As I enjoyed the relaxing drink, I became aware of two men having what might be described as a heated discussion at the end of the bar. It was not an argument which sounded angry or threatening in any way, but voices were raised with the inevitable result that everyone else lowered their own voices because they wanted to know what the fuss was about. The characters in question were Harry Hutchinson, a keen pigeon-fancier, and Edward Chance, known as Ted, who was a noted beekeeper. Harry worked for the council and Ted worked for a construction company. Both lived along East Lane in Aidensfield where they were neighbours in adjoining cottages, each cottage having a spacious and well-kept garden. Harry’s pigeon loft backed onto that part of Ted’s garden where he kept his beehives.
So far as I was aware, there had never been any friction between the men; indeed, they were good pals as was indicated by their presence in the bar that Sunday. Usually, they accompanied one another for their Sunday pints unless either had some other commitment, but on this occasion, it seemed that their banter was rather more high-spirited than usual. In the early stages, none of the other drinkers was taking much notice of their conversation, consequently no one really knew what the fuss was about, and it was George Ward, the landlord, who became the third party in their discussion.
“Well, there’s only one way to settle it!” George’s voice sounded in one of those moments of silence that sometimes occur at a gathering of people, and his words galvanised the rest of us into silence. We wanted to know what was happening.
“Settle what?” The distinctive tones of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass now sounded from the opposite end of the bar.
“It’s nowt to do with you, Greengrass! Or anybody else for that matter,” snapped Ted. “It’s between me and Harry.”
“What is?” asked someone else. “What’s going on, Ted?”
By this stage, everyone was looking at Harry and Ted as if awaiting words of great wisdom or some form of enlightenment, and then Harry said, “Oh, it’s nowt.”
“It can’t be nowt if it’s creating such a fuss,” said a voice from the back of the crowd.
“Aye, come on you two,” Claude challenged them. “Let your mates in on the secret . . .”
Harry looked at Ted and Ted looked back at Harry, and then George Ward stepped in once again.
“Harry was saying that pigeons can fly faster than bees,” he told us. “And Ted reckons he’s wrong. He says bees can fly faster than pigeons. And I said there’s only one way to settle it.”
“How’s that?” asked Greengrass, perhaps sensing there might be scope to organise some betting on the outcome.
“Have a race,” said George.
“A race?” laughed Greengrass. “Between a pigeon and a honey bee? How can you do that? It’s impossible!”
“It’s not.” George stuck to his guns. “You take one of Harry’s pigeons and one of Ted’s bees up to the moors and release them both at the same time. Their homes are right next to each other so they’ll both cover the same distance — all you need is independent judges to wait and check the contestants as they arrive back at home.”
“But there’s thousands of bees in Ted’s hive,” I decided to have my turn. “You can’t tell one from the other; you’d never know which of them was the one that was supposed to be racing!”
“Dab one of the worker bees on its hairy thorax with some white emulsion,” said Ted. “It won’t harm . . . I could catch one and do that, and I could take it up to the moors and let it go . . . and when that white-marked bee returns, we’d know it was the racer.”
“It wouldn’t work,” said Greengrass. “How do you know your bee would come home? You can’t train bees like pigeons. Wouldn’t it want to go off looking for nectar or something?”
“Not if I released it at the right time. Bees do come home at certain times of the day, Claude, evenings for example, as the sun is setting.”
“How far can it fly?” I asked, wondering whether a bee could sustain a long distance flight as pigeons are able to do.
“Up to two miles,” said Ted.
“That’s not far for a pigeon,” said Harry. “But it would be a fair match . . . pigeons have to fly around a bit to get their bearings before they set off home, but once they get the direction worked out, they fly as straight as an arrow.”
“Right,” said George. “All we have to do then, is find a starting point no more than two miles away; Ted has to select his champion racing bee and dab it with whitewash and make sure it likes pigeons — we don’t want it stinging the pigeon so that it nobbles the race — and Harry has to select a pigeon that won’t eat the bee . . .”
“Pigeons don’t eat bees, they’re grain eaters,” snapped Harry.
“Just joking,” grinned George. “Anyway, the two contestants will be taken to the starting point so we need an official starter, and we need an independent judge at the finish to clock them both home . . . someone who will recognise the pigeon and the bee.”
“How about you, Constable?” grinned Greengrass. “I reckon the law is independent, so you could be at the finish to see them home. To see fair play.”
“Right,” I said. “So when are we thinking of doing this?”
“Today?” asked George. “It’s a fine day, there’s no wind to speak of, it’s light until seven o’clock . . .”
“What about me running a book then?” Claude asked, and then realised I was present, adding swiftly, “Provided it’s all legal and above board, that is.”
“Claude,” I said, “I want to know nothing about that, but all I ask is that you don’t do it in the pub! Betting on licensed premises is illegal.”
“Aye, well, I might think of something.”
