Constable Across the Moors

by Nicholas Rhea

  I had an Ordnance Survey map in my panniers, one I always carried, and after a quick cup of tea with Sergeant Blaketon, I climbed into my cold, stiff motor-cycling outfit and trundled into the bitterness of this cold February morning.

  Outside, I had the world to myself. The roads were covered with a smooth white layer of new-fallen snow and they stretched interminably ahead of me. Riding carefully and treating my expedition as a test of motor-cycling skill, I covered the long miles at a reasonable pace. The heavily trod tyre on the rear wheel bit into the soft, virgin snow and the delicate surface presented no real hazard. The disturbed snow flew about me in a fine cloud, clinging to my suit and my face, and enveloping most of my machine in the purest of shrouds.

  Surprisingly, I was not cold. Although the morning was bitter in the extreme, it was a dry cold, something on the lines I imagined in Antarctica or Alaska, and my unfailing efforts to retain my balance and to keep the Francis Barnett moving forward made me perspire deep inside my heavy layers of protective clothing. My face, however, was cold; the biting wind of a new dawn attacked my cheek bones and nose, and it battered my ears.

  But I cared not, for I was enjoying myself. I gloried in the experience of an uncluttered highway, for there was not a vehicle to be seen. I wondered at the silence beyond, the privacy of a new dawn in the moorlands of the North Riding, and I was flushed with pride at winning my contest with the slithering bike beneath me.

  Soon after six thirty, I left the valley and climbed to the heights. Knowing how rapidly the winter snows obliterated the elevated landscape, I turned off the main road with some trepidation, and as the dry winds moved the light snow around in whirls and drifts, I found myself having to take fierce survival action. When I was confronted by a thick drift, I would kick my way deep into it while astride the bike, somehow holding it upright with the other foot. Then I would trundle the bike backwards, and accelerate many times towards the obstruction, literally bulldozing my way through.

  Usually it worked. I would hurtle into a deep drift at a fair speed, and after repeated efforts, the bike often carried me to the other side. Through this kind of energetic progress, I reached the turn-off point for Swairdale Forest.

  This was one of the extremities of the boundary in which I had to patrol to hunt the Russian during the coming twelve hours. I turned into the narrow, snow-filled lane and this took me deep into the forest. The road was bordered by tall pines and soft larches, interspersed with bare silver birches and some heavy broom shrubs. As I dropped from the exposed moorland road, there was less snow on the ground, much of it being caught in the evergreens above me. The trees were thick with suspended snow and as my motor cycle roused the sleeping birds, they moved off, startled by the noise but more startled when large dollops of snow fell on them. They fell on me too; it was like being bombarded from above by dozens of children hiding aloft with arms full of well-aimed snowballs. Maybe the Russian was up there? Perhaps he was aiming snowballs at the defending forces? I’d get him if he was!

  I glanced skywards with a smirk on my face and fell off my motor cycle.

  Through not concentrating on my route, I was late into a twisting corner at a point where the road turned left and dropped suddenly and steeply. The whole episode was deeply embarrassing. I hoped the Russian wasn’t watching.

  The motor cycle, with its engine roaring, back wheel spinning and lights blazing, began its independent descent of that hill. I was nowhere near it. It slithered away, and was kept on the road by the high sides and the drifting snow. As I staggered to my feet, I watched my transport hurtling noisily down this one-in-three gradient and I began to follow. In my eagerness, I moved far too quickly. My feet left me; by some unaccountable feat of gymnastics, both my feet left the ground at the same moment and elevated themselves to waist level. Somehow, they stuck out in front of me and pointed at nothing in particular. Momentarily, therefore, I was suspended in mid-air surrounded by snowflakes, and then I abruptly descended. My well-cushioned rump connected with the slippery slope and the smooth rubbery nature of the motor cycle suit was totally incapable of gripping the ice beneath me.

