In a League of Their Own Page 11

  “Where, where?” demanded the two in unison.

  “Here,” called Paul, grabbing both lads by the collar.

  While the boys wriggled to free themselves, the constable had also reached Anchor Close and promptly relieved Paul of the smaller of the two scallywags.

  “I’ve chased these laddies all the way from Princes Street, so I have,” the breathless constable explained. “And just how I’m going to get them down to Gayfield Square, I simply don’t know.”

  “No transport then?”

  “There is, but it’s down on Rose Street and it’s already overloaded with half the country shoplifting.”

  Paul smiled. He well understood how frustrated the young man felt. Shoplifting was a nightmare at Christmas. And it wasn’t only the known thieves. No, Christmas seemed to be a time when it was acceptable for anyone, from any walk of life, to ease the financial pressures of Christmas by not paying for some of their purchases. “Look,” he said to the constable, “I’m going down that way to interview a witness, so how about we each hold on to one of ‘em.” Paul then looked at the children before asking, “Are they old enough to be charged?”

  The constable shook his head. “No. But for the last three Saturdays they’ve been stealing to order and our inspector insists that we run them in and send for their parents.”

  “And how long does it take for the parents to put in an appearance?”

  The constable would like to have said, “Bloody hours!” but tempered his language. “Well, last week they didn’t turn up till nine o’clock – which meant we had to feed the wee blighters.”

  “An’ this week,” the cockier of the two piped up, “when you go up to the Deep Sea for our chips, I’m wantin a hale fish with mine no a dried up old white pudden!”

  When they reached Gayfield Square, Paul thought the station resembled a World War One field hospital rather than a police station. Shoplifters mingled with both the walking wounded and the drunks, while one very drunk driver, who had been taken in for his own safety, was swaying precariously and demanding loudly if the station sergeant knew who he was.

  “Not really,” the sergeant coolly replied. “But when the woman we think may be your wife turns up she might know.” His attention now turned to the two young boys and he gave a groan on instantly recognising them. “Not you two again!” The two lads seemed quite unfazed as the sergeant signalled to the constable to put them into safe custody.

  “Shall I lock them in one of the downstairs cells?”

  “Aye, you do that,” agreed the sergeant.

  “But, sergeant, I am well aware I have no authority here,” Paul intervened, “but I must insist that you do not lock up, in a windowless cell, two young boys who are under the age of responsibility.”

  The sergeant was about to argue strenuously but, aware that Paul one day might well be the senior officer at Gayfield and that he himself still had ten years to serve before his pension would come along, decided that compromise might be the best option. “Okay, sir, but the only other place we can hold them is in the interview office behind me.

  This arrangement was not to the constable’s liking. “Look, sarge,” he exclaimed, “you know they two are a right pair of Houdinis.”

  The sergeant nodded. “I know that. But look,” and he gestured around the room. “If this isn’t enough to be going on with, Drylaw’s wanting assistance from us and are also demanding the use of our van!”

  By now Paul had taken stock of the general mayhem in the room. “Surely you mean that you need Drylaw’s assistance?”

  The sergeant shook his head with mock gravity. “No, sir. Seems my opposite number over there in Drylaw thinks he’s a sub-mariner!”

  “Are you saying my brother Sam’s in deep water?”

  Not only did the sergeant nod wisely but so did all the other officers.

  Sam was being driven around Drylaw subdivision in the patrol van by a constable on their way towards Cramond foreshore to meet up with Pimpernel Pete. The first thing that caught Sam’s eye was Pete running along by the water’s edge, frantically signalling to the two mounted police officers who were exercising their horses offshore while seeming quite unaware that they were driving the animals towards the quicksand! They seemed oblivious moreover to the fact that the tide had turned and, as was usual in the Firth of Forth, was now racing back in.

  As the van drew level with Pete, the Pimpernel shouted, “Would you credit it? Twa idiots like them being in charge of beasts that have more savvy than they have!”

