“Sorry,” said the man.
“Shall I lead you out?” I asked the fellow.
“It’s a bit late now,” he sniffed. “It’s as far to go out as it is to go in, besides, I really do want to see that dead donkey! I’ve never seen one, you know. I can’t give up now.”
Then we approached the corner stall. In the gloom, I could see that a large green tarpaulin sheet covered something very bulky which was lying among the hay.
“Gather round, everyone,” whispered Claude in sepulchral tones. It was almost like a graveside gathering, I thought. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Claude had muttered a prayer for the dead and then, just as he was about to remove the tarpaulin to reveal the hallowed carcass of the dead Rodney, my companion with the allergy produced a mighty sneeze. In volume, it sounded like an exploding bomb inside an echo chamber, and he repeated the clamour in a non-stop, rapidly produced series of thunderous bellows. Suddenly, the entire barn was filled with sounds like thunderclaps as the poor fellow began to sneeze himself silly. As the echo of his sneezing filled the void in which we all stood and reverberated about the rafters, the unhappy hens upstairs became extremely alarmed. Each one blasted from its nest with a cackling and a squawking that would raise the dead. The terrified birds now squawked and flapped flew around the barn, first alarmed by the noise and then terrified by the influx of people below them while the originator of their distress continued to sneeze as if he was blasting stubborn stone from a remote quarry.
Claude’s solemn moment had evaporated because everyone else, including myself, burst out laughing. This increased the weird noises within the confined space — and then the tarpaulin began to move.
As the hens cackled and flapped in their panic, and the man continued to produce his salvos, the tarpaulin slid to the ground to reveal a very alive Rodney who was standing firm and square on all four hooves. The old donkey, apparently restored to life by the bedlam around him, issued his own triumphant bellow of “hee-haw, hee-haw” as someone shouted. “Claude, you old twister! He’s not dead . . . that donkey was just asleep. He’s just woken up . . .”
“No, honest, no, I thought he was a goner, honest I did. I mean, there was no breathing . . .”
Everyone began to boo Claude. Among the chaos, the sneezer continued his barrage of noise as he ran for the door and opened it to gain some relief. Out flew the hens, still cackling and squawking as they emerged into the daylight.
“It’s money-back time, Claude,” I whispered to him. “You nearly got away with it that time . . . dead donkeys, my foot!”
“But, but . . . look, Constable, I thought he was dead. Honest, I did. I mean, I covered him up, decent-like, when I found him and he never moved, not even a twitch of his ears.”
“Claude!” I held out my hand for the half-crowns. “Refunds if you don’t mind! And suppose we donate all your takings to a home for sick donkeys?”
“A good idea, Constable. And shame on you, Claude Greengrass!” snapped a little woman. “Taking advantage of poor widows like me!”
“I thought he was dead, I did, I really did,” pleaded Claude and he blinked sheepishly. Then he began to hand over the money.
“Well, he didn’t bring you much luck, did he?” chuckled one of the men.
And as Rodney trotted towards the open door, he hee-hawed all the more as he smelt the fresh breeze of a splendid day. His call of triumph was matched by an almighty and probably final sneeze from the suffering allergic gentleman as he savoured the beautiful fresh moorland air.
“Where’s all my hens gone?” asked Claude as he emerged from the barn.
“I think they’ve gone to look at the traction engines,” chuckled one of the men. “Or mebbe it’s donkey engines they want to see? They’d make quieter nesting sites!”
* * *
I am old enough to recall pig-killing days in rural areas. Almost every cottager kept at least one pig, and often more. My grandfather kept lots on his farm and my own father kept a couple of large whites in pigsties within our cottage grounds. In some cases the pigs were used for breeding and the resultant piglets were fattened and sold to butchers, dealers or bacon-curing warehouses. In others, country people, like my father, killed their own pigs on the premises — Dad was a qualified butcher. On all the farms, smallholdings and cottage premises on the moors, pig-killing day was one of excitement and anticipation.
