The Happy Magistrate

A magistrate with his unique way of dishing out punishment.

THE HAPPY MAGISTRATE

 

The atmosphere in the small courtroom was relaxed rather than tense with anxiety about the outcome of the case. Stanley Kemp had been accused of making a mess with his building materials outside the boundaries of his own property and the powers that had made the decision to send him to court. It had been quite a waste of time and public money, the magistrate in charge thought to himself, nevertheless, the man had to receive some kind of punishment. The magistrate, Lyall Witherton, sat back in his chair and gazing into space made everyone wait while he pondered what to do about Stanley. The magistrate sat up and spoke to Stanley, “Sing ‘Old Father Thames’ and you can go. You know, [singing] Old Father Thames keeps rolling along, Down to the mighty sea.”

Stanley stared at the magistrate and said, “Excuse me, Your Honour, but I’m afraid I’m not from around here. I’m from Lancashire.”

Lyall sat upright and said, “You mean to tell me you can’t sing ‘Old Father Thames’?”

“No, Sir, I can’t.”

Silence reigned in the courtroom once again, “Very well. I don’t know what the country’s coming to. How much have you got on you to cover the court’s costs?”

Stanley emptied out his pockets on the desk, and said, “Fifty pounds and ten pence.”

“Pay it to the clerk and then you may leave,” Lyall said to the builder.

“But, Your Honour, I want a cup of coffee and a piece of cake.”

“Leave him with enough money to get a cup of coffee and a piece of cake.”

“Yes, Your Honour,” said the clerk.

The courtroom emptied rapidly, and Stanley went off to have his coffee and cake. The magistrate changed his clothes and left the building.

 

Lyall got on his bicycle and rode up to the house he had lived in since his marriage some thirty-five years before. He used a bicycle instead of a car to set an example, whether or not anyone took any notice of it was quite another matter altogether. Lyall’s strange way of giving the locals punishment, was to make them feel that if their next misdemeanour was worse, then he would come down on them severely and send them to a higher court. So far his system had worked, and the cases brought before him were nothing of a very serious nature.

He got down off his bike, pushed open the gate, and walked up to the kitchen door. His help, Mrs Walker, was in the kitchen putting the shopping away. The kitchen was very dark and miserable, and Lyall’s late wife had never wanted to spend any money on it. He was never able to understand why she preferred to have it so gloomy. Mrs Walker said the late Mrs Witherton was a tight-wad Turpin, that she never splashed out on anything. She had never bought her husband new socks, that she had darned them herself. After her death, Lyall found that she had hoarded away a large sum of money, that was now his. He had decided to make the most of it and get certain jobs done. The first one had been to turn out his old clothes and get new ones.

“Good morning, Mrs Walker, coffee ready?”

“Yes, Sir. How did it go? That silly Stan Kemp should get his head seen to, he’s always leaving stuff lying around where he shouldn’t, and he’ll be the first one to complain if it goes missing. “Mrs Walker can you sing ‘Old Father Thames’?’

“Yes, I can,” and Mrs Walker broke into a tuneless rendering of ‘Old Father Thames’.

“Stan Kemp said he didn’t know it.”

“That’s because he’s from Lancashire,” Mrs Walker said in a voice of profound wisdom. “Mr Witherton, I’ve left you a steak and kidney pudding in the microwave for you to heat up, the vegetables are on the cooker for you to switch on. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye, then,” the busy little lady said, as she left the house where she had worked for more years than she cared to remember.

 

The next day Lyall carried out two new ideas. His presence wasn’t required anywhere, so he cleared out what had been the matrimonial bedroom. His wife’s clothes had been presented to the local thrift shops soon after her death. He had thought it more prudent to free the house of clutter as soon as he could, because Lyall had had one thought in his mind for ages, and that was to sell up and downsize. His wife’s jewellery had always been kept in the bank, and he had sold it and given the proceeds to his son, Clement, and his wife Topaz, to buy a house.

The heavy cleaning over, Lyall rang Stan. “Good morning, Stan, I’ve got everything ready and prepared for the job I want you to do.”

“Is it the job we spoke about a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yes, it is. If you’re ready with the materials you can start as soon as you like.”

“Very good, Sir. We’ll be up there in a jiffy,” Stan said, hanging up.

