Bobby McGee

Chapter One. The Reception Committee

Chapter One 

The Reception Committee 

Robert McGee, a police constable, didn't know what to expect from his transfer to a small village in the rural North-West. First impressions were favourable as he followed the Pickford truck, carrying the remnants of his broken home, to the village atop the moor. The houses lining the main road were impressive semi-detached structures built of locally quarried grey stone. They bore all the hallmarks of middle class affluence, and McGee was surprised when the truck in front of him ground to a halt before one of the larger buildings. 

There was no mistake. The sign "POLICE STATION" hung prominently under a second storey window. What a contrast to his former home, a terraced three-up and two-down in one of the worst areas of Liverpool. But where was his prearranged reception committee? Inside? 

McGee drove his rented car through a gate on to a paved driveway and ground to a halt before a detached garage. Did the posting come with a car? There was still no movement from the house. Perturbed, McGee eased his aching body out of the cramped quarters of the car and after a badly needed stretch, climbed the small set of steps to the front door. He rang the bell.  

The vicar a short wiry man, completely bald except for a grey monk's fringe, answered the door. He was wearing his customary dog collar, tweed jacket, rumpled cavalry twills and sported a pair of wire- rimmed glasses. Cyril Fletcher, a robust ex-policeman, stood behind, towering over the curate. He was well over the required height for a policeman, slightly taller than McGee, and had become very portly in his retirement. The odd looking pair, (McGee would later often jokingly refer to them as "Mutt and Jeff"), had been on McGee's interview panel.  

McGee followed them inside, the vicar explaining that a recently deceased parishioner had bequeathed his home to the church, and that on his urging the Parish Council had agreed to rent the house to the police. The local authorities had already converted the former front parlour into a spacious well equipped office. McGee noticed that the floors were bare, the windows without curtains. His bitter divorce had left him with little in the way of household furnishings. 

"I wasn't expecting a house like this," he blurted. "I cannot possibly..." 

"Don't worry," said the vicar, anticipating his concerns. "My wife assures me that she will have everything in order before your children arrive. I believe she has already persuaded the Women's Guild to provide a plentiful supply of newly laundered, second hand linen, and the kitchen is already in working order." 

"How can I possibly repay you for this kindness?" 

"I'm sure there will be a multitude of opportunities," said the vicar with a wry smile. "Now let's get you settled in."  

Once the truck had been unloaded, and the few furnishings arranged to his liking, McGee sat down to a welcoming cup of tea with his helpers in the newly furbished kitchen. 

"So what do you think of our little village, McGee?" asked the vicar. 

"I'm quite impressed." Compared to Liverpool, it was idyllic. 

"Don't be fooled by the main road," said Fletch. "Once you've settled in, you should take a tour of the whole village. That'll change your mind in a hurry." 

"It's not as bad as all that, Cyril," said the vicar. 

"It isn't! What about Fry Street then?" 

"I admit there are one or two trouble spots, but we can't really complain. From what I remember you didn't have to deal with one major crime in all your years here?"