The neighbours offered assistance and children were recruited to help with the killing, the salting, the scraping of the skin with scrapers like upturned candlesticks and sundry other tasks. The ladies worked in the kitchen rendering the fat which came from the unfortunate animal. This became lard, and the surplus pieces of chunky fat left over from lard making, were fried, salted and eaten as a delicacy known as scrappings. It was a well-known saying that everything from a pig is used, except the squeak. Inevitably, on pig-killing days, there was a surplus of meat and other pieces, so these were distributed around the village free of charge. This was known as pig cheer.
Later, salted hams would be seen hanging from the rafters as they were allowed to cure in the dry atmosphere of the house. Fresh bacon was eaten with gusto and there were trotters and other mysterious bits which were used for making brawn, intestines for making sausage skins, blood for black puddings and even the bladder was utilised as a football by the boys. The best time for killing the family pig was when there was an “r” in the month, especially in winter with November and December being the favourites. Pigs salted without there being an “r” in the month would not “take salt”, i.e. the flesh would not cure, it was said. It was often considered wise to avoid killing pigs when the moon was on the wane. There is a moorland verse which reads
Allus kill a pig when the moon is waxing,
Never kill a pig when the moon is a-waning.
If a pig was killed when the moon was waning, it was thought the flesh would go rotten. Many families had their own recipe for curing the bacon and hams.
Although I was brought up in a society where pig-killing days were normal, I must confess I disliked my involvement. In fact, it put me off eating meat for many years. Looking back upon those days, I don’t think the pigs suffered and there was immense care to avoid any form of cruelty. Indeed, many pig owners had become attached to their solitary animal, but the needs of the family had to take precedence over any emotion. A pig, lovable though it might be, was a form of security for a rural family. It was there to be used as a means of keeping the family well fed, but for a little lad watching a pig being stunned with a captive bolt humane killer and then being bled through a massive gash in its throat among all the paraphernalia of a pig-killing day, it was not a pleasant experience.
I believe there was a period, sometime after 1927, when it became unlawful for cottagers to kill their own pigs on private premises, the idea being that the animals had to be sent to a licensed slaughter man who operated in a properly equipped slaughterhouse. It was this kind of progress which, although upsetting the cottagers because it changed a long-standing way of rural life, eventually led to the decline of pigs being kept in cottage gardens. Inevitably, some rural folks did continue to keep pigs and to kill them privately in defiance of the regulations. One such person was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.
I suspect that he had decided to kill his own pig rather than transport it to Ashfordly Slaughterhouse to avoid spending money. Claude, being a countryman of long experience, would know how to kill a pig in the traditional manner. I understand that he had the necessary equipment in and around his home, including a creel and a scalding tub, and most certainly he would have access to a humane killer. As the preparations for killing a pig are underway, it is questionable whether the animal is aware of what is happening. Pigs are highly intelligent and it is fair to say that Claude’s large white sow, inexplicably called Miss Nixon, seemed to sense that all was not well on that Monday in November.
While Claude was going about the business of preparation, he had left the sneck off the doo
r of Miss Nixon’s sty. Miss Nixon, sensing the door was open rather wider than usual, poked her snout towards the opening whereupon the door swung wide. Miss Nixon lost no time in leaving the confines of her sty and, grunting with joy, decided to go for a walk. Claude, busy with his equipment and anxious to complete the unpleasant task as quickly as possible, did not notice her absence for some time. In that time, some ten or fifteen minutes, Miss Nixon had found her way from Claude’s ranch and on to the open moor which surrounded his cottage. Bristling with sheer pleasure, the happy pig began to root among the heather, savouring the juicy roots of plants she had never tasted. It is fair to say that Miss Nixon was, for the time being, a very contented sow. It could be argued that she had no idea of her fate because she did not stray very far from Claude’s ranch, nor did she attempt to run away or hide.
It was while on patrol and descending a quiet moorland road into Aidensfield, that I noticed the uncommon sight of a large white pig, a robust sow by the look of it, rooting unsupervised among the heather. As it was very close to the Greengrass abode, I reckoned it could only have come from there and so I drove into the grounds, parked my minivan and began to search for Claude. I called his name and found him as I appeared around a corner of a building; he looked flustered and began blinking rapidly when he saw me, knowing that I had recognised the equipment in his yard as that which was necessary to kill and cure a pig. He was working among it as I approached him.
