I drew up and parked, then clambered out to meet him.
‘Morning, Rodney,’ I greeted him. ‘All right?’
‘Aye, Mr Rhea.’ He was munching a piece of fruitcake and had a flask of coffee at his side. ‘It’s ’lowance time.’
‘You’re early,’ I said. ‘I thought you might be ill.’
‘Nay, Ah’m fine. They’ve changed my times.’
I presumed ‘they’ were the council.
‘Oh, well, I won’t trouble you . . .’
‘We’ve changed areas,’ he added, as if in explanation. ‘Ah was under Ashfordly, now Ah’m under Brantsford, so they’ve changed my ’lowance time. Half-nine instead of ten.’
‘But does it really matter?’ I asked in all innocence.
‘Aye, well, if they say half-nine, then half-nine it is. Ah mean, it is a bit early, if you ask me, but, well, Ah’m not in a position to argue.’
‘No,’ I smiled. ‘We must all do as we’re told, Rodney. Well, I must be off. I’m meeting the sergeant at Ashfordly, and I’d better not keep him waiting.’
‘It’s a nuisance, all this chopping and changing,’ he grumbled as I prepared to leave. ‘Ah can’t see why they must keep on changing. Progress is all right so long as it doesn’t change anything. That’s how Ah sees it.’
I could sympathize with him. I have a theory that council managers and their white-collar staff, including their counterparts in other public bodies, regularly reorganize things in order to keep themselves in a job. Much work is generated by any reorganization, and at times it means that more staff are recruited to cope with the increase in paperwork. Reorganizations are wonderful job-creation schemes, even if they never achieve an improvement in efficiency or cost.
‘You’ll be on half-nine ’lowance for a while then?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘And here, for all this week. I’m on this length, cutting hedges, trimming verges, guttering and the like.’
‘I’ll see you around then!’ I smiled and drove away.
Sure enough, for the next couple of days, he was sitting in that same gateway from precisely 9.30 a.m. until 9.40 a.m.
And then, on the Thursday, I had an awful shock. I was on an early patrol, having started at 6 a.m., and my own breakfast break was scheduled for 10 a.m. at my own police house in Aidensfield. But a few minutes after 9.30 a.m. I received a radio call from Control to the effect that a lorry had run off the road and had gone through the hedge into a field at Crampton Lane End. There were injuries; an ambulance had been called, and a man who lived in a cottage at the lane end had witnessed the accident. He’d called the police with the news that somebody had been hurt. There were no further details. Switching on my blue light, I dashed to the scene. As I approached, I found myself worrying about Rodney. He had his break at Crampton Lane End at half-past nine, and I knew the gateway was directly in the line of a runaway lorry . . . I pressed the accelerator.
I was relieved when I could not see his wheeled dustbin, but as I parked and hurried to the crashed lorry, I realized it had run away down the hill, over the verge and then through the very gateway that Rodney occupied. And it must have gone through as near 9.30 a.m. as made no difference. So where was he?
The lorry had run into the field beyond, then nose-dived into a hollow; its load of rubble had not shifted, but the driver was trapped in his cab. I found him groaning in agony; his leg appeared to be trapped somewhere near the foot pedals. He was alone. Jim Lewis from the cottage was on hand and helped me give comfort to the driver. I radioed for the fire brigade, saying we would need cutting gear, and in the busy time which followed, I forgot about Rodney. He was nowhere to be seen. In time, we released the driver and rushed him off to hospital with a suspected broken leg, chest injuries and concussion, then a breakdown truck was contacted to remove the damaged lorry.
I now had an accident report to compile, and my day would be fully occupied. I gave no further thought to Rodney’s near-brush with death until I had to fill in the accident report later that day. I was working in the office, which is attached to the police house, using my faithful little typewriter. In the space for ‘Time of Accident’, I wrote ‘9.30 a.m.’, the time given to me by Jim Lewis. He was sure about that — he’d tuned into the radio news just as the lorry crashed. As I entered the time, I wondered where Rodney had got to. But even as I worked, there was a knock on the office door. I opened it to find Rodney standing there, accompanied by his faithful bin.
