CONSTANCE AND THE CONSTABLE

A young policeman is another character that Constance meets whilst at work in the local library.

It had been a busy morning in Brumpton Public Library and Constance had been rushed off her feet stamping books, scanning membership cards and generally keeping the place running. Now things had slowed down a bit and she was able to slip into the tiny staff cubicle next to her work station and make herself a cup of something hot and wet. She wasn’t exactly sure what it was, it being of an indeterminate nature,, but it was, thankfully, both hot and wet.

It was while she was sniffing the steaming brown-coloured liquid in her personalised mug trying to ascertain what manner of refreshing deliciousness is might be when she heard the door open. That door had a definite and very obvious squeak, and she was pleased that it had. The last thing she wanted was for customers to be lining up whilst she was drowsily sipping her hot drink, ignorant of their presence, and the squeak ensured that never happened.

She boobed out of her cubbyhole and smiled at the policeman.

He looked magnificent in his newish blue uniform with his masterful traditional bobby’s helmet perched on his head as if it meant business, and underneath it his face was severe and contained by a chin-strap that was ever-so and gloriously last year. She had a thing for men in uniforms and, still being reasonably young herself, sometimes dreamed that one would sweep her off her feet and take her somewhere glorious where the sun always shone and she could get away with wearing her favourite very tiny skirt flirtatiously.

“Yes?” she asked, something squelching half way between her heart and her brain.

“Have you seen them?” asked the policeman.

Now I know what they mean when they say that policemen are getting younger and younger as we get older and older, she thought, for this one, though severe and full of authority, can’t have been twelve. Or if he was, he certainly wasn’t twenty. Couldn’t have been, though there was evidence in the form of a sliver of blood-stained tissue paper that he had shaved at least once in his life.

“Who?” she asked, responding to the policeman’s question despite the more personal nature of her thoughts.

“The brats,” he growled. There was something about that growl, something masterful, that sent shivers down her spine and ended up almost indecently twitching inside her stomach.

The brats. That must mean youths, maybe younger teens with too much time on their hands and mischief in their minds. She knew the sort and had her own way of dealing with them which soon sent them skedaddling. It’s the sort of thing that people in her position pick up fairly quickly or end up running away and escaping to pastures new, and anyway she had learned from her predecessor, Cedric, who had been truly expert at dealing with brats. Maybe, she thought, this constable was too young. Maybe he had yet to learn the tricks of his trade.

“There have been no brats in here,” she told him, and then smiled. “They don’t like to come past that door. I think they’re afraid of my broomstick!”

That broomstick was her secret. Being a besom it had two rather dangerous ends and she wasn’t afraid to use either of them and waft them about at need.

“They seemed to be coming this way,” he grumbled.

“They dissipate,” she told him, frankly, and then decided to be generous. “Listen,” she said, “I’m having a cuppa. How about me making one for you as well and we can discuss the brats? I’m not sure what it is, but it’s hot, it’s wet and it’s not poisonous.”

“That would be nice,” nodded the constable, looking around him to make sure he wasn’t been seen neglecting his crime-fighting duties by a senior officer with stripes or stars on his uniform. He wasn’t, so he removed his helmet and placed it carefully on a chair near the counter.

“They’ve been making merry in the shopping centre,” he told her, shaking his head, which looked even younger now that he’d removed his helmet.

How I’d like to mother you, you dear boy, and put my arms around you and give you a little cuddle and tell you that nothing’s as bad as it seems to be, she thought, but wisely didn’t say it. Instead she made the constable a cup of her indeterminate brew and handed it to him. “There’s sugar if you want it,” she said, but he shook his head.

“I’m trying to keep my figure,” he told her, and smiled sweetly … or at least she thought it was sweetly. “My old man has sugar in his tea and he’s got quite a tummy on him,” he added. “I don’t fancy getting one of those.

“You don’t look the sort,” she murmured, “all svelte like you are, all slim and fit.”

And bloody attractive, her thoughts carried on, but silently, the sort of young man I would have fallen for ten years ago when I was a flibbertigibbet of a girl...

“A man can change all too quickly,” he told her, “you’ve only got to look at my sergeant back at the nick. Slim bloke he was, no stomach at all worth mentioning, and now … he could be taken as pregnant if he was a woman!”

“Then you go without sugar,” she smiled at him, “Would you like to sit down? After all, you’re probably on your feet most of the day.”

He nodded. “I am,” he confirmed, “but a man gets used to it. Tell me about that broomstick you mentioned.”

“Oh, it’s just an old besom, you know, the sort that witches were supposed to ride in old stories. It does no harm to encourage the less pleasant kids to believe that I might have … magical and evil properties. Some of them must be quite sure I’m a witch!”

“As long as you don’t hit them with it,” he murmured.

“As if I would!” she half-lied, “that would be quite wrong of me if I were to even think of doing that!”

“Because if you did I’d have to arrest you and then you wouldn’t be able to make me any more delicious cups of tea!” he said thoughtfully and she hoped not too seriously.

Delicious? What’s happened to his taste buds?

“But I’ll take the weight off my legs if you don’t mind,” he continued, getting to be quite talkative, and he gently lowered himself onto the seat next to him.

She watched as his smartly pressed uniform, the part that caressed his manly buttocks with a serge touch, was lowered onto the metal ferrule of his policeman’s helmet.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, and then blushed bright red as he leapt back upright and simultaneously spilt a great deal of the indeterminate hot drink that he seemed to think was tea.

“Oh dear,” she said, smiling deep inside her.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, picking up his helmet, and almost as if he was entering a race specially designed for escaping policemen he made for the squeaky door. “I must go!” he blabbered.

“Don’t worry,” she called after him.

That was quite a shame. I could have got quite fond of him once I’d sorted him out a bit, she thought.

She watched him as he almost ran in to the arms of two of the brats he’d been chasing, and she grinned when she heard them taunt him.

“I wouldn’t go in there, copper,” said one of them, and

“She’s a bleeding witch!” confirmed the other.

© Peter Rogerson 01.01.18