CONSTABLE RIGID HAS A WORD

A story from the fictional parish of St Faithful's, Havnot

The first sign that officialdom was approaching St Faithful’s was not a siren. It was the sound of a very small engine thinking carefully about a hill.

Judith Crowther looked up from the parish office computer, where she was trying to persuade the diocesan health & safety portal that “other” was a respectable answer to “Please specify type of ladder.”

Hearing the engine, Judith rose and looked through the blinds.

“Oh dear,” she said.

Tim Keen, standing by the filing cabinet trying to remember why he had opened it, looked up.

“Archdeacon?”

“No.”

“Boiler man?”

“No.”

“Worse?”

“It is Constable Rigid.”

Across the churchyard wall, a police Panda Car sat right in front of the sign that clearly commanded: ‘Thou Shalt Not Park Here’. It was small, white, striped in blue and gold, and slightly apologetic. And it was an actual Fiat Panda, which someone at Police Headquarters had evidently thought mildly amusing.

Constable Rigid was not a comic policeman. That would have been unfair. He was a decent man doing an impossible job over too many miles with too few colleagues, one unreliable radio, and a patrol car which had recently developed stubborn attitudes about second gear. He covered thirty square miles of Havnot and the surrounding villages and was often the only copper on duty across all of it.

He was not ridiculous. He was, however, very fond of procedure. Judith opened the office door before he knocked.

“Constable.”

“Mrs Crowther.”

“I assume this is not a pastoral visit.”

“I’m afraid I have been asked to have a word with the Reverend Doctor Keen.”

“By whom?”

“There have been complaints.”

“Named complaints?”

“Anonymous complaints.”

Judith’s eyebrows rose with the slow lift of a drawbridge.

“Plural?”

“Technically. Five envelopes. Same stationery.”

Tim appeared behind Judith.

“Constable Rigid. Come in. Tea? Biscuit?”

“I am on duty.”

“That has never stopped the Bishop.”

Judith looked at him.

“Sorry,” said Tim.

Constable Rigid stepped inside and opened his notebook. A real notebook. Judith approved despite herself.

“I am here regarding an alleged incident involving several motorcycles, one ordained cleric, various church members, and what has been described as reckless clerical roaring.”

“Roaring?” said Tim.

“Alleged roaring.”

“I’m not sure a Suzuki Volusia roars. It more sort of clears its throat in a meaningful way.”

Rigid wrote something down.

“And were you on said motorcycle last Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“With others?”

“Yes.”

“Possibly forming a group?”

“Well, my friends.”

“A gang of motorcycles.”

“A family of motorcycles.”

Rigid stopped writing.

“That is not a recognised category.”

“No, but it should be.”

At that moment Dobbs entered carrying a coil of cable and a packet of custard creams. He saw the constable and froze.

“Ah,” said Dobbs. “I told them no good would come of it.”

Rigid turned.

“And you are?”

“Alan Dobbs. Verger. Not ordained. No collar. Very important.”

“Were you involved?”

“I was present on my Lambretta as an ecclesiastical support vehicle.”

Rigid wrote again.

“Was it roadworthy?”

There was a silence.

“In the broadest sacramental sense,” said Dobbs, “yes.”

Judith closed her eyes.

Horse Palmer appeared in the doorway.

“Police here, then? About the bikes?”

Kevin Keen’s voice came from somewhere behind him.

“Horse.”

“What?”

“Less.”

Horse looked at Constable Rigid with warmth.

“Want a brew, officer? You look done in.”

Rigid’s pen paused. For a moment the procedural armour slipped.

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Judith moved immediately. A tired public servant in a stretched service was a sacred duty, like leaking gutters and Lent groups.

They settled around the office: Tim by the filing cabinet, Judith at her desk, Dobbs on the chair with the broken castor, Horse leaning against the wall as though holding it up, Kevin standing just near enough to intervene.

“The complaint alleges that your party proceeded through Havnot High Street in a manner likely to cause alarm.”

“Did we?” asked Tim.

“One witness reports that Mrs Avril Pidsley dropped a packet of rich tea biscuits.”

“Avril drops things when the Co-op changes the layout,” said Judith.

“There is also a concern about leather garments.”

“I was wearing textiles with armour.”

Rigid wrote.

“Armour.”

“Motorcycle armour. Not the shining kind.”

