CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Read online

  “Thanks; I’ll go and have a look,” I promised them. “I can’t radio my office to arrange anyone to ring him, he hasn’t got a telephone.”

  Half an hour later I was bouncing along the uneven track towards Rigg End and parked in a convenient place to walk the final half-mile or so. That was the worst section, particularly the steep descent into the dale with its rock-strewn track. It was a memorable walk — with the August sun shining from a clear sky, the air was crystal clear with just a hint of autumn coolness. A shower of rain during the night had settled the dust in the atmosphere and the views were astonishing; mile after mile of open purple heather adorned those moors like a lush coverlet of royal silk and in the far distance, it was just possible to see the blue North Sea between the high and low points of the coastal dales and moors. Views of forty miles or so were commonplace from these deserted moors, but I could not wander around all day admiring the scenery — I had work to do. Soon, I was treading that part of the track which formed my descent to Rigg End Farm. As I walked down the steep slope, I looked for the distressed cows, but saw none. It looked as though Reuben had come home after all. Nonetheless, I had to make a positive check and so I continued into the farmyard and soon heard the distinctive sounds of the contented cattle in their byre.

  I could hear them munching their cattle cake and hay; I could hear their tethering chains rattling against the skelbeasts (the name used on the moors to describe the wooden partitions in cow byres), and the occasional sigh from a patient animal.

  As I drew closer, I could hear Reuben talking to the animal he was milking by hand, and I could hear the swish of the milk as it streamed into the pail he held between his knees. When I entered, I saw him, his head resting on the flank of the cow, as he skilfully teased the milk from the teats. His trilby hat was hanging on a hook in the wall, I noticed, and he still wore his clogs. He must have come straight here from his night’s activities. Then I saw a cat was waiting nearby; it was rewarded by the occasional squirt of warm milk which it caught with amazing dexterity in its mouth. It was a nice friendly gesture, I thought.

  “Now then, Reuben,” I said as I entered.

  Looking up, he saw me in the doorway, but continued to draw the milk as he said, “Morning. What can I do for you, Mr Rhea?”

  “I was hailed on the top road,” I began. “By a pair of hikers. They thought you might be ill or something.”

  “Me? Ill? Why would anybody think that? I’m never ill, Mr Rhea. All this fresh air keeps me fit. Germs can’t tolerate our moorland air, you know, it’s far too strong for ’em.”

  “They said your cows were overdue, hanging around waiting to be milked.”

  “They were, Mr Rhea, because I was late back. But I’d never forget ’em, you know, and I wasn’t all that late. Half an hour mebbe, no more, but cows do like to be regular . . . they’d have been all right for a while yet in spite of the noise they’d be making. I’d have got ’em milked in time for the milk lorry coming. I need my milk cheque, you see . . . I daren’t miss yon lorry.”

  “OK, that’s good enough for me. I didn’t want you lying there desperately ill with nobody knowing about it and no one to care.”

  “Thanks; I appreciate your concern. Now, if you’ve the time, I’ll be finished here before too long, and we could have a coffee made with fresh milk. And if you can wait a bit longer, I could run you back to your van when I take my milk churns up to the top road.”

  “I’ll settle for the coffee, Reuben, then I’ll have to be off.”

  It was the first long chat I’d had with Reuben and I found him to be amazingly knowledgeable about the wildlife which surrounded him on the moors. He knew the domestic habits of the grouse and partridges; he had an affinity with the peregrines and hen harriers which sometimes hunted near his farm: he knew the habits of all the other moorland birds and animals; he recognised the worth of all the herbs which grew beside the beck and, of course, he was totally familiar with every aspect of his farming profession. He was a thoroughly professional man of the moors.

  In listening to him, I decided not to refer to his late-night wanderings — after all, he was not disorderly; his wanderings were chiefly away from public places; he committed no nuisance or damage; he offended no one and his private life was his own affair. He loved animals, both domestic and wild, and could never be cruel to his precious herd of cows. I left him to process the milk before he conveyed it to the top road and set off to walk back to my van.