‘Oh, hello, Rodney. Come in.’
‘Nay, Ah shan’t stay, Mr Rhea. Ah just wondered if Ah could ask a favour.’
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘That wagon this morning, it went through yon gateway . . .’
‘And I was very worried that you could have been injured,’ I said. ‘It went right through that gate you’ve been using — and spot on half-past nine too!’
‘Aye, Ah know, but, you see, Mr Rhea, Ah didn’t have my ’lowance till ten this morning. I wasn’t there when she crashed.’
‘You could have been killed if you had been there!’ I cried.
‘Aye, t’reason Ah came was, well, if anybody from t’council asks, Ah’d not want ’em to know Ah took my ’lowance break late.’
‘I can’t imagine anybody checking on that, Rodney!’
‘Well, you never can tell, Mr Rhea. Ah mean, Ah’m supposed to take ’lowance at half-nine, not ten. And today Ah didn’t. Ah took it late, you see . . . contrary to instructions.’
‘And saved your own life in the process, eh?’ I smiled.
‘But you will back me up, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will, Rodney. If anybody asks, I’ll say you were in that next gateway, eh? At half-past nine.’
‘Aye,’ he relaxed now. ‘Thanks, Ah’ll say t’ same.’
‘As a matter of interest, Rodney, why did you take a late ’lowance?’
‘My old cart got a flat tyre. I took her to t’garage to get it fixed and took my ’lowance there, while they fixed it. It took me half an hour to get there, you see . . .’
‘I see,’ I smiled. ‘Never fear, Rodney, your secret is safe with me.’
And off he went, very pleased at his own piece of subterfuge. I don’t think he realized he owed his life to that flat tyre, but I did wonder what went through his mind each day as he worried about his unseen bosses. If I knew them, they wouldn’t know of his existence. Poor old Rodney, he was a slave to his own conscience, a lovely chap.
3. ‘Sup That!’
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
J. H. PAYNE, 1791–1852
One aspect of rural life which continues to fascinate me is the wealth of differing styles in the cottages and houses found in most small villages. In some cases, they are in very isolated locations. They represent the entire range of social classes and aspirations, but in a village community most of their owners live happily together. Millionaires and professional people live next door to labourers and lorry-drivers. You cannot reproduce that social mix in modern housing estates — they tend to be limited to people of one kind or class, and the houses are all too similar.
Most of us know of stockbrokers’ ghettos, professional parades, executive avenues and council tower blocks, but these communities lack the character of a true village whose community spirit has matured over centuries. I believe that in modern times no one is capable of designing or constructing a genuine village with all its charm, benefits and close-knit atmosphere. A village needs time to mature; it must evolve over many generations and contain many generations. A true village is a splendid place in which to live and bring up one’s children.
So far as the houses are concerned, the lack of planning control in times past has produced a fascinating mixture of good and bad, of ugly and beautiful, of large and small. At one end of the scale, there is the grandeur of the Big House where His Lordship or the squire used to live (and in many cases continues to li
ve), and at the other there is the rustic simplicity of tiny cottages which serve the basic needs of their occupants. Between these extremes is a range of other homes, sometimes in terraces, sometimes semi-detached, but very frequently standing alone in a much-loved piece of well-tended ground. All are rich in contrast and full of interest.
Perhaps that is over-simplifying the position, especially as it affects the moorland and dales around Aidensfield. For example, the word ‘hall’ can indicate something as massive as Castle Howard, which achieved fame as ‘Brideshead’ on television, or it could refer to a small farm deep in the hills. One famous hall on the edge of my beat had a cricket field on the lawn where the Yorkshire first team would sometimes play. In direct contrast, I have visited halls which were smaller than a semi-detached house.
