Constable among the Heather Read online

  Constable Among the Heather

  NICHOLAS RHEA

  Contents

  Title Page

  1 Daffodil Duty

  2 Life’s Little Mysteries

  3 ‘Sup That!’

  4 April Fool!

  5 The Storeman Syndrome

  6 Kittens Among the Phobias

  7 Private Lives

  8 Grave Problems

  9 The Goldfish and the Goat

  10 ‘Hello, Young Lovers (Whoever You Are)’

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  1 Daffodil Duty

  In nature, there are neither rewards nor punishments – there are consequences.

  Robert Green Ingersoll (1833–99)

  High on the moors above Aidensfield there is a lonely farmstead. A farmer and his wife worked its upland fields all their married life; it was a tough, never-ending task with little monetary reward but they raised a family and saw their small heather-encircled property increase in value. When retirement beckoned, the couple sold their farm to settle in a cottage at Elsinby.

  During their working life, they had never had a holiday, but twice a month or so the husband had enjoyed a day at the cattle mart, while occasionally his wife had gone shopping to York or joined a WI outing to Scarborough. So far as a longer holiday was concerned, neither had had any wish to go away and, besides, someone had to care for the livestock for twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

  As a retirement present, their children decided to send the couple overseas. They selected a trip to Switzerland which would include all the excitement of flying and the sheer joy of exploring a foreign country. On the first night, when their parents would be in their room, the children rang them at the hotel to see how they were coping.

  From the discussion that followed, it was evident they were thoroughly enjoying themselves, and then their son asked, ‘Dad, what’s the view like from your bedroom window?’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ said the old man. ‘But there would be, if it wasn’t for all these mountains.’

  I mention this yarn because the people who live on the heights of the North York Moors are so accustomed to dramatic and long-distance views that vistas from other places are often disappointing. It is claimed that upon the moors you don’t have to go seeking views; they offer themselves to be enjoyed. Such visitors as William Wordsworth and John Wesley have admired some of our views, modern tourists now come and attempt to identify distant towns and hills from the many vantage-points, and there is even a claim that the towers of Lincoln Cathedral can be seen from one particular place – and that cathedral stands over one hundred miles to the south. Certainly there are views which extend for fifty miles or so, and without doubt many are stunning in their range. Examples include the famous vista from Sutton Bank Top on the A170, the broad expanse around Chimney Bank Top at Rosedale, the view of Eskdale from Lealholm Bank Top, and the panorama of Whitby from the summit of Blue Bank near Sleights. From Ralph Cross between Castleton and Hutton-le-Hole, there is a view of almost 360 degrees, and from Ampleforth Beacon you can see the North York Moors National Park towards the coast, the Dales National Park towards the Pennines and even the Wolds to the south.

  There are many more, some well known and others which can be found only by leisurely exploration. These viewpoints draw visitors to the moors, and when people arrive in large numbers, they often cause problems for many people, including village constables.

  In the mind of a constable, it is a constant source of amazement that ordinary people can generate so much extraordinary work or create so many complexities as they occupy themselves upon this fair earth. In our quiet moorland villages during those peaceful days in the mid-1960s, we knew that, when the summer season began, usually around Whitsuntide, it would, for a few short months, change the pace of our gentle life. There would be an influx of people, cars and litter. There would be an increase of lost and found property, outbreaks of petty violence and drunkenness, and misadventures by the daft and unprepared, as well as many unforeseen problems. Rarely a week would pass without a blemish of some kind.

  These problems have led the moor folk to question the merit of sharing their inheritance with others who care so little for it, and there are times when one wonders if we should attempt to deter those who spoil the blessed tranquillity and beauty of nature’s finest places. Perhaps we should increase our efforts to convince outsiders that the whole of Yorkshire is a land of pit-heaps, back-to-back streets and factory chimneys. It’s an image we managed to cultivate in the past, and it might prevent the thoughtless and careless from plaguing our landscape.

  Such thoughts often occurred to me as I patrolled the more popular parts of the southern aspect of the moors. It was on such a tour of duty, one bright and sunny Sunday in early March, that I was experiencing a cool breeze that brought goosepimples to the flesh and a threat of rain or even snow on the higher ground. It was not the sort of day when you’d expect an influx of tourists but, with Easter close at hand and with some workers using the last of their annual holidays before 31 March, I found that the honeypots of the moors were busier than expected. I think the bright sunshine was responsible – people loved to drive onto the moors in such conditions.

  An added bonus was that, after a shower of rain, the clarity of long-distance views was remarkable. Some seemed to stretch almost into infinity, and picnickers would sit in their cars to admire distant places. It gave them the feeling of being on top of the world.