  As I struggled back up the hill from his farm, I did wonder if he was a happy man.

  His heavy drinking suggested he was frustrated in some way, unfulfilled perhaps, and it was abundantly evident that he had a good brain and a wonderful knowledge of wildlife which he could use to advantage. But he was stuck on this lonely farm, one person in a far-off place which would accommodate dozens as it had surely done in the glorious past as a busy working farm. It would have had live-in workers, even numbering up to a dozen. Now, it was a place some townies might consider idyllic in spite of its lack of amenities and access, and yet it was here that Reuben seemed destined to spend the rest of his lonely days. He was by no means an old man — there was little wonder he found solace in the pub.

  Then one Tuesday evening in September, Reuben did not turn up for his nightly pint. I happened to pop into the pub early that evening, on duty, because I wanted to alert George Ward, the landlord, to the theft of some spirits from an Ashfordly off-licence. He said he’d look out for offers of cut-price bottles, and would call me if such an approach was made; he had no wish to buy stolen property. I thanked him, and then he said, “Reuben’s not in tonight, Nick. He’s usually here by now. You’ve not heard whether he’s away or sick or something, have you?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Not a word.”

  “Well, there’s no reason for him to call me if he can’t make it, but this is the first time he’s not been in for months. It’s not like him to miss.”

  “I’ll keep my ears and eyes open,” I assured George. “Thanks for the tip. We don’t want Reuben to come to any harm. I can’t ring him, he’s not on the phone, but I’ll ask around.”

  “I hope he hasn’t fallen and broken his leg on his way here, or on his way home last night. It could happen, it’s a rough old route he takes across those moors, and nobody would find him up there. I’ve told him to come on his tractor and drink a bit less so he could drive it home, but he won’t. He’d be safer if he did. He could even take it across country most of the way if he wanted to avoid the roads.”

  “I’ll look out for him as I patrol the area,” I promised. “I’ll make sure I pay a visit to his part of those moors!”

  I did not feel it was right to pay a late evening visit to Reuben’s remote farm; that might appear as if I was spying on him, poking my nose into his private affairs especially so soon after my earlier check on his presence, but I must admit I felt some concern for him. It was a slight concern, certainly, but I hoped I was wise enough to realise there was no call for a dramatic intervention when Reuben had missed just one night in the pub. I felt my instincts were correct because the next day, as the parish church clock struck noon, Reuben motored along Aidensfield main street on his tractor bang on time as usual, as he made his way to the shop for his Farmer’s Weekly and groceries. He was all right, I was pleased to note, and I refrained from rushing over to him to ask where he’d been. I told myself it was nothing to do with me if he missed the occasional session in the bar with his mates. But I did wonder what he’d been doing!

  The odd thing was that he missed again the following Saturday without explanation. Furthermore, George told me that Reuben had still not offered any explanation for his absence the previous Tuesday.

  Even though his drinking mates had quizzed him, he had simply smiled in response, adding coyly that he’d fancied a night or two at home. Somehow, that did not impress his pals as a truthful answer. They suspected some other reason. There was wide speculation that he was getting too old to cop
e with the long walk into the village, or that he’d had some nasty sobering experience on one of his lengthy return trips, but no one managed to elicit the reason for his absences. And when the same thing occurred the following Tuesday and again the next Saturday, it caused something of a rumpus in the pub. People began to lay bets on Reuben’s reason for these absences and the likely answers included: he was getting too old for the walk; the doctor had told him to drink less beer; he was frightened of the long walk home; he’d seen a ghost; he was running out of money; one of his cows had been ill; he’d eaten something that disagreed with him; he’d started bed-and-breakfast accommodation for hikers in his huge home; he’d bought a car and was taking driving lessons in secret; he’d had visitors; there’d been a relative’s funeral . . .