  I started to slither down the hill. I was in hot pursuit of my motor bike and wondered if I would gain on it, or even catch it! Its weight and roaring engine kept it sliding majestically onwards but I was moving at a fair pace too. I was kicking my legs in the air, waving my arms and trying my best to seize something which might act as a brake. But I was too far into the centre of the road. Nothing came to my aid, and there was no way I could halt this downward race. In fact, I think my automatic gesticulations served only to speed me forward.

  The wind rushed about my face and ears, and I remember seeing hints of daylight through the thick trees. I remember noticing the flashes of its headlight as the plunging motor cyle followed its pre-determined route and I realised there were better ways of spending my time before seven o’clock on a morning. Then there was a tremendous crash as my bike collided with a milk stand.

  Three large milk churns were standing like sentinels on that stand. They were empty and awaiting collection this morning, but as my rampaging motor cycle assaulted the stand, two of the churns rolled off some yards ahead of me. They now began to roll down the hill. They rattled and bounced until their lids fell off and rolled in their wake. The din was awful. The clanging of the churns, the roar of the motor cycle engine and my shouting caused wild birds to race to safety from an unknown enemy, and their urgent flappings sent huge dollops of snow from the trees. It was snowing snowballs that morning.

  I sailed past the milk stand in fine style. I must have been doing a good twenty miles an hour on my bottom, and I was reminded of my childhood sledging days, except I didn’t have a sledge. I could not stop; I followed the erratic route of the milk churns and noticed one of the lids bounce into the woodland and vanish. The other continued to roll downhill, bouncing like a child’s runaway hoop.

  As I continued downhill, I realised the motor cycle had stopped and I could hear its engine behind me. It was now stationary in its garage beneath the milk stand, and eventually I halted. I terminated my journey quite sedately and quite smoothly in a dumpy holly bush which grew from the side of the road. As I closed my eyes to lessen the drama, I vanished into the depths of this prickly-leafed plant and found myself wrapped awkwardly about its sturdy trunk.

  The milk churns continued for a further distance and rattled to an eventual halt somewhere out of sight. I ceased worrying about the churns and concentrated upon extricating myself from the embraces of the holly bush. It was not too difficult because I’d smashed a lot of branches on the way in but the road surface was treacherous. This was the root of my continuing problem. It was like glass; I guessed rain had fallen last night, or snow had melted on the road surface, and the night’s frost had frozen it solid. The light covering of snow had done the rest, and tons of snow remained up there, to be knocked down by terrified birds. Dollops continued to tumble from the pines as I gathered myself together.

  I could hear my motor cycle phut-phutting somewhere out of sight, and began to make my panting, breathless way back up the hill. I fell several times. My feet refused to grip the surface under any circumstances, and I spent several minutes propelling myself forwards with rapid movements of my feet, only to find I hadn’t progressed at all. So I took to the trees.

  My eyesight had become adjusted to the gloom of the forest, and by using healthy young conifers as bannisters, I gradually hauled myself up the slope towards the bike. By now, it had stopped phut-phutting, but the lights still burned and guided me towards it.

  My only problem was getting across the road. Gingerly, I left the security of my trees and stepped on to the steep, treacherous surface. And my feet whipped away once again. Down I went, hitting my backside on the ice and once more spun down the icy slope. This time, I was twisting and turning like a spinning-top as my arms and legs acted like flails and completely failed to halt me. I thought of milk churns, holly bushes, holes in the se
at of my pants and Sergeant Blaketon’s Russian as I hurtled once more to the foot of the slope. I concluded this second journey in the same holly bush in approximately the same state as before. I spent some time sitting in that bush pondering my next move.

  I couldn’t leave the bike because it contained my soup and flask, and it also bore the radio which was my lifeline. I could wait until dawn and the possibility of a snowplough and gritter, although I knew the ploughs arrived here about twelve noon. They had to clear miles of major roads and visit umpteen villages before bothering with such remote areas as this. I could spread gravel or salt upon the ice, but I had no shovel …

  Besides, it was still dark and I could not see very well, although dawn was not far away. I made my decision. I would try again.

