“It would be a grave departure to alter that . . .” I said, and then groaned at my unintended joke.
“There’s a first time for everything,” she said without commenting on my faux pas. “The way I see it is that if I don’t say so in a Will of my own, then I’m going to finish up beside him for the rest of my life . . . well, afterwards, I mean. Forever. Eternity, however long that is. So that’s what I wanted to ask: do I have to go to the trouble of making a Will for something as simple as that?”
“I would say yes,” I expressed my own opinion. “If it’s something as radical as changing a long-established family custom, then you’d be better making a Will which makes your own wishes absolutely clear, especially as you are a member of the Rudd family. If you don’t express your own wishes, you’ll finish up beside him. You’ll have to see a solicitor about it, Joyce. It’ll only take an hour or so and you could then rest assured your wishes would be carried out.”
“I couldn’t just have words with the vicar or undertaker?”
“They might change several times before your time comes,” I warned her. “No, Joyce. A Will is the only sure way to ensure any special wishes are carried out after your death.”
“Right, well, that’s put it very clearly. I’ll book an appointment right away, but I don’t want our Geoffrey to hear about it. So say nowt to him, will you?”
“Not a word,” I promised.
A week later, Geoffrey spotted me in the village and asked if he could have a confidential chat. I said he could, anywhere at any time, and he suggested an immediate conversation in his car. To prevent anyone overhearing, he drove out of the village and parked on a deserted verge overlooking the moors.
“So what is it, Geoffrey?” I asked.
“I wasn’t sure who to turn to for advice,” he said. “Then I saw you and thought you were just the chap.”
“If I can help, then I will,” I promised.
“You know about the Rudd family graves in Aidensfield churchyard?” he asked.
“I had heard there’s a family plot there, yes,” I said cautiously.
“Well, it’s been the custom for generations of Rudds to be buried there, with the wife always lying beside the husband,” he said. “For a few months though, our Joyce has been saying she doesn’t want me buried next to her, Mr Rhea. Now I’m the first to admit we’ve had our differences down the years and we hate each other but we are man and wife, Mr Rhea. In my mind, that’s very important. She’s as much a Rudd as I am, whether she likes it or not. That means, in my book anyway, that she should be buried next to me like all them past generations of Rudds.”
“I see,” I nodded. “So how can I help?”
“Well, I wonder how I can make sure she is buried there, Mr Rhea. It’s always been the custom, you see, without anybody having put anything in writing. All our family knew about it; the family custom was passed down from father to son and no vicar ever said we couldn’t have it done. But me and Joyce are the last Rudds; I’ve no son or daughter to make sure we’re buried side by side and I must admit I’m a bit bothered about it all. You’re a man of the world, Mr Rhea, you’re impartial, you’re not a family solicitor who’ll try to talk me into one thing or another . . . so how do I make sure I am buried next to her when there’s nobody to look after things?”
“You could put it in your Will,” I suggested.
I could see that he fully expected to die after Joyce but I did not venture any opinions about the problems which might arise if he died first. At least, I thought, if Geoffrey made his Will and died first, he would die happy in the knowledge that the Rudd family practice would be followed — even if it wasn’t. He would die a happy man.
I reasoned that if Joyce remarried after his death, she would no longer be a Rudd and thus would not qualify for a space in the family plot. So it was an academic argument . . . wasn’t it?
“Right, I thought that might be the only sure way,” he said. “But I wanted a second opinion. Not a word to Joyce, though. I’ll make damned sure she’s buried next to me whether she likes it or not. I’ll see my solicitor first thing tomorrow.”
“I’ll not say a word to anybody,” I assured him.