Similarly, the name ‘castle’ appears in the names of some houses. Danby Castle in Eskdale is a small working farm, although in Henry VIII’s time it was a castle. Indeed, one of his wives, Catherine Parr, lived here. There are other occupied homes around the moors which bear the suffix ‘castle’ and are very handsome and well maintained; these are not open to the public because they are private houses. Of several Bumper Castles, one is a farm, while another is a pub. Slingsby Castle, for example, is not a true castle. It is a fine example of an Elizabethan type of house, although it dates from the time of Charles II. Now in ruins, it was never completed and has never been occupied — but it is massive and imposing, even though it was built for a dwarf, Sir Charles Cavendish. He was clearly a little man with big ideas.
Contradictions can also be found in the word ‘house’. A dwelling with this common name can be very substantial or it might be a tiny cottage nestling in the quieter part of a moorland village. For the patrolling constable, it all means that one cannot gain a true impression of a person’s home merely from its name.
One example was Bracken Hill Farm at Gelderslack. Believing its name has some rapport with the moors, I expected a small hill farm of the kind that had survived for generations, but to my surprise I found a massive spread of whitewashed buildings, with a hacienda that might have come from Spain, a range of satellite extensions that reminded me of a Californian ranch, and views that reminded me of the Loire Valley in France. Even the vehicles in the farmyard might have come from either Texas or the Motor Show.
Another surprise occurred when I was called by a lady who looked after Meadow Cottage, Crampton, while its owners were away.
As I motored to the address, I sought a pretty cottage sitting on the edge of a field replete with colourful wild flowers. Instead, I found a massive establishment with a courtyard surrounded by stables and looseboxes, complete with fabulous gardens overlooked by a house that occupied the space of half a dozen semi-detached dwellings. The gardens were spread along the banks of the river, and a small boat was moored at the edge of the lawn. It was probably the most unlikely ‘cottage’ I have ever encountered.
The reason for the lady’s call is worthy of inclusion. She was housekeeper to Mr and Mrs Rudolph Faulkner. He was a top executive for a Yorkshire brewing company and was regularly away on business, often overseas. His wife, Felicity, sometimes accompanied him, and this was such an occasion. They had left the housekeeper, Mrs Winnie Hilton, in charge of their home for a couple of weeks. Winnie lived nearby and was the widow of a retired farmworker.
Just before lunch one Sunday, as she gazed across her garden fence, she noticed two coaches halt outside Meadow Cottage. This was not unusual, for the village did attract tourists. On this occasion, she watched a gaggle of almost a hundred people climb out. It was a warm, sunny day in June, and they were all armed with picnic equipment. At this point Winnie became horrified, because they all trooped through the gates of the Faulkners’ home and into the splendid gardens before ambling across the lawns towards the river bank. Each was seeking a good place to enjoy a picnic. In this part of the country, it is a sad fact that some dopey visitors do wander into private gardens, but this was a mass invasion. Surely they had not mistaken Meadow Cottage for Castle Howard or Crampton Hall?
Winnie rushed outside to remonstrate with the bus-drivers, but they replied that they had been told to stop here for a picnic lunch. They had no idea who had given the orders to their firm; their order had come from their head office. She knew that if such a visit had been sanctioned by the Faulkners, she would have been informed. In the absence of such consent, she rang me to complain about the trespassers.
I was in the middle of my lunch and, as this was not an emergency, I spent another five minutes finishing my meal before driving the few miles to Crampton. This pretty village stands on the banks of the River Rye and is a delight; it is virtually unspoilt and presents a continuing aura of rustic calm. But things were not very calm that day because Winnie was stalking up and down in her pinny, her face as black as thunder.
‘Now, Winnie,’ I said, ‘what’s this all about?’
She repeated her story, pointing to the hordes of people on the Faulkners’ lawn. They were enjoying their meal, for it was a splendid situation.
