I'd like to think of me returning when I can, to the greatest little boozer...(Sally MacLennane, The Pogues)

Sergeant Browne looked out of the panda car windscreen at her colleague PC Noakes. He was pacing up and down in front of the one remaining pub in the small northern village of Poplar-on-Tweaven. Finally her colleagues impatience got the better of him and he started banging on the large polished oak door of the Crown Inn.

Abruptly, an upstairs window flew open and a tousled mess of salt and pepper shaded hair burst through the gap.

"Steady on Peter, it's not seven o'clock yet and you know my licensing restrictions as well as I do."

"Sorry Doc, it's just me and the Sarge here are parched. Since Winnie's caff closed there is nowhere to go for a decent cuppa of a morning."

Sergeant Browne fiddled in the glove compartment of the battenberg police car. Giving the impression she was blissfully unaware of the early morning negotiating taking place. Let alone being the cause of it.

Five minutes later, the heavy wooden door of the Crown swung open with a heave from its current owner. The sign above the door read: Licensee Mr Patrick Turner.

A tall man standing a little less than 6ft stood beneath his name, wiry in build but carrying the signs of maybe one too many pub lunches and accepting too many offers of, "and get one for yourself, Doc."

Sergeant Browne surveyed the weary looking innkeeper, she had a lot of time for Paddy Turner. The Crown wasn't just the last pub in Poplar but the thin pulse at the heart of a fading community. It's landlord was much more than a publican, he was a community leader, parish councillor and punter counsellor. That's why a lot of the regulars called him Doc, he was always there to diagnose and soothe the villagers ills. He was also rumoured to be the proud owner of a PhD, but no-one knew in what. If asked the jovial bartender would just answer; "Life, University of Hard Knocks."

Camilla Browne had promised herself that one-day she would try and find out a little bit more about this middle-aged man's past. The more pressing matters of maintaining law and order in the district with her trusty sidekick PC Noakes had ufortunately intervened. Paddy like herself wasn't a local, but unlike her home-counties public school tone, his accent was soft, but pointed to the other side of the Pennines, across the backbone of England.

The educational accolade probably wasn't just an anecdote either. Camilla found the Doc to be a quietly intelligent man. Most landlords had a wealth of knowledge, able to converse on a multitude of subjects, it was a requirement of the job. Paddy Turner wasn't just knowledgeable but also possessed wisdom. Camilla had been a police officer long enough to know the two were not interchangeable. The former being easily acquired, the latter sadly often in short supply.

Once inside the 19th century alehouse, the two law enforcers perched on a plush red topped bar stool each. Peter sat square on top with his feet resting on the black painted iron footrests. Camilla gently resting her bum on the velvet, legs outstretched at an angle. Defying 6ft in height the thirty-something felt uncomfortable perched on that particular piece of furniture; even though made of iron she still felt insecure even just leaning against the seat.

"It will have to be tea," informed their host, "I haven't got the coffee machine set up yet," he yawned, "Unless you want Aldi's finest instant?"

"Tea, please," the officers offered up in unison.

Paddy enquired if the pair would like their tea at a table, but Sergeant Browne insisted they were quite comfortable at the bar for the duration of their flying visit.

"If you say so Chummy," Paddy gave in.

Peter cringed, Camilla had been known as Chummy as long as anyone could remember. First Constable Chummy and now Sergeant Chummy or Sergeant Browne when the gravity of the situation demanded it. Peter was in fact the only person to use Camilla's given name. Most times she was just Sarge or even Ma-am, but off duty and in his thoughts she was always Camilla. He couldn't understand how such a beautiful goddess of a woman could be known as Chummy. Camilla was such a lovely name, for the loveliest creature he had ever seen. Camilla sounded like blossoms, fragrance, tropical islands, galaxies, honey, ambrosia...

Peter's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of stainless steel against china. Paddy was clinking a teaspoon against a sugar bowl. He was staring at him and so was Camilla.

"Two please," answered a confused Constable, hoping he had got the question right.

Sufficiently replenished, the law left to heed the call of yet another tractor theft on a local farm. Paddy looked at the oversized clock opposite the bar, he had it set a few minutes fast to help with last orders, but it was still telling him his son was running late.

"Tim, you are going to miss your bus," the anxious father yelled through the door that opened onto the stairs that led to the father and son's living quarters.

A few minutes later just as Paddy was about to bellow a second warning, the teenager arrived. Wiry like his father with the same mess of dark hair, that Paddy wanted to push out of his son's eyes. Experience of being on both sides of that argument stopped him, the hair always won.

The school bus, that would take Tim to his sixth-form in the neighbouring town of Cholmondelely and the village youngsters to schools in the market town of Appleby Thornton, wouldn't wait forever. Dolly Smart, who had driven the bus as long as Timothy had been educated in the borough, knew her passengers well and was always patient with stragglers. It was in the best interest of both parent and child to try and prevent the late departure of the bus. Whatever delay Dolly encountered in the villages and small towns she visited, she somehow always succeeded in dropping the kids off in good time for first bell. Camilla and Peter made certain that they were never on the school bus route between the hours of 8 and 9am and again between 3 and 4pm. They really didn't need the extra paperwork.

He watched his son head for the war memorial that acted as the village's unofficial bus-stop. It seemed strange seeing his son off to school in jeans and a washed-out Iron Maiden T-shirt, he wondered what the boy's mother would have said. He remembered buying Tim his first school uniform, she had been so excited and took enough photos to fill the MIMA gallery. Unfortunately Marianne Turner had never got to see Tim in his final school uniform, cancer had made sure of that. Paddy shivered, the sun not yet fully risen he presumed the reason. He was left staring aimlessly at the back of the fading school bus.

"Penny for them, Paddy," a soft heavily accented voice belonging north of the border broke through his reverie.

"Just that it's about time the mornings were getting lighter and the night's shorter," he offered vaguely as way of explanation. Then as if someone had suddenly lifted a switch, he turned and with a wide smile greeted his first regular of the day.

"Good morning Bernie, the usual is it? The porridge should just about be done."