  This time, I made my nervous crossing of the road at a point very close to the friendly holly bush, and found I could make progress if I walked on all fours. If one foot slipped, the other and my two hands coped with the situation, and so I gained the other side of the road. There, I copied my earlier climb. I clung to the trunks of small conifers as I hauled myself through the thickening snow towards my precious flasks of soup and coffee aboard the stricken motor bike.

  I made it. In the grey light of the coming dawn, I could distinguish the outline of the rough wooden table which had borne the milk churns, and beneath it was my fallen machine. The headlight and tail light still burned brightly and spread a patch of warm orange and red on to the snow. The lights also showed that it was still snowing. I gingerly stepped on to the verge and by holding on to the side of the stand, found I could maintain an upright position. I was making good progress.

  My next task was to haul the bike from its resting place. Luckily, the Francis Barnetts of that ilk were not too heavy and the ice beneath it enabled me to drag it clear of the stand. By pressing my body against the milk stand, I could lever myself into a position where I could seize the fallen machine and haul it to its wheels. I coped surprisingly well and propped it against the milk stand. So far, so good.

  Next I examined it. With a torch taken from the panniers, I found the machine had fallen on to the side which contained the tools and spare clothing, and so my soup and coffee flasks were intact. There was a scrub mark down one of the leg shields, and the windscreen was broken about halfway up. I never found the missing bit.

  But otherwise, the machine was in surprisingly good condition, and perfectly capable of being ridden. Dare I ride it down the hill? Or should I wait until the roadmen came with grit and salt?

  But when hunting Russian spies, one does not wait for British workmen. So I decided, in the interests of the security of the nation, to guide my motor cycle to the bottom of this tricky slope.

  It would be best to ride it, I decided, but I would sit astride in a low gear with my feet on the road surface, and allow the gears to hold the machine at a low speed as I allowed it to find its own way to the bottom. Gravity would achieve a lot, I reckoned.

  And so, having checked it thoroughly once more, I gingerly sat astride, by using the security of the milk stand, kicked it into life and moved off. I eased it most carefully on to the snow-covered ice which now served as a road, and smiled to myself. Everything was going fine, just fine.

  Then it slipped. Without any warning, the front wheel Slithered away and I clung to the handlebars as the bike fell over yet again. It dislodged me, but I wasn’t going to be deterred so easily. I hung on.

  I am not sure how I managed it but I found myself squatting on my haunches, with both feet firmly on the ground, hanging on to the handlebars of the bike which lay beside me. Its footrest, pannier and leg shield were bearing its weight and it was sliding smoothly down the hill, taking me with it. And so we moved like that.

  The bike continued its descent through the trees with me steering from my squatting position almost beneath it. I partly supported its weight as I hung on for grim death, and we sailed down that slope in fine style, the bike’s light picking out the trees, a milk churn lid half way up a fir tree, the trail of one churn leading deep into the forest and the lofty trunks which supported a canopy of thick snow. But we made it.

  My bike and I safely negotiated that steep hill in our outlandish style and we glided to a smooth standstill at the base, very little worse for our experience. I must have lost some material from the seat of my pants and from the soles of my boots, and the bike had shed half a windscreen and some slivers of paint. Some petrol had spilled out too, but the engine worked and the lights lit my route ahead. I was mobile.

  I had no idea how I would climb back up that hill or up any other hill, but that was some time in the future. Right now, I could continue my journey deep into the forest, hunting the Russian and serving my nation with unstinted loyalty.

  The Forest of Swairdale occupies a large tract of land in the bottom of that valley. Planted by the Forestry Commission, it comprises row upon row of immaculate pines, spruce and larch, all in symmetrical rows. Nothing else grows beneath them, and they cover the land with a deep blanket of dead pine needles, through which very little grows, other than a few fungi and blades of brave grass. As a moorland valley, it would be no good for agricultural produce, so its reclamation years ago from heather and bracken had been beneficial due to the timber it currently provided.