  In my official mini-van with its blue light on top, I was enjoying a 9 a.m.–5 p.m. shift, and it didn’t escape my notice that I was getting paid to tour the moors while others were having to do so in their own time. During the first few hours, I found little to harass me. I had spent time report-writing in the office at Ashfordly, followed by an hour in Brantsford, where I patrolled the market town on foot as the church bells rang. After this, I decided to drive onto the heights above Lairsbeck, with its scattering of cottages around the tiny chapel. There was a Forestry Commission plantation nearby and, over the months, we had received occasional reports of damage to several units of fire-fighting equipment. These were left unattended around the perimeter of the trees, and we wondered at the mentality of those who destroy or damage life-saving equipment – I would inspect them during my visit. I would also eat my sandwich lunch on the moors. Just like a tourist, I’d find a view of my very own! My decision made, I drove to the top of Bracken Hill. I would park there and enjoy a walk along the heathery ridge with its own fine views of Lairsdale.

  Once I was out of the sheltering fabric of the van, the wind was chilling and more than fresh in spite of the sun; a brisk moorland walk would be an excellent appetizer.

  And so it was. A leisurely ramble around the plantation showed that the fire-fighting equipment had not been interfered with; this pleased me, and I decided upon a short diversion from the route back to my van. This took me across the open moor, where a skylark was singing and black-faced sheep roamed without hindrance. Up here, there are no fences to contain the sheep: they live almost as wild animals, each instinctively remaining within its own patch of heather or ‘heeaf’. ‘Heeafed yows’ (ewes) are those which are mature enough to remain within their own territory and, at that time of the year, many were carrying unborn lambs. Others had already given birth to delightful black-faced infants, and the tiny lambs were tough enough to survive the bleak conditions which prevailed.

  I enjoyed the brisk walk and found myself upon a little-used track which led back to the car-park. As I strode across the heather, moving rapidly to keep warm, I became aware of a Bedford personnel-carrier which was parked on a nab top. A nab is a protruding piece of land. This one overlooked
Lairsdale, and the vehicle was positioned so that its passengers could enjoy the views on all sides. Someone had selected the ideal place for a picnic.

  As I approached, a large brown-and-white mongrel, the size of a greyhound, leapt from the rear doors. It was fussing about in a state of some excitement and was immediately followed by three laughing children. Dog and children galloped away in a frenzy of barking and shouting, and there seemed to be a large family with the vehicle. As it stood with its rear doors wide open, I could see the wooden seats which ran along each side, with three seats in the front, one of which was the driver’s. The driver, a tall man in his fifties, with greying hair, was laughing and calling encouragement to the children and the dog, and at that moment I felt happiness for the family in their exuberance.

  But almost immediately that happiness turned to disbelief and shock. The dog began to chase some sheep and lambs. The children encouraged it, laughing and shouting as the frightened animals galloped through the bracken and heather. The mongrel raced in pursuit, clearly enjoying the ‘game’.

  I expected the grey-haired man to call it off, to make the children stop. But he didn’t. He was laughing too. He was curiously enjoying the panic generated in the sheep.

  The distressed animals did not know which way to run to escape from the barking dog or the shouting children. Tiny lambs bleated in terror and became separated from their mothers, while panic caused the pregnant ewes to be in danger of aborting. If they did, it would be a costly business for the farmer who owned them, and a traumatic time for the animals. Within moments, the flock had been scattered, and I knew that if this daft dog managed to bite one and taste blood, it could turn into a sheep-killer.

  ‘Hey!’ I shouted and ran towards the van. ‘Hey, stop that! Call that dog off!’

  The grey-haired man turned and saw me. No one had been aware of my presence until that moment. The whole family was clearly surprised and embarrassed at my unexpected arrival. As I shouted in my anger and horror at their stupidity, I noticed another man climb from the van. He was younger than the first and was followed by two women. One was about his own age, and the other might have been his mother or mother-in-law.

  ‘Bonnie, heel!’ He looked at me, then at the frenzied dog and immediately appraised the situation. ‘John, call Bonnie off, stop him …’

  But the dog had other ideas. It ignored the calls to heel and bounded through the clumps of heather, seeking more sheep to chase, more lambs to harass. The three children were a long way behind it, too far away to seize it, and so the shouting man had to rely on the authority in his voice.

  ‘Bonnie, heel! Heel, I say! Damn you, heel!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Constable …’ the older man was at my side. ‘I had no idea it would do that … I must …’

  ‘That dog should be shot!’ I snapped at him. ‘Of all the crazy things to do, letting it loose like that …’

  ‘Bonnie, heel!’ the younger man was having some success now. His powerful voice had penetrated the dog’s consciousness and halted its mad gallop; it stood with tail wagging and looked at its master, then once more regarded the sheep. At this stage, they had come to a standstill and had assembled at a safe distance to stare stupidly at the dog. It was on the point of repeating its game when its master called again.

  ‘Heel!’ he shouted, ‘Heel, Bonnie, heel!’

  The three children, a boy and two girls in their early teens, now came to the side of the man. The dog came too, wagging its tail and panting in joy.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ said the boy. ‘I thought it was a bit of fun.’

  ‘All right, no harm done,’ said the man as the mongrel arrived at his side, its tail wagging half in happiness but half in expectation of trouble. It had recognized the anger in his voice. ‘Heel, Bonnie! Sit!’

