Constable Across the Moors

by Nicholas Rhea

  With no more ado, Sergeant Blaketon instructed me to accompany him and we set off to enforce the law upon the impudent recluse. Sergeant Blaketon was at his bristling best, eager for the opportunity to come to terms with the eccentric man and he had the necessary forms in his briefcase. With the confidence of his kind, we could not fail. I enjoyed the trip across the forbidding moors, through avenues of pines and silver birches and across rippling streams. I had time to admire the outstanding views as we cruised into the remote valley which was the old man’s home.

  We pulled up at the farm gate and parked the car on the spot I’d found the Income Tax man’s Ford Prefect all those weeks ago.

  “You remain here, Rhea,” instructed Sergeant Blaketon. “This is a task for a mature officer. It needs the skill of someone with deep experience and an understanding of the human mind. If two officers walk to that door, it will unnerve the fellow, so I will approach alone. I will take the renewal forms with me, and I will politely ask him to complete them as prescribed by the Firearms Act, 1937. Observe my approach, Rhea, and learn by my manner.”

  “Certainly, Sergeant,” and I watched with bated breath as he tried to open the gate, but it had been tied with rope after our recent visit. He had to climb over, not the most impressive of actions by a man of his calibre, but soon he was striding manfully and majestically along the track to the distant front door. I watched with fascination and anticipation. Men like Sergeant Blaketon, with a wealth of experience beneath their belts, could certainly teach youngsters like me how to deal with the great British public. I had a lot to learn.

  I observed him striding confidently towards the house, but as he approached, I noticed the familiar grey hair and beard emerge from an upstairs window. I did not shout a warning – I couldn’t, for I was in the car some distance away, but Charlie must have said something to the striding sergeant because he halted in his tracks and looked up at the bedroom window.

  I saw the barrel of the shotgun appear across the window sill, and it was quite evident that Charlie was issuing threatening words towards my sergeant. It was equally clear that my sergeant thought he was joking.

  As a multitude of past visitors had come to appreciate, the Recluse of Rannockdale never joked with people who trespassed on his land, even if they were clad in the resplendent uniform of a British police sergeant. Having given Sergeant Blaketon his marching orders, and having had those orders repudiated by a stubborn, rule-bound sergeant, Charlie resorted to the only means at his disposal. He pulled the trigger.

  A barrage of lead shot spattered the ground alarmingly close to Sergeant Blaketon’s feet and it caused lots of little eruptions of earth. It was rapidly followed by a second barrel, at which more earth erupted about Sergeant Blaketon. Charlie shouted something at him and I saw Sergeant Blaketon change his mind about staying to talk. I saw him do something I’ve never seen him do before or since. He started to run.

  To see a figure of the majesty of Oscar Blaketon in full flight with repeated barrages of lead pellets spurring him on his way, is indeed a rare sight. It was more so because he was holding his cap on with one hand and clutching the firearms certificate renewal forms in the other. He reached the car by leaping across the gate with a single bound, and he collapsed at my side as I moved into the driving seat. He was panting like a broken-winded horse, and perspiration was swilling down his cheeks and neck. I’ve never seen him in such a state of panic, and his breathing was tortuous as he signalled me to drive rapidly away. I drove off and saw the grey-haired old buzzard waving his gun in triumph.

  “The man’s an idiot,” Sergeant Blaketon gasped when he regained some of his breath. “An absolute idiot. I’ll get him certified, Rhea, so I will.”

  He lapsed into a long silence as I drove steadily back to Ashfordly where I knew his wife would have his lunch ready. He didn’t speak any more until I pulled into the police station car park.

  “Rhea, if you mention this to anybody, I’ll have you transferred to Gunnerside.”

  And with that parting remark, he walked away, not quite so erect and certainly more dishevelled than he had been at the start of this enterprise. I wondered what I had learned from his demonstration of human understanding, but I never told a soul about it.

  6

  “It is a silly game where nobody wins.”

  Thomas Fuller 1608–1661

  It would be remiss of me to suggest that a rural policeman’s job is all work and no play. Certainly, in my time as a village constable the position demanded a twenty-four-hour responsibility even though our duty sheets showed that we worked eight-hour shifts. In truth, an eight-hour day was a rarity because people called or rang with problems, and it was understood that we attended to all matters that came our way, even though we were officially off duty or on leave.