At the house, Lyall said to Stan, “This kitchen is worse than gloomy, I’d like a much larger window and white cupboards. You have all the ideas we talked over, so if you find something doesn’t quite work out, just tell me and we’ll find a solution.”

“Will you be living here while the new kitchen is being installed?”

“No, I’ve rented a cottage in Bear Lane for a while. Please don’t forget that, after the kitchen is done, come the bathrooms and the downstairs cloakroom.”

“No, Sir, I haven’t forgotten.”

Stan went into the age-old kitchen where his two workmen had already started pulling down the cupboards and ripping out the ancient Aga.

Lyall, with two suitcases of new clothes and his bicycle stowed away in the boot of his car, drove off to his new abode.

 

The first case was that of the local window cleaner, Timothy Jones, who had gone inside a house to clean the interior of the windows. When walking along the road, Len Coates, the most famous local burglar, had seen the ladder, and unable to resist temptation had climbed up it. On seeing the rightful owner of the ladder appear in the window, he had taken a step backwards into thin air, and fallen into the front garden breaking a leg and getting a general shake up.

“Mr Coates, I seem to remember you from previous occasions here in this courtroom. I’m not mistaken, am I?” Lyall asked the far from happy burglar who was standing on one leg and leaning on crutches. His right arm was in plaster of Paris and held up in a sling. The expression on his face was that of feeling deeply sorry for himself having been foiled in his attempt to burgle the house.

“My complaint is that the window cleaner owes me money for having nearly killed me by leaving his ladder outside the house.”

“Mr Jones, did you leave your ladder leaning up against the house with intention of causing an accident?” Lyall asked the window cleaner.

Timothy Jones, who was a nimble man and still enjoying the best years of his life, said, “No, Your Honour, I most certainly did not. My client, Mrs Rivers, isn’t all that well, and I do the inside of her windows for her and not just the outside.”

“Does this form a normal part of your job as a window cleaner?” Lyall asked, thinking the window cleaner might be useful to know.

“Yes, Sir, it is. The clients are very grateful for the service.”

“Mr. Coates, I can’t see that you have a leg to stand on in this situation. I suggest you mend your ways, and refrain from trying to make a living out of stealing other people’s possessions. I think the punishment of breaking a leg and an arm have been enough to keep you quiet for some time. I’d rather not see you ever again in this court. This accident should serve as a lesson to you. Stay away from what isn’t yours.”

Timothy Jones and Len Coates left the courthouse, and the next case was called.

 

“Are you telling me that you’ve been to all the grocers in the area measuring marrows?” Lyall asked Mr Chesney, the fanatical marrow grower.

“Yes, Your Honour. You see, I had to make sure that the marrows were either mine or not. That marrow was very important to me. I’ve won first prize for my giant marrows for the past two years.”

“Now, please, Mr Noble, where did you obtain your marrow from, that Mr Chesney says is his?”

“Your Honour, I got it from a farmer a few kilometres away from the village who specializes in giant marrows, cabbages, and sprouts.”

“Have you got a receipt or bill of sale from the farmer for the said marrow?”

“Yes, Your Honour, it’s here.” Mr Noble handed the magistrate the receipt.

Lyall perused the receipt and said, “Mr Chesney everything seems to be in order. I’m afraid you’re going to have to assimilate that your giant marrow has gone for good, and may have already been eaten.”

 

The third and last case of that morning, was between two men of similar age, that of sixty years. Mr Brown had just moved into the area from having spent the majority of his life in a town. “Your Honour, I moved here in order to get some peace and quiet. The problem is that my neighbour just doesn’t understand what being neighbourly means.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Lyall asked Mr Brown.

“When I get up during the night I open my bedroom curtains. From Mr Ford’s garden, there is a show of coloured lights as if it were Christmas. They stretch right across the width of the far end of his garden. I can’t sleep because of them. It’s making my life a misery, I can’t relax. There is a pond in that garden and the water reflects the lights in all their glory.”

“Mr Ford what have you got to say about the coloured lights that are annoying your neighbour?” Lyall asked.

“The lights are for helping the aliens to land if they so desire. I’m a great believer in everything extra-terrestrial, and I’d like to think they would land in my garden or nearby.” Mr Ford was a small rotund man who didn’t look the type of person to go up in a spacecraft.