  The dog sat and looked up at him, eyes wide and trusting. Its tongue lolled as it panted heavily from the exercise, and its tail thumped the ground. I was now at the younger man’s side, the children hovering at a discreet distance. The older man had been lingering just out of my sight, close to the two women, but now made as if to speak to me …

  ‘Er, Constable …’ He stepped forward, but I was in no mood for excuses. I ignored his interruption.

  ‘Who is the owner of this dog?’ I demanded.

  ‘Er, it’s mine,’ said the younger man.

  ‘For a start, it’s not wearing a collar,’ I said. ‘And that is an offence. The collar should bear your name and address. And it is also an offence to allow a dog to worry livestock – and chasing them is classed as worrying. It means the owner of these sheep could have shot your dog if he’d caught it just now. It also means I can summon you to court for you to give reasons why your dog shouldn’t be destroyed at the worst or at the very least kept under control, and it means that, if any damage or injury is done to these sheep, the farmer can claim compensation from you.’

  One of the girls started to cry.

  ‘Look, the children would have no idea of the consequences. We’re townspeople, we don’t understand the seriousness … I mean, the dog was just playing …’

  ‘The dog was not just playing!’ I retorted. ‘You people were encouraging it. It was chasing sheep. Some are heavy with unborn lambs and they might have aborted – they still might abort – and that will cost the farmer a lot of money. He might come to you for compensation. This might cost you a lot of money. Now, your name, please.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ll make sure it never happens again.’

  The older man came forward again. ‘Look, er, Constable, this is my son-in-law, and he meant no harm. Now, I think …’

  ‘Are you the owner of the dog?’ I put to the older man.

  ‘No, officer, I am not.’

  ‘Then kindly allow me to speak to the owner. This is his responsibility. So,’ I continued to address the younger man, ‘your name and address, please?’

  My notebook was ready. He said his name was John Horwell and gave an address in Wakefield; he was thirty-eight years old and a schoolmaster. I gave him a lecture about general behaviour in the countryside and suggested he make an effort to learn more about rural matters; I said he would be capable of passing his knowledge to the children, both his own and those he taught at school.

  I then told him, in very official tones and by invoking the correct procedures, that I was going to report him for: (a) allowing a dog to be in a public place while not wearing a collar bearing the owner’s name and address; (b) being the owner of a dog which worried livestock on agricultural land, i.e. the moor. I said that I was going to summon him to appear at court to show cause why an order should not be made for the dog to be kept under proper control.

  Whilst I was at it, I also asked for his driving licence and insurance, but as he had none with him, I issued him with the standard form HO/RT/1, which meant he had five clear days to produce them at a police office of his choice. He chose Wakefield. I told him to take his dog licence too.

  In throwing the book at Mr Horwell, I was fairly certain that the chief constable would not authorize prosecution on any of these charges; instead, he would probably issue a formal written caution, but it would be a a valuable lesson to the family. I took all their names as possible witnesses.

  My concern was that incidents of this kind had to be halted. They were becoming increasingly frequent as more people took their leisure on the moors. I now felt that this family would be more careful, and they would relate their story to friends and neighbours. The long-term deterrent effect would be of some modest benefit to country folk and their livestock.

  Having cast gloom and despondency upon their outing, I noted the registration number of the vehicle just in case I had been given a false name and address. Then I departed towards my own vehicle, making a mental note to provide the farmer with details of this incident, should he wish to pursue the matter privately. I was not in any mood to sit near that location for my picnic lunch, so I drove to another viewpoint, there to calm down over my coffee and
sandwiches.

  When I returned to Ashfordly police office later that afternoon, I completed my paperwork and rang the West Riding Constabulary control room to ask them to check ownership of the Bedford carrier. When I provided the registration number, the girl immediately said, ‘It’s in our records. It belongs to Mr Laurence Nelson,’ and she gave me his address.

  ‘Nelson?’ the name triggered some kind of memory deep in my mind, but its significance eluded me.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s the chief constable of Holbeck County Borough Force.’

  I groaned. A chief constable! I had almost booked a chief constable! But he should have known better! Nonetheless, I wondered how he would view my behaviour during those fraught moments. I wondered if he would be critical of my actions, whether I had done everything according to the book or whether I had exceeded my authority. And I wondered what Sergeant Blaketon would do with my report when I concluded it with the sentence, ‘Mr Horwell is the son-in-law of Mr Laurence Nelson, chief constable of Holbeck County Borough Police Force. Mr Nelson was present during my interview of the defendant.’

  I was to learn later that Horwell was given a written caution for each of his transgressions, which I felt was quite adequate.

  I heard nothing from Mr Laurence Nelson and don’t know whether he ever contacted any of my superiors.

  As a matter of historical record, some years later his tiny police force was absorbed into the surrounding county constabulary as a result of boundary changes, and it no longer exists.

  While the splendid heights attracted the multitudes, so did the lush green dales and the pretty stone-built villages. They drew an increasingly mobile public from the humdrum existence of dingy city streets and the conformity of semi-detached suburbia. Quite suddenly, the splendour of the Yorkshire landscape was available to all. The influx surprised those of us who lived and worked in the more remote and attractive districts.