  Sam nodded. “Just leave them be. They probably think they’re much too superior to listen to us.”

  Pete jumped into the van. “But the poor horses…”

  Sam jumped from the van. “Right enough,” he agreed, walking to the water’s edge and finding that one of the horses had become embedded in the sand and that the other seemed to be going to its rescue. Without hesitation, Sam placed his hands around his mouth and called out, “Don’t try to rescue your pal!” His warning came too late, however, or went unheeded, because the second rider was now in position to grab the reins of the trapped horse in an effort to pull it free. After three fruitless attempts, he quickly let go of the reins, realising that he too was now sinking fast into the quicksand.

  Sam turned to Pete who had joined him at the water’s edge and, pointing to the marooned pair of riders, remarked caustically, “I thought you needed some sort of commonsense to get into the mounted division – so how in the devil’s name did these twa get in?” Pete laughed as Sam started to shout, “Get your backsides out of they saddles. Don’t you blinking idiots realise your weight is keeping them trapped?” The mounted officers made no response, so Sam went on: “Once these poor beasts have only themselves to look after, they’ll start to swim…”

  One of the mounties, who by now had the sense to judge what a pickle they were in, interrupted Sam by shouting back, “If we dismount, our riding boots will get soaked.” Standing up in the stirrups, he pointed to the waters swirling and gushing around the horses’ legs.

  Turning to Pete, Sam ordered, “Quick! Take the van and drive out towards them.”

  “But sarge, will the van no sink tae?”

  Sam sighed in exasperation. “Only if you drive out too far. Oh, and look in the back of the van for a rope, Pete.”

  As soon as the van had been driven as near to the horses as they judged safe, Sam and Pete leapt out. First, they tied the rope firmly round the front bumper of the van and then paddled over to the first horse and handed the other end of the rope to its rider. “Now, seeing you don’t want to get your feet wet,” instructed Sam brusquely, “when the van goes into reverse and I go round to the beast’s rear to push, you urge the animal forward.”

  The idea seemed sound enough; but as the van driver tried to reverse it was evident that he couldn’t – the tide having now brought the water half way up the wheels!

  All four officers looked on aghast as the water began rushing into the van. Thereupon, deciding that getting their boots wet was the wiser option, the two mounted officers jumped from their horses and splashed into the water.

  “Can’t think what’ll happen when we confess we let two of the best horses in the Edinburgh stables drown,” said one of them as he and his mate began paddling towards the shoreline. They needn’t have worried, however, because with their weight off the horses’ backs, along with the buoyancy of the water, the beasts quickly freed themselves and could be seen swimming and then galloping towards the dry land.

  The van, however, proved to be well and truly stuck even with its load lightened. Pete took the driver’s place so that he could try his luck at reversing the vehicle out of danger – but that didn’t help either. Sam, using all his native tenacity, attempted to push it to safety with his backside but only succeeded in losing his balance and tumbling into the water, from where he was forced to watch in mounting dismay as his hitherto immaculate cap floated away.

  “Any ideas on what we should do no
w?” Pete yelled out of the van’s window.

  Sam, by now feeling the distinct chill of the waist-high water, raised both hands in a gesture of despair and gave the only appropriate order in the circumstances: “Abandon ship!”

  On reaching the shore, wet and bedraggled, they were not in the least surprised to discover that their mounted colleagues had ridden off into the sunset, leaving the hapless trio to explain how their now almost totally submerged van had become a submarine.

  Pete (being Pete) felt that they should all stand to attention and salute the van as it disappeared beneath the waves. Their driver, being the only one still in possession of a dry whistle, put it to his lips and blew a final tribute to the van.

  “You know,” Pete observed, “when the tide goes out again tomorrow they’ll easily haul the van out. The only problem is – it’ll be a complete write-off.”

  “Aye,” agreed Sam ruefully, “along with my corn beef sandwiches. No to mention the prospects of me being made up to inspector in the next two years!”