  Only for special tasks were we instructed to work more than eight hours. The public didn’t know this – they simply arrived at the door to complain of being raped or robbed and we had to attend. To win time off in lieu, however, was most difficult. Supervisory checks were made of our daily tally of hours worked and woe betide us if we were shown to have worked less than an eight-hour day. The bits we worked over the eight were lost to us; we donated them to the uncaring public.

  Even so, we were allocated days off duty. On the duty sheets, they were shown as RD which means Rest Day, and they moved forward two at a time, being Monday/Tuesday one week, Wednesday/Thursday the next, Friday/Saturday after that, with Sunday/Monday to follow, ad infinitum. As this ritual progressed, it became a great achievement to secure a Saturday/Sunday weekend off duty. On this kind of rota system, Saturday/Sunday weekends came around very infrequently, and were consequently cherished as a gift from the gods, or perhaps from Sergeant Blaketon. In practice, however, something always happened to cause our Saturday/Sunday weekends to be altered. Some incident would occur through which it became necessary to work on those sacred days, and this served only to galvanise us into positive action designed to secure that cherished time off.

  Sergeant Blaketon was noted for his ability to find excuses to cancel our weekends off. He had a thing about policemen working when no one else did, such as Sunday evenings, Monday mornings very early, Good Fridays and a host of other occasions which he dredged from his years of compiling police duty sheets. He appeared to think it was good for us. After a while, we learned to tolerate his quirks and we came around to the notion of never expecting a proper weekend off. When one did arrive, it was a bonus rather than a right, and we all know how pleasant it is to receive the occasional bonus.

  Through working almost every Saturday/Sunday, however, the discerning constable begins to yearn for a weekend off and contemplates the best ways of getting his weekends free. One of those ways was, and still is, to participate in police sport. Basing my logic on the understanding that if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, I renewed my acquaintanceship with the sporting section of my local constabulary.

  Being a Yorkshireman, this meant playing cricket. All Yorkshiremen are supposed to play cricket and any who fail to reach a passable stage in this most remarkable of rural games are not considered genuine Yorkshiremen. I had reasoned that if I wanted a Saturday off duty now and again, to be with my growing family, the easiest guarantee was to join the Divisional Cricket Team. If I did this, I would be sent to play at selected rural pitches within our Division, and I could take along my wife and four tiny supporters. We’d all get an airing.

  With this devious plan at the back of my mind, I singled out the cricket captain of our Division. I had to wait several weeks in the spring, but one fine April evening, I came across him in Eltering Police Station. I had popped in to record someone’s production of an insurance certificate and driving licence. Sergeant Alex Benwell was there, checking some Court Sheets. He was my passport to free weekends.

  “Evening, Sergeant,” I removed my cap and hung it on a peg near the back entrance, trusting my greeting was affable and warm.

  “Now, lad,” he
grunted while fingering down a long list of defendants due to appear at next week’s Eltering Magistrates’ Court.

  I felt it unwise to disturb him for he was clearly engaged upon a matter of grave importance, but he broke the ice by saying, “Put the kettle on, will you?”

  “Yes, sergeant,” I acquiesced for the sake of free Saturdays. In no time, the leaky station kettle was singing and I had found some stained mugs and a tin containing tea leaves. I produced a useful brew in an earthenware teapot with a cracked spout, and waited for him to leave his Court Sheets. Soon he came into the tiny rest room, smiled and sat on a rickety chair.

  “Now, lad,” he said for the second time. “Good brew, is it?”

  “Like my mother makes,” I said, realising he had no idea what sort of tea my mother makes. I poured a generous mugful which he inspected carefully before sipping noisily.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Aye, not bad at all. Your mother sounds as though she knows summat about making tea.”

  “She likes a strong pot,” I agreed. “The sort that a spoon can stand up in.”

  He laughed loudly, “Aye, we used to call it tonsil varnish when I was in the Army. It was powerful stuff.”

  He sipped again, and then eyed me carefully. “Rhea, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sergeant. I’m at Aidensfield, the new man there.”

