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

by Nicholas Rhea

  “I hope you get something to eat,” she smiled.

  “I have sandwiches in my car,” he laughed. “But it would have been nice to have had a full farmhouse lunch!”

  “Perhaps another time,” she said.

  And so the lunchtime drama of Lingberry Farm was over. Later that month, however, a team of painters from Whemmelby Estate began to tour all the farms owned by Lord Knowscott-Hawke. They had orders to paint every front door bright red — so that His Lordship would, in the future, be able to recognise his own property. Even so, I now knew that the ladies living on those farms would always contrive to be away for the day whenever one of Lord Ralph’s shooting parties was in the vicinity.

  This was one ancient custom that was destined to become obsolete.

  Chapter 8

  Having been brought up in a village deep inside the North York Moors and having spent a good deal of my childhood playing around my grandfather’s farm, I was accustomed to the sights, smells and experiences that only a busy working farm can produce. Much of that general experience involved animals, large and small, wild and domestic.

  In my formative years, I helped to milk and feed the cows, watched as the sheep were shorn and lambs were born; I fed the pigs and stood by in wonder as the horses were shod, wondering why they never protested as the nails were driven (apparently) into their feet; I helped in the dairy where cheese and cream were produced and the milk was bottled; I helped in the hayfields and cornfields, the potato fields, turnip fields and the orchard; I fed the hens and ducks, collected eggs and cleaned out their houses. I was around when rats were trapped, foxes were hunted and rabbits and hares caught for meals. I helped feed the ferrets, calves and lambs, attended shoots of pheasants, partridges and pigeons and picked apples in the autumn. There were cats and kittens galore, most of whom lived around the buildings without ever being allowed into the house, and there were dogs too — dogs for herding the cows, driving the sheep, gun dogs for retrieving shot game or dogs merely acting as companions for the resident family members.

  When I grew up and moved away to begin my police career, my varied duties took me to farms where there were no animals — huge enterprises serving only to grow cereals for example, or massive spreads growing nothing else but potatoes.

  As a consequence, it was difficult to visualise a real farm without animals; farms and animals were, in my mind, inseparable, like eggs and bacon, fish and chips, Abbot and Costello, cock and bull, horse and cart, hook and crook and topsy and turvy. Most of the farmers I knew loved their animals, even if it meant having them butchered. I’ve seen farmers weep as a favourite cow or pig went to market, I’ve seen farmers’ wives become highly emotional at the thought of having their favourite sow sent to the bacon factory and I’ve known tough, unemotional moorland farmers grow very weepy at the thought of their favourite sheepdog having to be put to sleep due to old age or disease.

  In the world of the farmer, an animal is often thought by outsiders to be a mere commodity but few farmers can totally detach themselves from the emotions which can sometimes surge to the surface after years of working with, and depending upon, a range of animals. Farmers would rear pheasants for shooting, but never be cruel to them; they would hunt foxes because they killed their livestock, but respected the fox for his good looks and cunning, and they regarded badgers as our most ancient of Britons. Farmers, accustomed to death among animals in their daily routine, would never be cruel to an animal.

  One animal-loving farmer was a hardened old Yorkshireman called Irwin Dowson. Irwin was a sheep-breeder whose spread at Merlin Crags Farm, Shelvingby, included hundreds of acres of open heather-covered moorland. Upon this he ran thousands of black-faced moorland sheep, buying and selling them as the markets dictated his moves, and producing lambs galore in the spring.

  If ever there was a specialist in sheep-rearing on the moors, it was Awd Irwin, as he was affectionately known to all. And if ever there was a specialist in the training of sheepdogs, it was the same Awd Irwin. Generations of Border collies had passed through his skilled hands over the years; he would even take semi-trained dogs from other sheep-farmers and run them with his own dogs and flocks to complete their training.