Dobbs leaned forward.

“I had gardening gloves.”

“Alan,” said Judith.

“And there is mention of a public house.”

“The Little Shed,” said Horse happily. “At Little Shedlington. Nice pub.”

Kevin murmured, “Not helping.”

“It was a lunch stop,” said Tim.

“Was alcohol consumed?”

“No,” said Kevin, firmly. “Soft drinks. Tea. One lime and soda. Horse had crisps, and then called it ‘hydration’.”

Horse nodded.

“Ready salted. Electrolytes.”

Rigid’s mouth twitched. Only slightly. But enough.

Judith placed tea before him, with three custard creams.

Tim softened.

“Constable, I know you’ve got to follow things up. And I’m grateful. Truly. But this was a lawful group ride. Proper licences, insurance, helmets, sober riders, sensible speeds.”

Judith opened a folder.

“I have copies.”

Rigid stared.

“Of course you do,” said Tim.

“You risk-assessed a motorcycle ride?” asked Rigid, looking aghast.

“I risk-assess Christingle,” said Judith. “Motorcycles are basically candles with wheels.”

Rigid checked the folder, then looked up with the expression of a man who had once watched Columbo and taken notes. “Tell me about the accident, Doctor Keen,” he said.

Tim gulped. “Nothing much to tell, really,” he said. “Abe Appleford attacked a tractor. The tractor won.”

Rigid blinked.

“Abe got stuck in a tree. No damage to anyone or the tractor, and Abe’s rebuilding his Honda.”

“The tractor driver would confirm all this?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, Reverend. I shall take your word for it. This all appears to be in order.”

“Good,” said Tim.

“I shall record that you and I have had a word.”

“And have you?” asked Horse.

Rigid considered this.

“Yes,” he said. “Several.”

Then, more gently, he added, “The truth is, Reverend, some people are anxious. They see noise, leather, bikes, groups of mainly hairy men—”

“And Dobbs,” said Judith.

“And Mr Dobbs,” said Rigid, nodding, “and they imagine trouble. Sometimes there is trouble. Quite often I’m the only person available to deal with it. So when complaints come in, even odd ones, I have to take a look.”

Tim nodded.

“I understand.”

“But I will also say,” Rigid continued, “there is a subtle difference between nuisance and joy. I’m not sure our paperwork always knows that.”

For a moment nobody spoke.

Tim looked at him with new respect.

“No,” he said. “Nor does the Church, sometimes.”

Judith glanced up.

Tim continued, carefully, because he could feel a sermon approaching and knew Judith could feel it too.

“We are very good at rules. Necessary rules. Safeguarding rules. Insurance rules. Rules about candles, ladders, fire exits, gluten-free wafers, and whether the urn has been PAT tested. And thank God for most of them. But sometimes we forget what they’re for.”

“To stop people falling off things,” said Dobbs.

“Yes, Alan. Among other things. But also to make room for life. Not to squeeze the life out of it.”

Rigid looked down at his notebook.

“That sounds dangerously like theology.”

“It often is,” said Judith. “We try to contain it.”

“Anyway,” said Dobbs. “My Lambretta is more joy than nuisance.”

Kevin said, “That is not legally established.”

Rigid allowed himself the smallest smile.

“I shall make no finding on the Lambretta at this time.”

He stood and replaced his cap.

“Thank you for the tea.”

“Any time,” said Judith. “Preferably by appointment.”

At the door, Rigid paused.

“One more thing. If you do another ride…”

“Yes?” said Tim.

“…would you let me know the route?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then I can avoid the High Street if the Panda Car is having one of its days.”

And with that, Constable Rigid went back to his impossible patch, his underpowered car, his notebook, and his duty.

Judith watched him go.

“Well,” she said. “He was very reasonable.”

“Yes,” said Tim.

“Under-resourced.”

“Very.”

“Polite.”

“Extremely.”

“And he ate all three custard creams.”

“He’s only human.”

Outside, the Panda Car started on the second attempt.

“Still better than the Lambretta,” said Kevin.

________________________________________

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St Faithful’s is fictional. The affection is real. The meetings, regrettably, are plausible.

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A note on AI: ChatGPT — known in Havnot as Artie Fischal — is often deployed to help shape, sharpen and illustrate these posts. The drafting and publishing responsibility is entirely human.