“Just checking my equipment, Mr Rhea, in case I want to sell it,” he blinked even more furiously as he made his excuses. “Summat up, is there, you being here?” Until that point, I had no idea that he was preparing to kill Miss Nixon. Now I realised what he was hoping to do, but breaches of those regulations were not really a matter for the police.
“Have you a large white pig?” I asked.
“Who wants to know?” I sensed his caution now. “It’s not the ministry, is it?”
“No, it’s me. I want to know.” I realised he was being devious now; his eyes were blinking faster than the shutter of a high-speed camera.
“Why do you want to know?” His caution was still there.
“Because there’s one out there, on the moor,” I said, waving my hand in the general direction of the free-range pig. “A large white, a sow by the look of it.”
At that news, he rushed off to examine the sty and, upon seeing the door standing open, realised that Miss Nixon had escaped. “She’s got away, Mr Rhea. My best sow! Come on Alfred,” he shouted for his dog. “And you, Constable, can you help me round her up? I want her back in my yard before she gets any big ideas of freedom into her head.”
And so it was that I found myself trudging through the thick, damp heather of the moors armed with a long stick. The idea was very simple — we had to manoeuvre ourselves into position behind Miss Nixon and drive her towards Claude’s yard, the gate of which he had left open to receive her. Alfred, the lurcher, was to assist us. The snag was that lurchers are not very good at emulating sheepdogs; that idea was further complicated because pigs do not behave like sheep. They do not like being driven anywhere if they can avoid it, and the moment we appeared behind Miss Nixon with our vicious-looking sticks, she spotted us. Snorting and squealing in protest, she began to trot rapidly in the wrong direction. She was heading away from Claude’s smallholding.
“Alfred, turn her, fetch her back!” snapped Claude, but Alfred merely barked and started to chase Miss Nixon. Claude shouted, “Heel, Alfred, you daft bugger! You’ve frightened her . . . leave off!”
But Alfred was enjoying the chase. It wasn’t often that creatures larger than him ran away from him and he sensed that, on this occasion, he possessed some awesome power — which he was going to use. As the sow’s pace increased from a trot to a gallop, so Alfred maintained his position close to her heels.
He urged her forward by snapping and biting at her hind legs as Miss Nixon endeavoured to avoid him. She did manage to lash out with her hind feet and, perhaps fortunately for Alfred, failed to make contact. In spite of that, she was moving very fast — and a fast-moving pig is a formidable object, not the easiest of creatures to bring to a halt. Unlike horses or dogs, there is not a lot for a catcher to seize, such as thick fur or a leather halter or collar. Alfred was certainly incapable of halting the pig; in fact, his yapping and nipping was encouraging the sow to greater efforts as she increased the distance between herself and her sty. It wasn’t long, therefore, before dog and pig had left me and Claude a long way behind. We could merely shout and watch as Miss Nixon, with teats swaying, headed into the centre of Aidensfield with Alfred still snapping and yapping at her heels. The chase was most definitely on and we had no idea where it was going to end.
The problem facing Claude and me was how to get ahead of the galloping sow. Somehow, we had to get in front of her to steer her into a confined space — a shed, barn or paddock would be ideal. We needed something to contain her, if only temporarily. Even a large field would be better than the open road. If only there was a gate open en route, it might be possible to beg a lift on a passing vehicle for one of us to get ahead and steer her into some secure place. But there were no open gates as Miss Nixon, with Alfred behind her, was surging ever forward in her gallant bid for freedom.
As she entered the main street a long way ahead of me and Claude, albeit with Alfred in extremely close attendance, Arnold Merryweather’s lumbering old bus chanced to appear from the opposite direction. I saw Miss Nixon momentarily slow her gallop at the appearance of the bus some distance ahead, but then she realised it was not heading for her. Satisfied that it was not a threat, she resumed her former pace. But as she hurtled towards the centre of Aidensfield, Arnold’s groaning old bus pulled up at the official stop to disgorge some passengers.