  A dog trained by Awd Irwin was regarded as a golden asset to any sheep-farmer — with immense skill and speed, those dogs could gather sheep from their moorland grazing grounds often without detailed instructions from their masters, and they would bring them off the moors for shearing or lambing or dipping. It was even said that an Irwin-trained dog could separate one owner’s flock from another, recognising the animals by the coloured dye on their fleece, and some went so far as to suggest that an Irwin-dog could even count up to ten. Fact and fiction mingled a good deal in the sheep lore of the moors but it was beyond any doubt that Irwin was the finest sheep-man on the moors. He worked well past the normal retiring age and as he passed the seventy-five years of age milestone, people began to ask, ‘When is Awd Irwin going to call it a day?’

  He did retire, but not until he was eighty years old, and he went to live with his seventy-six-year-old sister, Alice, in her cottage in Aidensfield. Aidensfield was about nine miles from Merlin Crags Farm — a world away in the opinion of poor old Irwin.

  In all his life, he’d never been so far away from his farm for such an extended period of time — his biggest trek away from the place was visit to the Great Yorkshire Show but then he’d return the same day.

  Irwin’s wife had died some years earlier which is probably one reason why he continued to spend all this time on the farm; he needed something to occupy him in his widowhood. By tradition, however, upon Irwin’s retirement the farm was due to be handed over to his son,

  Martin. Poor Martin had had to wait a long time but men of his calibre were very patient. As one said to me, ‘Everything comes to them that waits — so long as they wait long enough!’ I do know that, as the years went by, Martin wondered whether he would ever be able to regard the place as his very own and all the hints dropped by him and his wife that Irwin should retire in time to enjoy his remaining good health were met with a terse ‘I’ll go when I want to and not before.’

  But Irwin, with his old legs growing increasingly painful due to arthritis and a distinct shortage of breath beginning to manifest itself, did eventually decide to retire. It was not something he wanted to do — the last thing he wanted was to leave his beloved farm and all the animals he had cherished during his long life, but his doctor recommended a few years of easier living. After all, Irwin was still in remarkably good health and with a bit of care, could have many happy years ahead of him. Clearly, he had thought it over and concluded that it was really time to leave the hard task of running the farm.

  By the time he had reached that momentous decision, however, Martin was fifty-five, his wife was fifty-two and their sons were rapidly maturing with the eldest already wondering when he would inherit Merlin Crags. Every one of them was pleased to see the end of Irwin’s long reign, but in departing from the premises, one extremely important question loomed.

  “What’s going to happen to Awd Shep?” asked Irwin.

  “Well, he’ll have to stay here,” Martin was adamant about that. “He’s our best dog; we can’t run a moorland sheep farm without a good dog, and he’s the best. We’ve no up-and-coming pup to take his place either. He’s part of the farm, Dad, just like all the sheep and cows and pigs.”

  “Aye, I realise that . . .” said Irwin.

  “So what’s the problem, Dad, you weren’t thinking of retiring him or having him put down, were you?”

  “Having him put down? No, I was not thinking of that!” snapped the old man. “It’s just, well, he’s my best pal . . . we’ve been together now for twelve years, man and dog, in all weathers, in all conditions on those moors, fog and sunshine alike, snow and gales, the lot. We work well, me and Shep, we’ve never been apart, Martin. So, well, what I thought was — he might like to retire with me. Then we could be together for our final ye
ars, me and him, just like it’s always been.”

  “Dad, don’t be so sentimental. Shep’s only a dog, and a working dog at that. He’s no poodle or pet dog; he likes work; he’s good at his work and we need him here. He’s a farm dog, Dad. He’s part of the business, a vital part of the farm’s livestock.”

  “He’s nothing of the sort!” snapped Irwin. “Dogs aren’t like other livestock!”

  “Why not?” questioned Martin. “How about the cats then?”

  “Cats are different, cats don’t have loyalty like dogs . . . cats warm to anybody who’ll feed them. Dogs are personal, and Awd Shep’s my dog, Martin.”

  “He’s not your dog, Dad, he’s the farm dog. And there’s a few more years in him yet. Besides, if we got another one, we’d need Shep to bring him on, to work beside him, to teach him his job. You know that as well as I do. Sorry, Dad, Shep stays to work here. It’s you that’s retiring, not him.”