  Indeed, a little village community flourished here. Due to the work brought to the valley by the Forestry Commission, a group of people live and work deep in the forest. They occupy cosy wooden homes which look like log cabins, and the community has a post office-cum-shop with an off-licence for liquor. Having arrived safely in Swairdale, I parked my machine near a gate and performed a walk-about patrol. It was half-past seven and the place was coming to life.

  I spent an hour or more in the village, drinking coffee in a forestry worker’s cosy home, finding the farmer to whom to apologise about his milk churns, and asking everyone to let me know if they noticed a Russian skulking in the woods. By eight o’clock, I had warned everyone, and returned to the motor cycle.

  The radio was calling me.

  I responded; it was Sergeant Blaketon.

  “Location please, Rhea,” he asked, speaking through the courtesy of Control Room via a system known as Talk-Through.

  “Swairdale,” I said.

  “Down in the valley, you mean?”

  “Down in the valley, sergeant,” I confirmed with some pride.

  “I never thought you’d make it this weather,” was his remark.

  “Neither did I, sergeant.”

  “Look, Rhea, you know the Moorcock Inn?”

  “I do, Sergeant.”

  It was not far from here as the crow flies, but in fierce moorland weather, it would be isolated and beyond the reach of anyone. It would be like riding to the North Pole.

  “I want you to call there,” he said softly.

  “I’ll never get there, sergeant, not in these conditions,” I protested.

  “It’s vital, Rhea, very important. You must make the effort, and that’s an order.”

  “Is the Russian there?” I put to him.

  “No, but there’s a bus load of businessmen lost up there. They went to Strensford last night for a conference at the Royal Hotel, and haven’t returned home. We checked, and they’ve left the Royal Hotel, but they haven’t got home to Bradford. We can’t make contact with the Moorcock Inn because the telephone cables are down, due to the weight of snow. Seeing you’re in the area, we thought you might pop in to see if they’re there. Lives could be at risk if they’re not located.”

  “But it will take hours, sergeant!” I tried to protest.

  “Then get going immediately, Rhea. Look, you’d better do something – one of those missing men is the Chief Constable’s brother.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said.

  At first, I thought there was no way to the Moorcock other than by the hill down which I had travelled so dramatically with the milk churns and burning trousers, but I pulled the map from my pannier and exami
ned it. My boundaries were clearly defined, and as I pored over the details, I discovered a forest track which led from Swairdale high on to the hills. It cut through the dense trees and then crossed the open moor at a point close to the summit, emerging at the top of a steep hill. The Moorcock Inn lay mid-way down that hill on the main road to Strensford.

  I knew the forest route would be rough and for that reason it would provide traction for my wheels. Beneath the trees, there would be a minimum of snow. Having satisfied myself that the Russian was not lurking in Swairdale, I set forth upon my diversion to the isolated inn.

  Surprisingly, the trek was possible. The heavy snow had failed to penetrate the ceiling provided by the conifers, and although a light covering did grace the route, it was negotiable without undue difficulty. I trekked high into the forest, standing on the footrests and using the machine in the manner of a trials rider. The action kept me warm and cosy, and after two miles of forest riding, I saw the summit ahead of me. A tall wire fence ran across the skyline and this marked the end of the woodland; beyond were untold square miles of open moor.

  My forest track ran towards a gate in the fence and I halted there to open it. I checked again for the Russian – there was not a mark in the snow; no spies had passed this way. In fact, no one had passed this way. I went to open the gate.

  It was locked.

  A stout iron chain was wrapped around the tree trunk which formed the gatepost, and the chain was secured with a gigantic padlock. There was no way through. And the fence stretched out of sight in both directions.

  I was completely stuck. I could ride all the way back to Swairdale but would never negotiate that steep hill to regain the main road; besides, that route emerged miles from here. I hoisted the bike on to its stand and walked along this perimeter fence, but there were no breaks. It had been erected recently and was totally motor cycle proof. Then I had an idea.