“Mr Ford, where did you acquire the offending lights?”

“I got them from the petrol station at the crossroads. They sell them by the box.”

“As I understand it, then, the coloured lights are to help any aliens to land safely in your back garden. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Honour.”

Lyall sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was sick and tired of these cases that should never go to court. He turned to Mr Brown, “When do you see the lights?”

“I see the lights when I go to the bathroom in the night. During the day they are not visible.”

“I don’t see anything wrong in Mr Ford having the lights, so my suggestion to you, Mr Brown, is to line your curtains with some thick cloth and not to open them when you get up in the night.”

 Lyall turned to Mr Ford. “Mr Ford, how big are the lights?”

“There are several different sizes from small to very large, mine are large. There is a system that switches them off in the daylight and then turns them back on when night comes.”

“You are both wasting the court’s time, therefore, in this case you’re both losers, and pay fifty per cent of the court’s costs. There’s another thing: as Mr Ford likes aliens so much, you can both sing ‘Five little men in a flying saucer’.”

The warring neighbours exchanged a strange glance, and the magistrate said, “So you need help in starting?” Lyall began singing:

 

Five little men in a flying saucer

Flew round the earth one day,

Looked left and right,

Didn’t like the sight,

So one man flew away.

 

“That’s one gone, now you finish them off.”

Mr Brown and Mr Ford got the idea, and began singing, until they had all flown away.

That done, the court was dismissed.

The two neighbours walked up the road towards the nearest pub for a long drink. Lyall had won a point, there was nothing to go to court about.

 

Lyall had driven his car that day as it was a little too far for him to cycle. He had to pass the petrol station at the cross roads on the way home to the cottage where he was now residing, and he stopped, got out of his car, and stepped into the shop.

“Do you still have coloured lights for gardens at night?”

“Yes, Sir, over there. You’ll see different boxes containing different sizes. Please, serve yourself.”

Lyall went to the shelf holding the boxes and stood staring at the size of the contents. He picked up several boxes and walked to the cash desk. “I’ll take all these, please.”

Lyall went outside and put all the boxes of lights in the boot of his car. His idea was to give one to his son, one to Mrs Walker, and keep others as presents as the occasions arose. He also earmarked one for himself.

 

One afternoon a short while later, Lyall was sitting just outside the French windows that gave off onto the garden. For some reasons he couldn’t understand he wanted to move again. Stan and his men had almost finished the work on his house and now all it needed was to be put up for sale. Lyall was busy reading a magazine about cars and boats. Suddenly, the peace and quiet was broken by shrieks and screams and giggles and doors flying open. Lyall looked up to see his next-door neighbour, who was a woman of about fifty, run out of the house and the garden, followed by a much younger man. They were both of them shrieking and screaming. Then they ran back into the house with more banging of slamming of doors.

‘That’s done it’, Lyall thought to himself, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll see the estate agent who arranged this rented dwelling for me, and ask him how soon I can move. And at the same time, get him to put the house on the market.’

Lyall was a nice and tolerant man, but he found certain types of behaviour beyond the Pale. He had no problems with the fact that his neighbour had a young man, but creating a scandal was not acceptable. As he was going to leave that house soon, and he knew more tricks than were good for him after having had to hear what others had been up to, Lyall decided to have a little fun.

After supper that evening, he went upstairs and rigged up some equipment that he rarely used. Lyall managed to add an amplifier, and made sure everything faced his neighbour’s bedroom. That detail hadn’t been difficult to ascertain from the noise that afternoon.

 

Three o’clock in the early morning when all is dark and silent, is the hour when the vast majority of the human race is in deep sleep. Lyall switched on the old pop song ‘Silence is Golden’ that he had found on YouTube and let it blare out into the night. He hoped his next-door neighbour would get the message, the song lasted about three minutes and twenty four seconds. Meanwhile Lyall was lying in bed smiling, wondering what the rest of the street would think. As he listened he remembered his long lost youth in the sixties. The song finished, he delicately put everything away into one of his suitcases.

Before anyone in the street was awake, Lyall crept downstairs with his few possessions. He laughed as he was driving to Clement’s house. He wondered if the unwelcome music would make it to the local papers.

 

The happy magistrate drove on, still smiling.