Having said farewell to Geoffrey, I was relieved that I would not be involved in executing the provisions of those conflicting Wills, although I realised that a lot would depend upon who was first to leave this world. In some ways, I was surprised they had seen fit to incorporate their wishes in a Will — not many Yorkshire folk bothered to make Wills because there was an old belief that it was unlucky to make a Will. The persisting belief was that it hastened the death of the person making it. Lots of country folk would avoid any discussion about their final wishes, always hoping there would be time just before they passed away. Invariably, of course, they died without making a Will. But Geoffrey and Joyce had felt compelled to express their wishes in this very formal manner.
And then, within six months of making her Will, Joyce died very suddenly. It was a heart attack which had been brought about through lifting heavy sacks of corn. The funeral was arranged with Geoffrey overseeing the arrangements.
I was notified by Bernie Scripps, our new garage proprietor, who had managed to persuade the planning authorities to allow him to conduct his undertaking business from behind the garage.
“It’s next Saturday morning, Nick,” he told me. “Eleven o’clock. Will you be there to look after the traffic outside the church gate?”
“I will,” I promised him. Whenever possible, I endeavoured to be present during weddings and funerals, a small way of helping those involved to avoid unseemly traffic congestion on our narrow country roads. “Is she being buried in the Rudd plot?” I asked almost as an afterthought.
“Oh yes,” Bernie nodded. “I’ve had Geoffrey in to see me and he was most insistent about that. A Rudd is a Rudd, he told me, and she has to be laid to rest in the family area. She didn’t object to that — her solicitor’s been on to me about her wishes — but she doesn’t want Geoffrey beside her when he passes on. I don’t know what I’m going to do when Geoffrey passes on but he says it’s in his Will that he must be buried beside her when his time comes. Mebbe somebody else will arrange his funeral?”
“You might not have to do it,” I told him. “Geoffrey looks fit enough for a few more years.”
“Well, I’ve known folks like this go very soon after one partner has died . . .”
“But they fought and argued and never got close,” I said. “There was no love lost between them.”
“Don’t you kid yourself, Nick. Geoffrey was in tears when he came to see me about the funeral; I think he loved that woman, you know, deep down, in spite of everything. He wants the very best for her now she’s gone, a splendid pine coffin with silver handles and a white satin interior, lots of hymns, and organ music, a sherry reception in the pub with a ham lunch to follow and the best headstone I can find with her Rudd name carved in big capital letters. No expense spared, he told me. And he doesn’t know how he’ll cope without her, that’s what he said to me.”
It was on the Friday evening before the funeral that I was patrolling Aidensfield on foot and heard noises in the churchyard. Always wary of vandals causing damage to tombstones or tramps sleeping rough beneath the yew trees, I walked through the lichgate and headed in the direction of the sounds. It was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and he was digging a grave very close to the wall near a clump of yew trees.
“Evening, Claude,” I said. “That looks like hard work.”
“It’s them ruddy Rudds,” he grunted, as the perspiration ran down his whiskery face. “Wanting their family graves among all these tree roots. But I’ve found a good spot with soft ground.”
“It’s a bit close to the wall, isn’t it?” I observed. “There’s no room for Geoffrey when it’s time for him to join her.”
“She doesn’t want him beside her, she told me that, Constable. It’s in her Will an’ all, she told me but she has no objection to bein
g buried in the Rudd plot because that’s her name. So this grave is in just the right place. They can’t put Geoffrey beside her, can they? There’s no room for him.”
“His Will says he wants to be buried beside her, Claude. He told me that — and he is paying for this funeral, and his own when the time comes.”
“Well, that’s not my problem, is it? I was just told to dig a single grave on the edge of the Rudd plot, and that’s what I’ve done.”
“Can I suggest you dig it a bit deeper than usual?” I grinned.
“Deeper? How much deeper?” he frowned at me.
“Deep enough to take an extra coffin,” I said. “A couple of feet deeper.”
“So Geoffrey can rest in peace on top of her?” Claude laughed.
“Right,” I said. “That will conform to her wishes — Geoffrey won’t be buried beside her — but they’ll both be in the same grave and that’ll please Geoffrey when his time comes.”