  I was given the gist of this exchange a couple of weeks after Irwin retired because I saw him sitting on the seat near Aidensfield’s war memorial. I went to join him for a few minutes’ chat because I thought he looked rather miserable.

  “Now then, Irwin,” I greeted him as I settled at his side. “How’s retirement suiting you?”

  “Oh, it’s not too bad, Nick.” He knew me from my official visits to his farm. “Better than I thought, to be honest. I’m meeting up with some of my old mates who’ve packed in work like I have. I get into the pub on a night for a couple of pints and one of my grandsons comes down from the farm to take me up there for my Sunday dinner. My sister looks after me, does my meals and washing, things like that. So, yes, things aren’t too bad even if they are a bit on the quiet side.”

  “I thought you looked a bit unhappy,” I said. “Looking at you from the other side of the green, you didn’t look too cheerful.”

  “Mebbe you’re right, so can I ask you a question?” he put to me.

  “Of course,” I smiled.

  “When one of your police dog-handlers retires, what happens to his dog?”

  “Well,” I said, not at that stage knowing the saga of Awd Shep, “it depends on the age of the dog. If it’s a young dog or one with a lot of work left in it, it will be allocated to a new handler.”

  “And if it’s getting on a bit? With not much work left in it?”

  “That will be a matter for both the handler and the chief constable to decide. Sometimes, a dog will be retired with its handler and the handler will keep it. It becomes his dog, but that’s only if the handler wants to have the dog. It’s never forced on him.”

  “But he can have his dog then, if he wants?”

  “Well, sometimes, but he might have to pay a fair price for it.”

  “Pay for it?”

  “Well, police dogs don’t belong to their handlers,” I informed him. “They belong to the police authority. They’re official police property, like our uniforms, motor vehicles, houses and so on. The chief constable can’t go around giving them away as presents! They never belong to the handler, even if man and dog have always been together in their working lives, and even if the dog lives at home with its handler. Police dogs are always police property.”

  “And is it the same with police horses?”

  “Yes, it is. They’ve got longer working lives than police dogs, so the chances are they’ll have several different handlers or riders during their working lives. They do retire eventually, of course, and are usually bought by people who can care for them rather than those who want hard work out of them. But they’re sold as well, not given away.”

  “Oh, I see. You never think of that, do you?” He was talking to himself. “It’s like farm animals then? When my lad took over Merlin Crags, he took over the animals as well. They’re farm property, just like police dogs are police property.”

  “Right,” I said. “Exactly the same idea.”

  “But if an ordinary chap retires and moves house, he takes his dog. with him, doesn’t he? He doesn’t leave it behind with the house, like he might leave curtains or carpets behind?”

  “If it’s his own dog, yes, he’ll take it with him. But domestic dogs are not the same as working dogs, Irwin; they’re pets. They belong to their owners. But working dogs are different, like guard dogs. If a security guard retired, he’d have to leave his dog behind for someone else to take over. Why are you asking this, Irwin?”

  “Well,” and I could now see the sorrow on his face. “I had to leave Awd Shep at the farm when I retired. I miss him, Nick, but our Martin said they couldn’t do without him and he was the farm dog, not my own dog. He’s the only one they’ve got fully trained for driving sheep, you see. They can’t manage without him.”

  “Well, in that case, Martin was right. But surely, they’ll want a replacement before too long and once the new dog is fully trained, you might be able to have Shep here to spend his retirement with you?”

  “Aye, that’s more or less what Martin said. But it’s useful to know similar things happen with police dogs. That’s sort of straightened things out in my mind, knowing Shep is a working dog with responsibilities. Not like poodles and pets.”

  As Irwin told me the full story, I felt a twinge of sorrow for him but could fully understand his son’s requirement to have the dog on the farm. A farm such as Merlin Crags could not function without a fully trained, completely reliable working sheepdog. It was a few days later that I had to visit the farm during the course of my duties, and this time I had to deal with Martin rather than Irwin. I could see that the farm’s new boss was firmly in control and that he was making his own impression on the place. There was some new machinery in the implement shed, for example; Irwin had been prone to keeping his equipment until it fell apart.