  As the sergeant finished giving Paul a graphic account of the van’s mishap, he did try valiantly to check his laughter, but in the end could only apologise and say, “Sorry. But you have to admit, inspector, it was a truly titanic disaster!”

  Paul said nothing. He knew he hadn’t the divisional authority to censure the sergeant’s amusement so he abruptly turned on his heel and made for the door. He had just turned into Gayfield Square when he became aware that one of the detained boys had just jumped out of the interview room window and was urging his friend to do likewise.

  “Ah wid, but ah’m feart,” the young lad replied, now hanging from the windowsill by his fingertips.

  Paul tore back into the station and shouted to the station sergeant, while pointing to the closed door of the interview room, “These two wee varmints are escaping. One has got out of the window and the other is just about to kill himself when he jumps.”

  The sergeant’s face turned ashen. “B-b-but,” he spluttered, “that’s the worst thing you can do in the force!”

  “The very worst thing,” endorsed Paul emphatically. “To lose a prisoner! And the powers that be won’t care if they’re eight years old or eighty! Now, I’m going after them because you and I will be in even deeper water than my brother if we don’t get them back.”

  Paul was already halfway out of the office when the sergeant hollered, “What can I do?”

  “Get the flashers going on the top of the boxes and tell everyone to be on the lookout for our van and when you get contact with it tell the occupants…”

  “The driver and your brother.”

  “To catch up with me somewhere in London Street.”

  The two little lads had a good head start on him but Paul, like Sam, was athletic, and much to the boys’ dismay, they could see that his fast strides were gaining on them. They had turned out of Gayfield Square into London Street and couldn’t believe their luck when they came across a wood yard into which they quickly escaped. Paul came round the corner just in time to see where they would be hiding. Reaching the gate to the yard, Paul was faced with a dilemma. Should he go into the yard and risk allowing the tearaways to escape again through the unguarded gate? Or should he stay at the entrance and await assistance. He decided his best bet was to wait quietly at the gate.

  Thirty minutes had passed before the van came into view. Thirty minutes during which he had listened as the boys shifted themselves from one pile of wood to another. Once he even saw them peering out to see if the coast was clear.

  As soon as the van drew up at the entrance to the wood yard, Paul signed to Sam and his driver to keep as quiet as possible. Then he sidled over to the van and carefully outlined his plan. Suddenly, the van’s engine revved up and the driver reversed some distance along the street before screeching forward as fast and as noisily possible. Both Sam and the driver then jumped out, making sure to bang the doors loudly.

  “Great, you’ve made it! What kept you?” Paul shouted.

  “Just picking up the big dogs,” replied Sam loudly.

  “Which of your hounds are on duty today?” Paul asked, winking at Sam.

  “Yon dangerous Rottweiler and the massive German Shepherd that can tear a man to shreds in two minutes!” was Sam’s instant rejoinder, as he opened the back door of the van and then loudly banged it shut. Silently, he signalled that, on a count of three, they should all act in unison by uttering a series of blood-curdling howls and menacing growls.

  Without further ado the two young lads emerged from behind a stack of timber, one with both hands high in the air and the other frantically clutching the front of his trousers. “Okay, mister, we surrender,” the first boy announced.

  “Aye, so we dae,” agreed the other. “I’m that feart, I’m aboot tae pee mysel!”

  School was taking up after the Christmas holidays and Carrie was so excited. This would be the very last term she would have to put up with Mr Brand before he retired. He had sent a letter to the Director of Education offering to stay on for a further year but the blunt reply made it clear that the Director wouldn’t wish him to remain for even one more term. In fact, since they had now filled his post, he could leave whenever he wished.

  Carrie felt this information should alert Mr Brand to the fact that his unorthodox methods of running a school were no longer acceptable. She cringed, remembering how, on the very day they were closing for the Christmas holidays, the children had tumbled out of school and one little girl had been so anxious to escape that she’d run straight out into the road. The local store manager was driving along in his small Co-op van and collided with the child who had landed on the van’s bonnet before rolling off and bouncing on the road.