  “You sound like a Yorkshireman?” he said, his heavy face studying me.

  “I am,” I confirmed with deep pride. “Born and bred in Eskdale, I’m as Yorkshire as anyone can be.”

  “Then you’ll play cricket,” he said by way of a statement rather than a question.

  He’d introduced the subject! Him, not me. I recognised my golden opportunity to get into the team.

  “Yes,” I said confidently. “I was captain of our village lads’ team, and used to play in the second team as an adult.”

  I daren’t admit I’d never scored more than fifteen, and wasn’t a very good fielder or bowler …

  “If you’re a Yorkshireman,” he was saying, “you’ll do for us. Next Saturday? What are you doing next Saturday?”

  “Has the season started?” I asked.

  “Week after,” he slurped his tea and smacked his lips. “By, you make a sound brew, young man. Next week, we’re practising. Down at Eltering nets here, on the town playing fields. Saturday afternoon.”

  “I’m on late turn,” I told him. “That rules me out.”

  “Who allocated that shift to a cricketer?” he bellowed. “No cricketer gets a late turn on a Saturday. I’ll have words with old Blaketon. From now on, you don’t work late on Saturdays. So be at the nets at two o’clock.”

  “Yes, sergeant, but suppose Sergeant Blaketon won’t change my duties?”

  “He will,” was all he said, draining the dregs with his customary noise. “Thanks for the tea, lad. What’s your first name?”

  “Nick,” I said.

  “Nick,” he repeated, getting up from his chair. He was a massive man with a huge girth and legs like tree trunks. He almost waddled from the tea room, but his jovial face revealed a soft, gentle nature beneath his hard exterior. He seldom visited our stations, for he was the town sergeant over at Staddleton, a market town just inside our Divisional boundaries. Only infrequently did he venture into our Section, and I’d been fortunate enough to meet him.

  I found myself wondering how he could run and field, for men of this size were notably ungainly, and he seemed to move with ponderous lethargy across the office. But he was a contact worth cultivating and I chattered away to him, discussing the job and his views on how rural bobbies should operate. He talked a lot of sense and I liked him from the start.

  Later that evening, I met Sergeant Blaketon at a point in Thackerston, and told him all was quiet. I must be brave and broach the subject of cricket …

  “Oh,” I said, hoping my expression would excuse the nature of my forthcoming request. “Oh, Sergeant, I met Sergeant Benwell at Eltering earlier this evening.”

  He eyed me with considerable suspicion.

  “And?” He gazed at me through those dark eyes and fierce eyebrows, his face not revealing one iota of his thoughts.

  “He wants me to play cricket for the Divisional team,” I rushed out the words, “and says he wants me to attend practice at Eltering nets next Saturday afternoon.”

  “Did he now?”

  He lapsed into an unhealthy silence, and I didn’t know how to continue. Was I supposed to press home my point?

  I waited for what seemed an eternity and decided I must make the next move. “He asked if you would change my duties,” I said weakly.

  “Rhea, you ought to know better than listen to Alex Benwell. You know what he’s like …”

  “Like?” I asked, innocently.

  “Yes, like. You’ve seen him? The size of him?”

  I nodded.

  “Beer. That’s the result of years of drinking gallons of beer, and all at cricket matches. Cricket’s not a sport for him, Rhea, it’s an excuse to go boozing on a Saturday night. That’s how he gets out of Saturday night duties, Rhea; puts it all down to sport. Just because the Superintendent’s a member of the Yorkshire Cricket Club … you didn’t approach him, then? You didn’t seek him out to fix this for you?”

  “No, sergeant.”

  “Not like some I know,” he said without halting for breath. “Some less honourable members of this section always wheedle their way into the cricket team to avoid Saturday duties, Rhea It means the rest of us, me included, have to do their duties for them, week in and week out …”

  “He asked if I could attend the nets, Sergeant. I suppose he wants to see me play.”

  “All right, if that’s all. Nets it is. Next Saturday – you don’t play football, do you?”

  “Not really, sergeant,” I had to admit.

