In my routine patrols as the village constable of Aidensfield, I had little cause to visit the Roman road, but my wife and I had taken the children to see it during one of my days off duty. It was not on my patch, although it did lie on the boundaries of the division in which I was stationed. For this reason, it was perfectly feasible that sooner or later I should have to deal with an incident up there. It happened one miserable, wet and foggy day in June and was to prove a most interesting and curious day’s work.
Even the initial inquiry contained a certain air of mystery. I was instructed to visit Ravenstone Farm on the edge of Wheeldale Moor, and there examine a tractor being used by the tenant farmer, a Mr Stanley Bayley. As the farm was very remote, I was provided with a map reference and was told that it overlooked Wheeldale Gill and that the road to it was rather rough.
‘Understood,’ I responded. ‘But what is the purpose of this vehicle-examination?’
‘We have received an anonymous call,’ Control informed me. ‘It suggests we examine the tractor being used at that address. No further details were given. The caller rang off. Over.’
‘Ten four.’ I gave the formal acknowledgement of the message and set about my task. This meant a rough drive along forest tracks, and it would be around noon when I reached the edge of Wheeldale Moor.
By now, the entire landscape was obliterated by a thick moorland fog, a ‘roak’ as it was locally known. Damp, wet and clinging, it deadened all the sounds of the moors as it eerily enveloped my little van. With headlights blazing, I chugged and bounced along the track. It was slow progress, for the road was rutted with deep holes and puddles; huge, bare stones protruded at intervals and threatened to tear off my exhaust system, and at times I had to drive onto the turf to circumnavigate a particularly rough stretch. I passed the southern tip of the Roman road and began to wonder if I was approaching the right place but a check on the map proved I was right. By 12.15, therefore, in clinging fog, I turned along a farm track, crossed a cattle grid and found myself in a farmyard which appeared to be full of brown hens, broken-down farm waggons and derelict implements.
There was no sign of human habitation.
In the clinging mist, the entire premises looked like a deserted homestead from a Gothic novel. A zinc bath full of water stood in the yard, with a goose on guard – it honked at my approach, but no one appeared; a rusting reaper stood abandoned in one corner, and several old ploughs and iron tractor wheels littered the yard. A thin, dirty cat peered at me from beneath a wooden trough, then scuttled away into an outbuilding, frightened when my foot kicked an empty tin. As I surveyed this desolate spot, I began to wonder if I was the victim of some kind of prank. Determined to find an answer, I made for the door of the house. It needed a few coats of paint, and there was no lock; it was held shut with a piece of string. There was a hole where the knob should be.
I rapped as loudly as I could, and shouted, ‘Anybody there?’
With some surprise and relief, I did get a response. Inside the house, I heard a door open and soon a man opened the door. In his late thirties and about my height, he was dressed in work clothes and smelled of cows; he had not shaved for days, his fair hair was matted and dank, and his hands were ingrained with the filth of months.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘The law.’
‘Mr Bayley?’
‘Aye,’ he said, not inviting me in.
‘Can I see your tractor?’ I asked.
‘What for?’ he put to me.
I laughed. ‘Look, I don’t know. I’ve been instructed to examine it.’ I hoped my own puzzlement would soften him. ‘Our office got an anonymous call …’
‘There’s some nosey buggers about. It’ll be some o’ them hikers we get in. They get lost, they come here looking for help … Come on, then, follow me. It’s in t’shed. It is taxed, thoo knows.’
He led me across the untidy yard into a dry building which was open on one side. The interior of the shed was even more untidy than the exterior, being filled with empty sacks and oil drums, but a small tractor was parked in one of the bays.
‘There she is,’ he said, with a certain pride in his voice. ‘Grand little lass is yon.’
It was. It was a lovely little Fergie, as these tiny Ferguson tractors were called. Painted a pleasing grey, it was surprisingly clean and well maintained. I guessed it was of the 1950s era. It had an exhaust which rose from the engine like a chimney, which meant it could operate in deep water. Huge semicircular mudguards covered the giant rear wheels. I found the tax disc and noted it was up-to-date, so I still wondered why I was staring at this delightful machine. And then, as I walked to the rear of it, I knew.
