spring morning, some time after arriving at Aidensfield, my professional attention was drawn to the car.
It emerged from the drive of Cedric’s house and someone was grating the gears. There was an awful noise as metal fought with metal, the gears doing
I did wonder how she’d get back.
She returned a fortnight later and in the following days, I received twenty-five requests from police forces to visit her and report her for parking infringements, one-way street offences and careless driving on that trip, and they included places as far apart as Lancaster, Lincoln, Huntingdon, Warwick, Chippenham and Gateshead. But her Morris Minor hadn’t a scratch, and neither had she.
In communities as small as Aidensfield, Maddleskirk and the like, there is usually one eccentric motorist whose deeds are widely known to the local people, and they contrive to keep well out of the way when the said eccentric is in motion. But these villages had Esme and another. Two of them in such a small area seemed destined to bring chaos.
Cedric Gladstone was the other’s name, and he lived in a nice bungalow on the edge of Aidensfield with his lovely wife and two spaniels. Cedric was a retired motor engineer, a short, tubby gent with rimless spectacles and a bristling white moustache who had, in his working life, been something of an expert at his craft. In his retirement, he spent a lot of time in his workshop, making objects which no other craftsmen would tackle due to the time and patience needed. He fashionedobjects like keys for grandfather clocks or winding handles for gramophones, small tools for specialist tasks and knick-knacks for household use. He did this for fun, although he was not averse to accepting gratuities in the shape of bottles of whisky as payment for his craftsmanship.
Cedric ran an old Rover car, a lovely 1949 model in a delicate shade of tan with darker brown mudguards, and this was his pride and joy. He had spent years with this car, having bought it new, and upon his retirement had managed to acquire a comprehensive stock of spares. By this prudent advance planning, Cedric was able to keep his car on the road when others fell by the wayside or ended their life on waste tips and scrap metal dumps.
I liked Cedric. I loved to chat with him in his workshop as he filed and soldered precious little pieces of metal together to create some implement useful for an obscure task. Even in his advancing years, a pride of creation and inventiveness remained . He showed me some of the things he’d produced – trowels, a ball-point pen, thousands of keys for hundreds of jobs, a toasting fork with a shield to protect the hand from the heat of the fire, all sorts of gadgets for working in car engines, a rack for shoelaces, a toothbrush holder and so forth. It’s fair to say I spent many a happy hour watching him at work in his hessian apron and battered old flat cap.
But in that beautiful car, Cedric was a changed person. His big problem was drink, and I must admit it was a long time before I realised he was an alcoholic. I might have guessed because his home was stacked with an infinite variety of whiskies , collected over many years from the Highlands of Scotland, and drunk deeply every day by a thirsty Cedric. He was a frequent visitor to the local inns where he happily drank their whisky, or the whisky of anyone who would pay for the pleasure of seeing it vanish down Cedric’s throat.
It is difficult to recall exactly when I became aware of this black side of Cedric’s character. Certainly, his lovely Rover was at large most days, always immaculately polished and chugging beautifully along the lanes or through the villages as Cedric and his wife, Amelia, went about their business and pleasure. I had often seen the car during my patrols, and there was never anyreason to halt it or to check the driver for illegalities. It had always been carefully driven, then one spring morning, some time after arriving at Aidensfield, my professional attention was drawn to the car.
It emerged from the drive of Cedric’s house and someone was grating the gears. There was an awful noise as metal fought with metal, the gears doing
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