  The guesses were many and varied, but I felt sure none was the right answer and although Reuben never gave a clue about the reason for his absences, I was as curious as the others. Things almost reached fever pitch when he absented himself the following Tuesday evening, and this time I was due for a late patrol — 10 p.m. until 2 a.m. I discovered his absence from the pub as I paid an official visit just before closing time, but because I was due to patrol the area for the next four hours, I reasoned I might encounter Reuben during his late-night moorland crossing. After all, I thought to myself, he might be visiting another pub!

  I daren’t suggest that to George Ward, but Reuben’s home was as close to Ashfordly as it was to Aidensfield; it was possible he might have discovered some interesting people during his visits to the small town on market day and he might be meeting them in one of the town pubs. I knew he hadn’t a car and I knew he would never risk driving his tractor, especially if he intended to enjoy a heavy boozing session in town. He could be offered a lift home by someone unfamiliar with the risks involved, but the chances were that Reuben would walk home from whatever destination he had chosen. If so, he would have to cross one or other of the moorland roads at some point, or walk along them for a short distance which meant there was a fair chance our paths would cross. But they didn’t.

  That night, I did not set eyes on Reuben, but I know he was at home to milk his cows next morning — the postman told me. Clearly, an element of mystery had now developed in Reuben’s life and while it could be argued that his domestic affairs concerned no one but himself, everyone who knew him was intrigued. But, as if to deepen the mystery, Reuben was providing no explanations to anyone.

  Then a quite separate incident occurred. I had no cause to associate it with Reuben’s activities, but in fact it had some bearing on his recent behavioural changes. I was performing a four-hour spell of office duty in Ashfordly Police Station when a lady, a visitor to Ashfordly, walked in to report finding a small haversack. Apparently, it had been abandoned on the steps of the market cross and appeared to have been left by a hiker who’d rested on the steps for a while. It looked as if the owner had unintentionally walked away without it.

  Following the very rigid procedures involving found property, I opened it in the presence of the finder to check the contents with her and to make an appropriate entry in our Found Property Register. It contained a lot of official-looking papers, both handwritten and typed, and although I did not read these closely, it was evident they formed part of an academic appraisal of the environment upon the moors around Rigg End. One piece of paper was an internal memo which contained the heading ‘Keasbeck College’, albeit without any address, and there were some other items such as ballpoint pens in various colours, a compass, a map, a flask of hot coffee and some sandwiches. The heat of the coffee in the flask told me that the haversack had been lost very recently. There was nothing in the haversack that might quickly identify the loser and it made sense to retain it at the police station in the hope the owner would report its loss. In any case, it might be possible to trace Keasbeck College and restore it to the loser.

  Within an hour, however, a woman came to the counter to report its loss. She was in her mid-forties, a confident woman with dark-brown hair, a round happy face and a quick smile who was dressed in walking boots, jeans and a thick woolly sweater designed to beat the chills of autumn.

  “Officer.” She had a loud, well-spoken voice. “I would lose my head if it wasn’t fastened on so securely. Have you, by the remotest chance, had a haversack handed in? I’ve lost mine and I think I left it on the steps of the market cross.”

  After obtaining a description of her lost article, I was in no doubt I had her property in my possession and was happy to restore it to her, against her signature.

  She asked for the name and address of the honest finder, and I was happy to oblige; she said she would write a thank-you letter. During our conversation, she seemed most affable and friendly, chatting to me enthusiastically about her project and stressing the importance of the recovered papers. When I asked for her name and address for my records, she said, “Karen Hartley. Miss. or Professor Hartley, if you have to be very formal. I have rooms at Keasbeck.” It transpired that Keasbeck College was in the Midlands, not far from Nottingham, and after providing her address there, she added, “But I have a weekend cottage in Aidensfield, Peat Spring Cottage. That’s where I’m living now. Until the new term begins.”

  “Peat Spring Cottage?” I had never heard of it and she recognised my puzzlement.

  “It’s not far from Rigg End,” she said. “To the eastern side of the top road, in a dip in the moors over the hill from Rigg End. There’s no village, not even a hamlet. It’s all by itself: it’s a former gamekeeper’s cottage. You get to it by turning off the road and following the track that leads to Lairsbeck; you turn right at a little packhorse bridge. Very pretty and very remote, Constable, but just what I need to recharge my batteries from time to time. I come to Peat Spring as often as I can. Most weekends in fact.”