  The distraught man had rushed into school to report the accident and was accosted by Mr Brand who demanded to know what the panic was all about. Pulling at the headmaster’s coat sleeve, the driver gasped, “Oh, sir! I’ve just knocked down one of your pupils. A wee lassie.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Aye,” replied the man, “It’s wee Primrose Shepherd.”

  “There, there,” replied Brand, fussily removing the man’s hand from his arm, “Don’t go upsetting yourself. Primrose wasn’t one of our brighter pupils…”

  With a screech of horror, the man fled from the school before Carrie or anyone else could explain that Mr Brand had a distinct inability to finish sentences adequately and was equally incapable of giving a clear explanation. In the case of poor Primrose, one might have expected him to continue, “… and so she is very apt to run on to the road without looking.”

  The ringing of the school bell had Carrie wondering where the headmaster had gone. On a Monday, as distinct from any other weekday, Brand was generally early, hoping to catch members of his staff arriving at the last moment. Today, however, there was a surprise visit by two inspectors that had caught everyone napping. At first they had gone to the Head’s office, but in his absence had made their way along to the Infants’ Mistress’s room. Already on duty, as ever, Miss Wright was about to go out and bring the infants in from the playground. On seeing the inspectors, however, she asked if she might be of help.

  “Yes indeed,” the senior officer replied. “We’ve just popped in to see you since we hear that you are willing to try out the Initial Teaching Alphabet here?”

  Miss Wright preened herself. She was one of the few teachers who were sold on this novel teaching method and she was more than pleased to ask both gentlemen to sit down and discuss its merits

  It was nearly nine-thirty when the headmaster’s car at last drew up at the school gates and the janitor ran to warn Mr Brand of the surprise visit from the inspectors. The headmaster bounded up the steps, flinging his battered old briefcase into the rubbish collection area before charging through the corridors. As nonchalantly as possible he then paced up and down until the inspectors eventually emerged from Miss Wright’s room.”

  “A beautiful morning, gentlemen!” exclai
med Mr Brand, extending his hand to wish both men a Happy New Year. “I’m so sorry I missed you when you arrived but I’ve just been going around the school wishing my staff the compliments of the season.”

  Neither man was in the least fooled by Mr Brand. They knew him of old – only too well – and the head was further put out when they firmly declined to join him in his office for a cup of tea.

  Mr Brand was muttering to himself as he looked in the mirror and combed his hair. “Carrie,” he murmured smoothly, “to look at me you wouldn’t think I’d soon be retiring, would you?”

  Carrie declined to answer and continued with her work, knowing full well that this would be a prelude to a lengthy sob-story about how his wife didn’t understand him. Carrie was fully prepared to accept that complaint – because neither she nor or anyone else at the school understood him either! And what riled most of all was that on Monday mornings he would bestow a tuppenny Polo mint on whichever member of staff he thought could be persuaded to understand him.

  He had only just turned from the mirror and surreptitiously placed a Polo tube beside Carrie’s typewriter when a sudden commotion in the corridor had him dashing to shut his office door. Too late! The store manager had successfully stuck a foot in the door and pushed it open with a ferocious wallop of his left fist as he hauled little Davie Scott inside with his right arm.

  “Whatever is the meaning of this disgraceful fracas?” fumed Mr Brand.

  Shaking Davie by the scruff of the neck, the store manager bellowed, “This wee blighter has just stolen a packet of effing crisps.” He then conceded to the bewildered Headmaster, “Okay, so we’re self-service now, but that doesn’t mean folk helping themselves without paying.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Mr Brand suavely. Taking the packet of crisps from the store manager’s hand, he proceeded to open it and extract a crisp, which he popped into his mouth before explaining to Carrie, “By the way, these are not Effing’s Crisps at all; they are Smith’s Ready-Salted.” He turned back to the store manager. “So you’re saying you caught this petty miscreant red-handed?”