For my part, I knew my official limitations so far as trespass was concerned — simple trespass is not a criminal offence, nor is it a police matter. It could enter the realms of criminal law if certain other factors were incorporated, such as the pursuit of game or when committing malicious damage. But if these people did not have the Faulkners’ authority, I felt I should at least try to remove them. I might be justified in so doing on the grounds that I was preventing a breach of the peace by Winnie!
As she fussed and grumbled, I spoke to the bus-drivers, who said they were simply obeying orders, and I then asked who was in charge of the party. They said it was a Mr Williamson, who was among the crowd by the river. With Winnie at my side, I set about locating him. My uniformed arrival caused something of a stir as I marched around and called for Mr Williamson. Eventually a nervous-looking individual with thin, light hair and rimmed spectacles disentangled himself from the crowd. In his early forties, he wore a green blazer and lighter green trousers, and I saw that most of the others in the party wore the same uniform. I now realized that the party comprised adults and young people mainly in their late teens. He faced me with a show of bravery and said, ‘I’m Stanley Williamson.’
After introducing myself, I explained the problem as I understood it, but he looked puzzled.
‘No, Mr Rhea, we have permission, I assure you. I got it from the headmaster.’
‘But it’s not his house. He can’t give permission.’ I pointed out. ‘The Faulkners are away, and I’m assured they have not agreed to this.’
‘They’d ’ave told me,’ chipped in Winnie Hilton at my side.
My chat with Mr Williamson revealed that this was a party of choristers and musicians from a Yorkshire public school. They were on their way to give a concert at Keldford Hall, which lay about an hour’s drive beyond Crampton. They were due there around 2.30 p.m. for rehearsals, and the concert was to begin at 6.30 p.m. after an early evening meal. The headmaster had suggested a break on the journey, hence the picnic lunch in the grounds of Meadow Cottage.
‘’E once came to stay here,’ announced Winnie.
‘Who did?’ I asked her.
‘That headmaster. He came for a weekend.’
‘So he knows the house and the Faulkners?’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Tim’s at school there.’
I now began to see the proverbial dim light at the end of the proverbial long tunnel. ‘Tim?’ I asked.
‘Their son, Timothy, ’e’s in the sixth form.’
‘That’s right,’ chipped in Mr Williamson. ‘He should have been here today, he plays the violin, but he couldn’t make it. He’s broken his finger, playing cricket . . .’
‘I think we’d better have words with the headmaster,’ I suggested. ‘Can we do it from the house?’ I put to Winnie.
With Williamson and Winnie at my side, I entered the splendid lounge, courtesy of Winnie’s key, and rang the sch
ool. Since it was a boarding school, the headmaster was available.
Upon my explaining the problem, he told me that when this concert had been first proposed, several months ago, he had asked Timothy Faulkner whether it would be agreeable if the choristers and orchestra halted at his parents’ house. Knowing the house and its grounds, the head felt it was the ideal point for a break in the long journey. Tim had said it would be fine. The head had expected him to clear this proposal with his parents — clearly, Tim had not bothered.
To give due credit to the headmaster, two or three days before finalizing his arrangements he had called Tim to his study to check that his parents had approved the proposal. Tim, not admitting he had forgotten to ask and wishing to keep faith with the head, and also knowing that his parents would be out of the country on the day, had confirmed the plans.
‘Obviously, Mr Rhea, there has been a breakdown in communication,’ he said, and I could sense his embarrassment.
‘So I’ve got a hundred trespassers in the grounds of an empty house,’ I told him and, with him still on the line, I relayed the explanation to Winnie.
‘That’s just t’sort o’ trick young Mr Tim would do,’ she sighed. ‘’E really is the limit . . .’
‘Can I suggest we allow these people to remain, provided they leave no mess?’ I put to her.
‘Aye,’ she nodded. ‘Seeing Mr Tim’s said so.’
And so the crisis was over.
As Winnie locked the house, I walked away with Mr Williamson, who said, ‘Thanks for sorting that out, Mr Rhea. The lady was upset.’
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 78