By this time, Miss Nixon was rapidly approaching that same bus stop, albeit without any intention of catching the bus. When eight or nine ladies and gentlemen of varying ages and sizes, one with a poodle on a lead and two with pushchairs, emerged from the bus, I believe that Miss Nixon thought they had been recruited to thwart her dash for freedom. She decided to avoid them. And, by a stroke of good fortune (for her), there was a convenient opening in which she could seek sanctuary.
It was the door of the Aidensfield Stores and it was standing open as it always did, winter and summer alike.
Just inside, on the floor, was one of Joe Steel’s carefully constructed pieces of artwork, a six-foot high pyramid comprising tins of beans, soup and fruit in syrup, and beyond that, a row of tin buckets, yard brushes and shovels, the latter leaning against the shelves upon the wall and the handles of the yard brushes leaning against the contents of the shelves. Those shelves contained many other provisions, ranging from jars of sweets to bottles of cough syrup; there were even items of crockery for sale such as cups, saucers, plates and mugs.
Joe, realising that there would be an influx of people from the bus, had retreated from building his pyramid of tins and he was safe behind the counter, ready to relieve them of their cash. He was practising his smile when Miss Nixon, hotly pursued by Alfred, barged into the shop like a bull elephant at the climax of a death-defying charge. Her first contact was the pyramid of tins. They flew in all directions with a clanging tone, the pig standing on some and losing her balance before rolling her huge body into the buckets and brooms which were next in line.
As the brushes were swept before the advancing Miss Nixon, the tips of their tall handles, in one brilliantly executed movement, cleared all the shelves of provisions and crockery. The whole of Joe’s carefully crafted display crashed to the floor with salvos of noise, the sound of breaking crockery being noticeable even to those of us outside. By now, Claude and I, both of us breathless after the chase, had arrived outside the shop, as had the passengers from Arnold Merryweather’s bus. None dared to enter as the terrified Miss Nixon, with Alfred still in hot pursuit, stampeded around Joe Steel’s shop.
Joe was shouting at the pig, the pig was squealing with terror, A
lfred was barking with uncontrolled excitement and all these sounds were accompanied by the noise of falling tins and crashing crockery. Then suddenly, Miss Nixon halted her gallop. She had found the fruit and vegetables. Ignoring the yapping Alfred at her heels, she began to tuck into Joe’s display of tomatoes, peaches and soft fruit, guzzling with undisguised enjoyment as the rest of us arrived to assess the situation. Now that Miss Nixon had ended her race, Alfred very quickly became bored. He sniffed at some of the provisions on the shop floor, rejected them as not tasty enough for a dog, and trotted out to greet his master. Claude was entering the shop with me in close attendance, both of us panting with the exertions of the morning.
“Greengrass, you’ll pay for this!” Joe was normally a placid, gentle sort of man but the chaos in his shop had caused even him to lose a little of his composure. “Get that animal out of here . . .”
“She’ll have to stay till I get a line on her leg,” puffed Claude.
“I don’t want her galloping all over t’village again. Now we’ve cornered her, we’ll have to keep her. So shut all the doors and keep her in . . . I need a bit of rope . . .”
“I’ll sell you a clothes line!” snapped Joe. “Cash!”
As Miss Nixon snuffled and grunted with satisfaction among the fruit and vegetables, Claude bought a clothes line. With Miss Nixon concentrating upon the free food, Claude had no difficulty tying one end to her right hind leg. She raised absolutely no objection to this and continued to guzzle with noisy enjoyment as the shop slowly filled with people from Arnold’s bus. They stepped over the debris and made for the counter as Joe was saying, “Claude, you’ll have to pay for this damage . . . look at my crockery, my vegetables . . .”
“Aye, well, it wasn’t intended, Joe. She got away on us, Mr Rhea’ll confirm that . . . I mean, we never chased her in here, she just turned in. I reckon she’s an outlaw, Joe,” and Claude chuckled at his modest joke.
CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 7