And so plans were made. Due to the trickiness of standing close to a busy beehive to observe the arrival of a white-marked specimen, it was decided that Ted would have to be present at the return end of the flight. He would stand near his hive and give a pre-arranged signal to show that his bee had returned. Likewise, it was said that Harry should stand close to his pigeon loft to signal the return of his bird. As official judge, I would be positioned on the lane between the two houses so that I could see both owners; I could witness their raising of hands and record the time of the return of either the bee, the pigeon or both.
Trusted friends would release the competitors on the moor. The selected starting point was Griff Cross and a check on the map showed it was 1 mile 6 furlongs from each of the contestant’s bases. It was reckoned the flight would take no longer than two minutes which meant that neither owner could witness the start of the race. It was to begin at 6 p.m. prompt.
At five o’clock, therefore, still off duty, I went to Harry and Ted’s houses and, along with others, noted that he had selected a pigeon called Blue Boy. He showed this to everyone, placed it in a pigeon crate, and handed it to George Ward who’d been nominated the official starter. Ted had captured a bee; he had dabbed it on the back with a dot of white paint and it now buzzed around in a jam jar, looking far from happy.
“She’s in training, doing circuits, flexing her wings,” he said. “She’s called Snow White.”
Ted said that George would have to lift the jar over his head as he removed the lid, because Snow White might be angry with him. By raising the jar, she would fly straight out, perhaps requiring a little shake or two. The pigeon was quite accustomed to launching itself into the air under racing conditions. And so George had to drive up to the starting point with his two charges and some helpers, and release the competitors together at six o’clock precisely. It was decided not to launch a flare to herald their departure, on the grounds that it might distract one or both of the competitors as well as create alarm in ships at sea or among passing aircraft.
Claude, meanwhile, was buzzing around the assembled multitude of racegoers with a notebook and cash box. “How about you, Constable?” he grinned. “Fancy a wager? I’m not doing odds, not with just two runners. It’s a straight bet, you select either Blue Boy or Snow White.
£1 a ticket. Winners share the proceeds. Losers get nowt. So there it is, pigeon or bee? You take your choice.”
“I’ll have a ticket for the bee,” I said.
“To bee or not to bee,” he chortled as he made a note of my name in his book. “Come fly with me . . . It’s about even bettin’,” he added. “Twelve have bet on the pigeon, and eleven on the bee so far. But there’s more folks coming, see?”
“What’s in it for you then?” I had to ask.
“A jar of honey, mebbe, or a pint of pigeon’s milk . . . I’ll make nowt on running this book, if that’s what you mean. Unless I pick the winner of course.”
“I believe you!” I said.
And so there was great excitement as six o’clock approached. As the parish church clock struck the hour, we all cheered in the knowledge that, high on the moor, the great race had started. Harry and Ted rushed to their posts to await the return of their precious livestock and I made sure my view of both was not obstructed while realising that neither man could see the other. The bulk of the pigeon loft acted as a screen.
As the church clock fell into a silence, so did the assembled racegoers, all standing with their eyes raised to the heavens. There was not a word, not a movement, as we stood and gazed into the sky as if awaiting a vision of some kind, and then Ted shouted.
“She’s here . . . Snow White has landed . . . here . . .”
I checked the time. 6.04 precisely and hurried to see the white-spotted bee crawling along the landing pad which was in front of the hive. And then Harry shouted, “He’s here. Blue Boy’s here.” It was 6.05 and ten seconds. The bee had won.
There was great discussion in the pub afterwards because we all adjourned to the bar bang on opening time at 7 p.m. I won £1. 15s. 0d on Claude’s scheme, George achieved a full pub at opening time, but Harry was not happy.
“I know my best pigeon can beat Ted’s best racing bee anytime!” he was saying at his place in the bar. “But Blue Boy took his time getting his bearings before he set sail for home while that bee just took off and made straight back to Aidensfield. I think Ted’s had that bee of his under training without us knowing so I reckon we should have another race, Ted.”
“Next year?” suggested George.
“Right,” said Ted.
“Right,” said Harry.
And so the great Aidensfield race between a bee and pigeon was destined to become an annual event. It became known as the Milk and Honey Stakes.
Chapter 9
In a remote and rustic area like the district surrounding Aidensfield, there were few opportunities for large-scale social functions. In fact, there were not many places, apart from hotels, where one could host what might be termed a smart but select indoor social event of a smaller kind. The use of marquees for weddings, dances and parties had not yet met with widespread approval, although some rural people did entertain at home. In this respect, the aristocracy were leaders for they had the money and the indoor space to host gatherings, large and small. Shooting parties, cocktail parties, large dinners and garden parties were examples of their ability to produce a memorable social occasion.
Many farmers also hosted large numbers of people in their homes, although this was usually a necessity due to their work rather than for any social-clambering reason. Helpers at sheep-sales, harvest-time or potato picking, for example, had to be fed and watered, and I knew one farmer’s wife who entertained the whole family to Sunday lunch every week — all forty of them! And she could accommodate every one of them in her vast kitchen.
Villages’ halls were another focus for social gatherings, but the usual events in these were evening classes, whist drives, beetle drives, Women’s Institute meetings, parish council meetings, village craft and horticultural shows and the occasional village dance or hunt ball. The pub was sometimes used for small meetings, too, and some country inns made rooms available for wedding parties, funerals and meetings of local societies.