  “Now that’s my game, Rhea. Pure English football. I play football in the winter, you know. To keep fit. That’s a real game, a real sport, a real contest …”

  He was making a note in his pocket book, reminding himself to change the duty sheets. “Don’t make this a habit, Rhea. I know you are not a skiver who wants only to have each Saturday off …”

  “No, sergeant, not at all. It’s just that Sergeant Benwell suggested it …”

  “I don’t like that man,” said Sergeant Blaketon, closing his book. He drove away with a heavy and worried frown on his handsome face.

  I enjoyed my session at the nets. There would be some fifteen off-duty policemen there, all testing their new boots, their freshly laundered whites and their muscles. I had a go at bowling and found my old skills returning, although my efforts with a bat weren’t particularly promising. I fielded one or two nice balls and spent a very enjoyable three hours. Mary had come with me, chiefly for the outing in our car with the family, and the three elder ones spent the afternoon running about while I kept half an eye on them. Mary and the baby popped into town to do some shopping.

  It wasn’t a bad arrangement, but Mary was quite firm about accompanying me. She was determined to come with me upon every trip because it would give her a Saturday outing with me, and in some senses it would make our life resemble that of normal weekend people.

  However, the outcome of my first practice was that I was selected for the Divisional Police team to play in the Ryedale League. Our opponents would be teams from the villages of the district. Because the police had no home ground, we begged and borrowed fields from other clubs and because Eltering was the most central, we were allowed to use it whenever Eltering had an away game. That became our Home ground, the Away grounds being remote villages and hamlets in the moors and dales.

  It would be impossible to describe the sheer enjoyment we experienced at those villages, but our match against Brantgate First Eleven one Saturday in June typifies our experiences. This can be taken as the sort of match in which we engaged. It was an Away match for us, which meant we had to tolerate Brantgate’s unique pitch. I had never played there, but my
colleagues assured me a treat was in store.

  Sergeant Benwell collected several of us at Eltering Police Station and I was surprised to find myself being transported in a battered old ambulance. This was his cricket coach, the vehicle he used to ferry himself and his pals to distant matches. Mary had decided not to come because Elizabeth was feeling off colour, so I decided to travel with the others and give her the use of our car, should she need it.

  The retired ambulance rumbled and rolled across the countryside and we climbed steeply into the depths of the moors. Half an hour later, we were trundling merrily across the heights with staggering views spread below our lofty route. We could look down upon a multitude of deep valleys and admired the sheer breathtaking splendour of it all. The glaciers of old had done a wonderful sculpture job on those hills.

  “Down here,” announced Alex Benwell, as he turned into a narrow lane. His route dropped sharply from elevated moorland road, turned left down the sheer side of a valley, then twisted and wove between high drystone walls. We drove slowly down the 1-in-3 gradient, the old truck groaning in low gear towards the bottom. Down there nestled the hamlet of Brantgate, a sleepy moorland collection of farms and cottages.

  Suddenly, we rounded a blind corner and there, right across the road, was a five-bar gate. Its purpose was to prevent the free-ranging moorland sheep from invading the village gardens, and as we approached it, Sergeant Benwell pressed his foot on the brake. Nothing. Nothing happened.

  “Brakes have gone!” he shouted as we began to gather speed. The monster gate loomed closer and I saw him grip the steering wheel firmly between both hands. Then I felt the ancient vehicle rapidly accelerate. He’d put his foot on the accelerator and we roared towards the stout gate. The nose of the heavy vehicle rammed it amidships, and the gate flew open with a crash. The force of it sent the latch flying over one wall and while the gate stood wide open for a fraction of a second, we hurtled through. The gate, as if on springs, rebounded from the wall and slammed shut. But we were through and were now careering headlong down the continuing gradient. Benwell knew the road and he was a first-class driver; he had to be, to guide the brakeless old truck down this steep, winding lane. By the grace of God, nothing was coming up the hill; there was no room to pass even a bike. By knowing his vehicle so well, and being such a fine steersman, he suddenly turned the wheel and we roared off the road into a long field. He allowed the low gears to control the forward rush and after about a hundred yards, the ambulance eased to a smooth halt. Seven cricketers emerged, some feeling sick and others marvelling at his motoring skills. But Benwell was unruffled.