The seat was wrong. I remembered these tractors having a metal seat which was shaped to accommodate the backside of an average farmworker; with holes for ventilation, each seat was mounted on a tough horseshoe-shaped spring of steel. This gave some comfort to the roughest ride. But this tractor had no such seat. Instead, it bore an enormous and totally strange contraption with coloured wires and plastic pipes. It took only seconds for me to recognize it as a pilot’s ejector seat from a jet aircraft. As I stared at it, I recalled a crash on these moors several months ago. The pilot had been killed … wreckage had been strewn for miles.
‘This seat?’ I asked him.
‘Aye, Ah kem across it ower t’moor,’ he said. ‘Frev yon jet that crashed a while back … doon in t’gill, t’seat was, it had flown hundreds o’ yards from t’plane. Them RAF fellers never found it, so Ah thought it would be grand for me.’
And so, with some skilful adaptations and a spot of home welding, he had secured it to his tractor.
When I took a closer look, I was horrified.
‘Good God, Mr Bayley!’ I exclaimed as I scrutinized his very grand tractor seat. ‘This one is alive!’
‘Alive?’ he looked puzzled.
‘It’s an ejector seat,’ I explained. ‘When a pilot is crashing, he pulls a lever which detonates an explosive charge under this seat. That shoots off the canopy and propels the seat from the plane – with the pilot in it. Then he’s supposed to separate from it and parachute to safety. But this pilot didn’t manage that, did he? He didn’t eject. He was thrown out and killed, remember?’
‘Aye.’
‘So when the plane crashed, this seat must have been flung far enough … and it’s still full of explosive! See … the firing pin’s not been used. Now, whatever you do, don’t touch it. I’ll make it safe.’
‘Dis thoo mean ti say Ah’ve been sittin’ on yon pack o’ gunpowder and Ah could have been blown sky high?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Mr Bayley.’
The expression on his face was a joy to behold. Fortunately, police officers are instructed on the safe methods of dealing with ejector seats, and I knew exactly how to secure this one. I found the safety pin with its red label tucked into a side pocket and slipped it into position. Now the seat was safe; it would not explode. I found it amazing that it had survived intact like this.
‘What would really ’ave ’appened if yon thing ’ad gone off wi’ me sitting on it?’ he asked, still brooding over my initial comments.
‘I meant what I said,’ I told him. ‘It would have sent you hundreds of feet into the sky.’ I had to laugh now. ‘But with no parachute, you’d have come down with one hell of a bump – and the chances are you would have broken your back on landing, or maybe your neck in the process of being launched. In short, you could have been killed, Mr Bayley. Pilots are trained to use those seats – tractor-drivers aren’t.’
‘But thoo’ll not be arresting me for pinching it?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve received no complaint about a theft. Besides, it was lost. But I think I’d better call the RAF to come and remove the explosive charges, to make it safe. They might let you keep the seat.’
‘Thanks,’ he said with feeling, that feeling being one of relief.
‘It’s thanks to the anonymous caller,’ I reminded him. ‘Me
bbe hikers aren’t such a nuisance?’
‘Mebbe not,’ he grinned suddenly. ‘Ah might let ’em sleep in my barn from now on. Now, is thoo coming in for a drink, then?’
‘Aye,’ I said.
I first called the office on my radio and explained the problem. The duty sergeant said he would request the RAF to deal with the seat. I was then accompanied into the house and, in the custom of the moors, was invited to sit down for dinner, as lunch is called hereabouts. In spite of the state of the exterior, the kitchen was a model of cleanliness, thanks to the busy Mrs Bayley, and the meal was superb.
I left the farm an hour later, having sampled a tiny drop of the Bayley’s home-made beer. As I drove, I did wonder what on earth would have happened it that seat had launched Mr Bayley from his little Fergie. If nothing else, it would have surprised the grouse population, and I did wonder if Mr Bayley had ever flown …
But my day’s duty was not over. As I was returning along the pot-holed track beyond the farm, a middle-aged man hailed me. Clad in overalls and sporting a flat cap, he appeared out of the mist, which was now thinning but still of considerable density, and he waved me to a halt.