In the late 1960s, however, important social changes were occurring. The after-effects of being conditioned to food rationing along with memories of the restrictions and self-discipline imposed by World War II, were finally being eradicated from the minds of the older people, and they were beginning to enjoy themselves with great freedom and with more money to spend. Lurking in the background of this social upheaval, however, was a sobering factor in the shape of the breathalyser. This was introduced in October 1967.
In measuring the amount of alcohol a vehicle driver could safely consume, and in recording the intake of alcohol in a manner which could not be disputed in court, its impact on rural public houses was quite dramatic. Most of them abandoned their role as pure drinking establishments and began to develop a catering side to their business. Large rooms were set aside for this purpose so that formal dinners and lunches could be obtained in addition to substantial snacks in the bar. Quite suddenly, the village inn became the new focus for social events and organised outings, more so because it developed into a place to which one could take a lady. Hitherto, ladies might be encountered in smart hotels, but they were rarely seen in pubs; only women considered to be of doubtful reputation were regularly seen in public houses. And with this rapid change in the perception and style of public houses, both in the town and countryside, came a corresponding development of the licensed restaurant. These were high-class establishments at which liquor could be purchased with a meal and many were created in isolated places where handsome buildings were transformed into romantic eating places.
Not surprisingly, some were former inns whose owners seized this opportunity to improve their clientele and attract new business. Quite swiftly, therefore, social opportunities for rural folk improved very dramatically. Meals were no longer a mere necessity; they were seen to be an integral part of an enjoyable occasion in pleasant surroundings and even townspeople began to migrate into the countryside for romantic meals. Even the smart set journeyed into the countryside for their leisure treats — quite suddenly, the countryside was the place to see and in which to be seen. Town-bred people were now beginning to realise just what the countryside had to offer, even if they concentrated upon manmade attractions rather than nature’s mountains, moors and rivers.
And so it was that a very smart restaurant opened at Fieldholme. Andrew Brown, the former chef of an hotel in Manchester, had been holidaying with his wife in the Aidensfield district when they’d come across the former Fieldholme railway station which bore a large ‘For Sale’ sign. Dr Beeching’s axe had removed the railway line and for a time, the stationhouse had been occupied by someone who’d bought it for reasons of nostalgia rather than common sense. As those feelings had waned, and as the moorland winters made travel somewhat difficult at times, so the owners moved back into town and the former stationhouse, with its offices, sheds, platforms, coal bunkers and water tank was again put on the market. Mr Brown, losing no time, talked to his wife, arranged a hurried meeting with his bank manager, explained his desire to fashion this old station into a smart new restaurant, and managed to buy it for a very reasonable price.
He and his wife then set about converting it into a famous restaurant which would become the mecca of the smart and wealthy set. Among the improvements would be extra bedrooms for customers of the more upmarket kind. And, of course, there was room outside in which to expand when his success demanded more eating or sleeping space — and so Andre’s, as the establishment became known, blossomed into a reality in Fieldholme. It was a French restaurant of renown and style; it was the place to be seen and to both entertain and be entertained. Andre, as Andrew liked to be known, insisted on the right dress too — suits, with collars and ties for the gentlemen, and smart complementary outfits for the ladies. You did not go for a meal at Andre’s while wearing sports jackets and flannels or sweaters and jeans; he even frowned upon gentlemen arriving in dark blazers and grey trousers, although he would tolerate such dress with a slight sniff and not-too-discreet turning away of his head. Sadly, Andre, or Andrew as t
he local people called him, had developed into something of a snob. Nonetheless, his establishment attracted the wealthy and influential.
For the ordinary people of the district, however, all this was rather too posh and pricey — they preferred fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, or chicken in a basket in the relaxed atmosphere of the bar of the White Swan or Malt Shovel. They liked to be comfortable while supping their pints or Babychams, and if they wanted something more formal, they would go to the dining room of the Ashfordly Hotel which did a splendid mixed grill with chips because they had little idea about the niceties of fine wines, petit fours, tiers of cutlery and meals with peculiar foreign names.
Andre’s, therefore, (both the restaurant and the man) acquired something of a reputation for being rather too snooty and far too expensive for down-to-earth Yorkshire country folk. Those with social pretentions and the money to fund their fantasies, however, did patronise the restaurant in the old railway station and some of them welcomed Andre’s fawning behaviour as he ministered to their needs. The place was an undoubted success and within three years, Andre had expanded. He built a conservatory along the front of the house to form a beautiful extension to his restaurant and to make use of a portion of the former platform, and he added four extra bedrooms.
He and his wife, Renee, (Rene to the locals) decided to launch their new extensions with a large party to which all their regular patrons were invited. Andre, always with an eye to future business, also issued invitations to those who had not patronised his establishment but whom he felt were socially acceptable should they wish to honour him with their custom. Generally, those additional guests were people of local standing — some had titles, there was a former ambassador and his wife, an internationally known singer, a famous author and several local millionaires.
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 19