  There was a map of the area on the office wall and so, while she was there, I went across to it to locate her cottage and she followed me, eventually stabbing the map with her finger and saying, “There it is, beside Peat Beck. Idyllic, Constable, utterly idyllic.”

  “I’ve never been there,” I told her. “Now, when I looked through your belongings hoping to find an address, I noticed you were doing a project about Rigg End.”

  “I am indeed — fascinating place. You know it?”

  I told her as much as I could about the remote dale and the isolated farm it contained and after a few moments of discussion, I added, “You’ve met Reuben Collier, have you?”

  “I have indeed, Constable. Fascinating fellow. So knowledgeable about the wildlife and the topography of the area. I’ve started to invite him in for dinner, you know; he comes on a Tuesday and Saturday. He’s only recently started to join me and I can fit him in during the holidays. I feed him well and he provides me with information about Rigg End . . . it stops him getting pie-eyed at the pub, too. When term resumes, though, he’ll go back to the pub, I suppose, unless I can get up here for weekends.”

  I laughed, and couldn’t prevent myself saying, “So that’s where he gets to! We’ve been wondering where he was!”

  “We?” she asked.

  “Me — and his cronies in the pub,” and I then told her about Reuben’s nightly visits and his long walks home afterwards. I explained that sometimes these were undertaken in a fairly advanced state of inebriation, but stressed that he always managed to arrive back at his farm in time for morning milking, and to recover in time for the following night’s outing.

  “That’s how I met him,” she laughed. “He was wandering past my cottage late one night, singing happily to himself and I happened to be in the garden working very late on my borders, using a torch in fact . . . anyway, he stopped for a chat. He was fairly well plastered but he talked lot of sense. He likes a chat, Constable, and well, after that he started to come past my house most nights. Sometimes I saw him, sometimes I didn’t, and of course, sometimes I wasn’t there anyway. But when I got to know him better I discovered he lived at Rigg End and began to realise h
e was a very interesting man and quite harmless. I felt he had a lot to offer, a wonderfully deep knowledge of moorland matters. So, on one occasion when we got talking, I decided to invite him in for a meal.”

  “So Reuben’s being secretly seeing a lady and none of us guessed!” I smiled.

  “I think he likes to keep himself to himself, Constable. But you may know that our college is interested in his farm as a field study centre? I can tell you because the planning application for change of use has been published in the Gazette,” she told me. “It’s no secret, although I don’t suppose Reuben has told anybody. However, over recent months, I’ve been several times to look at it and so have my colleagues. We think it’s ideal. It’s got the necessary space for accommodating students; there’s enough outbuildings to make lecture rooms or display centres; it’s established in wonderful surroundings; it’s away from any centre of population so we’d not make a nuisance of ourselves, and we would resurface that awful road . . .”

  “Reuben would never leave Rigg End!” I interrupted.

  “He won’t have to,” she smiled. “We intend to get him involved in our work, his knowledge is so great, he’ll be a wonderful asset for us. I’m not saying he’d make a lecturer, but he will be a superb guide for our students, giving them the real depth of knowledge they require, genuine rural knowledge and not something gleaned from reference books. You can see why I became so interested in Reuben Collier.”

  “And all because he stumbled past your house on his roundabout way back home from the pub.”

  “Yes, one thing did lead to another. He’s got so few people to talk to. He likes talking to people with brains, Constable; he can’t tolerate small talk — which I think is why he drinks so much in the pub. His brain needs to be occupied, Constable; he soon gets bored out of his mind. He never had a drink while he was with me, and I know that when we get him involved with our work, he’ll stop drinking — well, drinking to excess, I mean. He’s not an alcoholic — he’s a long way from that — he drinks out of boredom, and for companionship . . . so when we turn his farm into a field study centre with young people and mature students around him for a lot of his time, I can assure you he’ll blossom into a very interesting man.”