“It’ll cost extra,” Claude reminded me. “Digging a double depth grave.”
“I’ll talk it over with Geoffrey,” I said. “I have to see him later this evening about car parking.”
And so it was done. I told Geoffrey that wide spaces in the Rudd plot were scarce due to the spreading of the tree roots and he agreed to the digging of a deeper grave. He told me that he missed Joyce dreadfully and had no idea how he would cope; he even said he was looking forward to joining her in the family grave.
Six months later, he did so.
Chapter 6
No one could understand why Claude Jeremiah Greengrass suddenly bought himself a traction engine. He’d never mentioned the idea to any of his cronies nor had he ever openly praised the merits of these impressive machines, but one bright and sunny afternoon in early May, he arrived on the outskirts of the village while battling with the steering wheel of just such a locomotive. He was driving the smoking, hissing giant slowly along the narrow lane into Aidensfield and there was a queue of furious motorists behind him. I reckon some two-dozen cars were queuing to his rear, many of which were smothered in soot and wreathed in smoke, but Claude had no intention of easing into the side of the road to allow them past, even though he was chugging along at a mere five miles an hour. It so happened that I was driving in the opposite direction because I had an engagement in Eltering and found myself confronted by a monstrous and advancing cloud of black smoke and the sound of clanking machinery.
Fortunately, I was in a police vehicle which meant I could do something about the advancing dreadnought, although not immediately recognising the black-faced character at the helm. I halted my van at the side of the road, climbed out and raised my hand in the best tradition of a constable on traffic duty. My hand indicated ‘stop’. The snag is that traction engines can’t stop as quickly as a car — they have to be allowed to gradually come to a halt among a cacophony of sounds rather like thousands of kettles coming to the boil with their lids bouncing up and down in anything but unison.
I must say that I was somewhat relieved when the beautiful green-bellied steam-driven colossus managed to pull up a few yards from me. It was a very impressive sight, one to delight the enthusiasts. Then, as the overall-clad driver clambered down and the relieved car drivers squeezed past, I recognised Greengrass.
“Don’t tell me! Don’t tell you’ve bought this thing!” I cried.
“Beautiful, don’t you think, Constable? Moves with the grace of a gazelle, she does. Tessa the traction engine, that’s her name. Did you know that all traction engines are females, like ships? I think it’s because they’re big around the back end, make a lot of noise and take a lot of money to maintain. And look at all that brass work, all polished and gleaming . . . anyway, what do you want? Why stop me in the middle of nowhere just when I’ve got up a nice head of steam?”
“First things first. Where did you get it from?” I asked.
“Eltering,” he said. “I bought it off a chap I know. It’s all legal and above board and it’s paid for. None of these overdrafts and bank loans for me, you know. I’m a cash man, always have been. Anyway he’s had this one for years and his wife can’t stand the smoke and noise it makes, and she needs the space for her new lawn mower and washing line, so he’s had to sell it. She’s called Tessa, funnily enough. His wife, I mean. Anyway, I happened to be there when he was getting it ready for sale and snapped it up. A real bargain, Constable. A real bargain.”
“What are you going to do with it?” was my next question.
“Do with it? What does anyone do with a traction engine?” he put to me. “What would you do with a traction engine?”
“How should I know?” I retorted. “I haven’t got one and have no intention of getting one. The only time I see them nowadays is at steam shows . . . once, you’d see them powering threshing-machines or wood-cutting equipment or working in fairgrounds. They’re working machines, Claude, not for fun, not toys.”
“I’ve enough work to keep her busy,” he chuckled. “But I’ll show you that later.”
“You’ll have a licence for it, have you?” I asked, partially serious and partially tongue in cheek. “You realise it is classified as a mechanically propelled vehicle even though it is steam driven. Bear that in mind whenever you take it on the road. All the rules of the road apply. A light locomotive, that will be its classification, I would think, judging by its weight — that’s over seven and a quarter tons but less than eleven tons. It means you need a road fund licence, insurance and a driving licence which allows you to drive this class of vehicle . . .”