  We attended to our official business and as I left the house, I saw old Shep lying on the concrete area in front of the cow byre. He was stretched out along the ground with his chin resting on his front paws and his ears registered a slight movement at my presence. He wasn’t the bouncy, lively dog I’d noticed on previous visits.

  “He’s missing your dad, is he?” I asked.

  “I think he must be. He’s gone all listless and it’s one hell of a job to get him to work,” Martin told me. “All his sparkle’s gone.”

  “Pining, is he?”

  “He could be. I’m not sure how to tackle this, Nick. We can’t do without old Shep and I am looking at pups for a replacement. It takes time to find the right one; it’s not the sort of thing that can be rushed along. But I worry about Shep — mebbe the old lad’s past it?”

  “Your dad does come to see him, doesn’t he?”

  “Oh yes, every Sunday and other times in between. Shep perks up then, so he’s not ill. He was Dad’s dog; I think that sums it up.”

  I then told Martin about his father’s questions concerning police dogs and said I thought he had accepted, perhaps with some reluctance, that Shep was a vital part of the farm rather than a pet dog, and that he would have to remain here to work. And then I said, almost jokingly, “What you need is for Shep to spend part of his time with your dad and part of his time here. He likes your dad and he likes his work — perhaps he needs both to keep him happy?”

  “Travel to work, you mean?” he laughed. “Spend his nights with Dad and his working days with us!”

  “Now that’s an idea!” I laughed. “It might work.”

  “Aye, but Dad’s living nine miles from here and he’s not got a car and we can’t spare the time to do that run every day, twice a day, there and back.”

  “There’s always the bus,” I said, almost jokingly. “It leaves Aidensfield and comes past your gate every morning just after eight, and comes back again at teatime, half-past five or so. I’ve often seen it.”

  “Dad would never stand the journey, not now . . .”

  “I was thinking of the dog,” I said. “He could go to Aidensfield on the bus to spend the night with your dad, and come back next morning!”

 
He looked at me, unsmiling for a moment, and then his face broke into a happy grin. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I knew one man who put his dog into a taxi every morning and sent it off to his daughter’s house where it spent the day. The taxi took it back home at six o’clock every evening. The dog got into the habit of sitting and waiting for the taxi, all by itself . . .”

  “I’ll have words with Dad and see what he thinks. But he must realise we need that dog here for work!”

  Only two days later, I saw Awd Irwin waiting at the bus stop in Aidensfield as I performed an early patrol. Shep was sitting at his side. I pulled up in my van and climbed out for a chat.

  “Morning, Irwin. Going for a day out?”

  “Nay, but Shep’s going to work,” and Shep thumped his tail on the ground at the sound of his name. “He’s a proper working dog now, he commutes by bus and he’ll come back at teatime to spend the night here with me. I reckon he likes it, and I like it . . . we can go for walks and he loves sniffing in the hedges and chasing rabbits.”

  It was a few weeks later that I saw Martin in Shelvingby village and he hailed me. “Shep’s a changed dog, Nick. It hasn’t taken him long to get used to his new routine. I used to put him on the Aidensfield bus, but he goes to our lane end and gets on all by himself now and takes himself off to visit Dad on an evening. He knows he has to get off in Aidensfield and knows his way to Dad’s house. And next morning, he does the same thing in reverse, all by himself. He comes to work on the bus, just like people do, and I settle up with the conductor once a week. Mind you, I never thought I’d see a dog catching a bus to work, but our Shep does. And he loves it. He works really well now, full of enthusiasm. And we’ve found a suitable pup, by the way, another Border collie. I know his background and he’s learning fast. Shep’s a very good teacher, and the young ’un’s really keen on his work. Mebbe Dad can have Shep at home full-time before too long, but to be honest, I don’t think Shep would like to be stuck in a little cottage all day with nothing to do, he loves his work too much. I don’t think he wants to retire just yet.”