‘Ah saw you go up Ravenstone way,’ he said as I climbed out. ‘Ah thought Ah’d better wait and catch you on t’way back.’
‘Summat wrong?’ I asked.
‘Aye,’ he said. He explained that his name was Ernie Smallwood and that he was the warden for the Roman road, employed by the Ministry of Works. His job was to maintain the ancient road and keep it safe from modern predators. Then he told me, ‘There’s a chap sitting in my ’ut. Ah can’t get a word o’ sense out of ’im.’
‘Who is he?’ I asked. ‘One of your workmen?’
‘Nay, lad, there’s only me works this road. Ah think ’e’s a ’iker got lost. Ah reckon ’e doesn’t know where ’e is. ’E sounds a bit daft to me.’
‘Is he injured?’ I was contemplating the need for an ambulance and could call one via the radio before venturing along this ancient highway.
‘No, ’e doesn’t seem ’urt, just dazed.’
‘Right, I’ll come and have a look at him.’
Ernie led me along the uneven surface of this amazing road; perhaps it had once been smooth enough for chariots, but the ravages of centuries had rendered it rough and undulating. Nonetheless, the craftsmanship in its construction was evident, and I was very conscious that I was walking along a road built for the use of Roman soldiers about a century after Christ. The sense of history was almost overwhelming.
Ernie took me to his hut, which was a small wooden building like a garden shed. Perched on the moor beside the Roman road and overlooking one of the streams which trickled into Wheeldale Beck, it was painted dark green to blend with the moors. Behind it was a partition which contained a basic toilet, but the hut had no electricity or water, although it did provide a modicum of shelter and rest during Ernie’s lonely working hours. His bike was propped against the outside, and inside was a pair of old armchairs, a Calor-gas ring, kettle and tea-making equipment, along with a few other comforts such as paperbacks, magazines and tins of sweets. I also noticed some little carved stone animals. I was to learn that Ernie whiled away his time by sculpting animals from pieces of moorland stone – but he never used any from the road in his care! I spotted a realistic badger and squirrel among them.
Sitting in one of the armchairs was a pale, haggard man in his early thirties. A rucksack stood on the floor at his side; I saw it had a rolled-up sleeping-bag secured to the top. He was clad in hiking gear – large, well-oiled boots, thick socks and adequate sweaters completed his outfit, and he wore a white woolly hat. I could see strands of fair hair sticking from beneath it, around his ears and neck, and his pale blue eyes looked frightened and nervous. He sat almost as if he was in a stupor, and his hands were clasped on his lap. He had the typical appearance of a man in a state of shock.
‘Hello.’ I stood before him. ‘I’m PC Rhea, one of the local policemen. Can I help you?’
There was no response; it was as if he had not heard my voice. I tried again, but the outcome was the same.
‘E’s been like that since ’e got here,’ said Ernie, who stood at the door. ‘Not a word ’as ’e said. Nowt.’
I knew that one good remedy for shock was a cup of hot, sweet tea, so I asked Ernie if he would brew one. He smiled and agreed, going down to the beck to fill his kettle with pure moorland water. Soon it was singing on his gas ring. Although I repeatedly tried to make contact with the hiker, I got no response. Eventually I thrust a mug of tea into his hands and was pleased when he accepted it. He began to sip. I felt we had achieved a breakthrough!
‘Was he here when you got to work, Ernie?’
‘Not then,’ he said. ‘Ah got ’ere at eight, and there was no sign of ’im. Then Ah went along t’road, towards t’south end; it was my morning check, like Ah do every morning. Ah got back only a short while ago, for my dinner break. ’E was here then. Ah never lock t’doors, t’shed’s allus available in a storm. This lad was sitting there, just like ’e is now.’