“I know,” he muttered. “And I’ve got all those! You don’t think I’d risk bringing Tessa into Blaketon country without the right papers, do you? I’m fully covered, Constable. Everything’s legal. Now, if you don’t mind and if you’re satisfied I’ve done nowt wrong, I have to finish my journey because it’s getting on for teatime and my Alfred wants summat to eat.”
“You’ve got to avoid excessive noise, Claude, with this kind of machine. I don’t want complaints from the villagers. And you’ve got to ensure ashes and sparks aren’t emitted, we don’t want moor fires, and there must be a tray to prevent deposits of ash and cinders from falling onto the road and you’ve got to stop if you need to attend to the fire . . . you can’t keep driving it while stoking up . . .”
“Look, I’ve gone into all that,” he said. “I had a long chat before I bought it and I know the rules of the road so far as these engines are concerned.”
“Sergeant Blaketon might want to make sure you do,” I warned him. “All right Claude, on your way — but when you’re on the road, will you stop regularly to let other drivers through? Your Tessa takes up a lot of room and she’s not the speediest of ladies. If you don’t, there could be complaints from motorists, they’re not all as patient as those behind you today. You might find yourself at Eltering Magistrates’ Court charged with obstructing the highway.”
“This doesn’t obstruct highways any more than caravans do or big parties of ramblers, Constable. At least I know how to drive this thing which is more than can be said about some caravanners.”
“All right, point taken. But when you are out on the Queen’s highway with Tessa, you are highly conspicuous. Just remember that.”
“Aye, well, I won’t be doing much travelling on Her Majesty’s roads, Constable, more on my own land, I’d say,” and he went back to his hissing locomotive chuckling to himself as I boarded my van and resumed my journey. It was clear that he had plans for his new acquisition, but he was being very secretive about them.
A few weeks later, one Friday afternoon just after lunch, I drove past the track which leads down to the Greengrass ranch and noticed the traction engine standing beside Claude’s house. It was puffing out great clouds of smoke and steam and looking quite handsome in its smart green paint and polished brass livery. It was not mobile, however, being merely stationary as if awaiting some particular task.
To my knowledge, there was no event in the locality which mig
ht tempt Claude and his new love to leave home and I thought he might be putting Tessa through her paces as part of her maintenance programme. When I returned to the village a couple of hours later, the traction engine was still parked on Claude’s land and still belching forth smoke and steam, but now I noticed three caravans parked on the moorland behind his house. Their presence registered in my mind, making me wonder, albeit fleetingly, whether Claude had established a site to accommodate holidaymakers’ touring caravans, or whether these visitors might be a party of steam enthusiasts who just happened to call in for a look at Tessa while passing. If Claude had obtained planning permission for a caravan site, then I thought I would have been informed, but there had been no such notification. With only three caravans parked there, however, I thought they must be casual visitors and went home to book off-duty without worrying too much about Claude and his dubious enterprises.
Saturday was the first of my two-day weekend break from duty which meant I had no routine patrols to perform either that day or Sunday. Around half-past ten that Saturday morning, I decided I needed a book of stamps from the post office. In addition, Mary needed a few items of shopping and so I walked down the village, taking two of my children with me, with the intention of undertaking that small domestic chore.
In the post office, Joe Steel served me and then said, in almost conspiratorial tones, “Your Sergeant Blaketon has been here, Nick, he asked for a look around and now he’s arranging to look at my books and past accounts. I think he’s serious, you know, about taking over the post office and shop.”
“Well, I know he wants this kind of place when he retires . . . well, Joe, I hope everything works out for you but I’m not sure what it will be like, having my former sergeant living in the village!”
“You’ll just have to let him know who’s boss!” he grinned. “And have you seen what’s going on at the Greengrass place?”
“No?” I had momentarily forgotten about the caravans.
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 12