I joined Ernie and the silent visitor in this most traditional of English rituals and was pleased to see that the fellow did lift the mug to his lips and drink. Ernie allowed me to use the other chair, and as we waited for the lad to recover, Ernie told me about his lonely task. I thought it must be the most curious job in Great Britain, being the lengthman on a Roman road. During this chat, I did not address the youth but did notice that he drank every drop of tea and that our calm chatter in his presence did seem to have created a new awareness in him.
‘Thanks,’ he said suddenly and without warning. He placed the empty mug on Ernie’s shelf. ‘Look, I’m sorry …’
‘That’s OK, so long as you’re safe and well,’ I said. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere? I’m heading back through Brantsford and Ashfordly.’
‘Where am I now?’ The lad blinked and took several deep breaths, exhaling long, loud rushes of air. It was as if he’d emerged from a coma.
‘Wheeldale Moor,’ I said.
‘I got lost last night, in the fog,’ he volunteered. ‘I was terrified … I must have walked all night … It was near dawn when I lay down near one of those streams but it was too cold … Then I found this old track and guessed it must lead somewhere. I walked along it, but was worn out, so I sat down for a rest, up there somewhere,’ and he waved his hands to indicate a distant part of the old road.
After a pause, he continued: ‘And then I went to sleep, I think; I had a funny dream … it frightened me. Then, this morning, after I woke up, I found this little shed and came in for a rest … I was shattered, really shattered … I hadn’t a clue where I was, out here …’
‘There’s a youth hostel further across the moor,’ I told him.
‘I wasn’t looking for hostels. I thought I could walk up here and find somewhere to sleep overnight, somewhere in the open, then make my way back today. Anyway, I’m safe.’
‘Will anyone be looking for you?’ I asked, wondering whether a search had already been instigated.
He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Look, could I have another cup of tea? I’m as dry as a bone …’
Ernie obliged. The lad went on to say he lived in Essex but was working on the railways, helping to plan the removal of the tracks along those lines which were to be closed following the 1963 Beeching Report. He had always wanted to see the moors but had had no idea they were so vast and that they could be so inhospitable in the middle of summer.
Now he was chattering quite amiably to Ernie and expressed surprise when Ernie said he’d never been on a train. I knew that was quite feasible – there were people on these moors who had never been out of their own dale, let alone on a train journey.
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘You must have thought I was odd … but, well, I was absolutely whacked, shocked rigid after last night. That tea worked wonders.’
‘I’d better have you checked at a hospital,’ I sugg
ested. ‘Shock is a funny thing.’
‘No, it’s not the fact I got lost,’ he said quietly. ‘It was my dream … well, I don’t think it was a dream. I still can’t believe it. Something woke me up, a noise I think, at dawn, and I remember sitting on this old track …’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Well, you might think I’ve been drinking or something, but I swear I haven’t. I’ve got to tell somebody. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’d been asleep, literally where I lay, even without my sleeping-bag, and this noise woke me. It was just breaking daylight, and it was misty, not as thick as it was later on, but quite hazy. I heard the noise. It was horses and carts, I thought …’
He paused and I could see perspiration on his pale forehead. This was clearly an effort. I wondered what kind of experience could have put him into such a state of shock. Then Ernie winked at me – I had no idea why, but we did not actively persuade the youth to continue. We allowed him to proceed at his own pace as he sipped the second mug of tea. Then he went on with his tale.
‘Well, I sat up. I was still on that old road, near the edge, and very tired. I’m sure I was awake … anyway, I looked into the mist, thinking it was a local farmer coming along but there were these two chariots … racing … four horses on each one … a man driving each, one with a red tunic and one with a green one … they had helmets on and were whipping the horses towards me. Well, I dived out of the way and they came swishing past. I could hear a crowd cheering somewhere in the mist. The noise of the chariot wheels was amazing, rattling along those rough stones on that track out there, and the men, cursing in a language I couldn’t understand … the horses panting, harness rattling …’
‘And they disappeared into t’roak?’ suggested Ernie.
‘Roak?’ the lad was puzzled.
‘Fog, the morning mist.’
‘Yes, they did. I mean, I know I wasn’t asleep, I know I was awake, but they don’t have chariot races up here, do they?’
Constable among the Heather Page 3