Constable Across the Moors

by Nicholas Rhea

  He kicked the front wheels and said calmly, “It’s never done that before,” then walked off to the pavilion.

  We followed, the other police players having made their own way to Brantgate. The pavilion was little more than a decorated hen-house, but we managed to change into our whites and find somewhere to spread open the cricket bag with its pads, balls, bats, bails and score book. As we busied ourselves for a practice session, the Brantgate captain came in.

  “Now then,” he said gruffly. “Most of you fellers are newcomers, aren’t you?”

  “Eight or nine of ’em,” confirmed Alex Benwell, tying his laces.

  “Then you’d better come with me,” said the captain, “and I’ll explain the rules.”

  “Rules?” I queried, wondering if I had heard the word correctly. I was under the impression that all games of cricket were played with the same rules.

  “Local rules,” said Alex Benwell. “Go out and listen to him.”

  We obeyed and the dour Yorkshireman, whose cricket gear comprised a white shirt and grey flannels fortified by a pair of stained white boots, led us away. We followed through long grass for a considerable distance and he halted on a neatly shorn piece of land. It was twenty-two yards long by about ten feet wide. All around was long grass, knee high in places and I noted the outfield was surrounded by an electric fence. Furthermore, it was impossible to see one of the boundaries because the pitch had been hewn out of a steep sloping hillside. The pitch was the only flat part of the field; above it, the outfield rose steeply towards a wooden fence several yards distant, and the electric fence was mid-way up that slope.

  “Now then,” said the captain. “I’m Jake Foston, captain of this team. This is our cricket pitch – I allus fetches new lads out to have a look at it because it’s not a normal one. It’s a good pitch, mind, takes spin very well and is as level as a billiard table top. Our lads have done some good work. But yon outfield is a bit brant.”

  I knew this was the dialect word for steep, and could see how the village got its name.

  “Now, we can’t help that. Nature’s made this field and nature’s got to be respected. Out in mid-field there’s an electric fence, that’s to keep cows off this pitch. It’s switched off now, but you’ll have to watch it if you have to chase a ball. Leap over it if you can – it’s nobbut a couple of foot high. Beyond that there’s the real boundary, and yon railings mark it. Through there is six.”

  “You mean over there, surely?” asked someone from our side.

  “Nay, through is six. If a ball goes through there, our lads could run ten or fifteen while you find t’ball among t’nettles. So we play fair and allow six. If you clout it over that fence, then it’s eight.”

  I began to wonder what sort of signals the umpires would use to signify these scores, and also how our scorer would record these runs, but Jake thundered on.

  “Down t’hill,” he said, “you’ll not see t’boundary because it’s out o’sight. You’ll need a feller down there to call back the score. He’ll have to be a bit sharp because he’ll not be able to see t’batsmen nor can he know when t’ball’s heading his way. So you lads will have to yell at him. ‘Ball’s coming,’ or summat like that. ‘Left or right a bit.’ He’ll soon cotton on.”

  Jake paused to allow us to think about that part of the game, then he continued, “Beyond yon electric fence there’s lots of cow-claps. If a ball goes in one and stops there, we give you five runs. That’s to let you have time to wipe it clean before chucking it back at your wicketer and we reckon that’s fair. Cow-claps are five. That hen-house,” and he indicated a hen-house tucked in the upper corner, “if you clout that hen-house it’s a six. If it goes inside, it’s eight.”

  “It won’t be easy, fielding in this long grass,” a policeman player said, guardedly.

  “No, it’s not, but we’re used to it,” smiled Jake. “And we can’t cut it just for a cricket match or two, our cows need feeding, and this is good cow grass.”

  We followed upon a brief circuit of this unique cricket field and had no alternative but to agree with Brantgate’s interpretation of the rules. We were assured that their scorer, who would sit in the pavilion alongside ours, would keep us informed, and that he was an honest as a new babe.

  “Now,” he said, “there’s one other thing.”

  We waited with bated breath.

  “We’re a team member short, lads, one of our best players had to rush off to hospital with his missus. She’s calving, he reckons, and he had to take her on his tractor.”

  I tried to visualise the farmer’s pregnant wife sitting on a tractor and being rushed off to the maternity ward. I also wondered what the hospital authorities would make of it when the pair arrived.

  “So?” asked Alex Benwell.

  “We’ve a player to stand in for him, from another team.”

  “I’ve no objections, have you?” Alex faced us.

  We all shook our heads.

  “Then that’s him,” and the host team’s captain pointed to a sturdy farmer in his sixties. Ebenezer Flintoft wore thick hobnailed boots, corduroy trousers lashed around the knees with bits of string, a thick working shirt with no collar and the sleeves rolled above his elbows, red braces and a flat cap. He beamed at us as we stared at him, and I noticed his mouth was devoid of teeth. He needed a shave too, for his chin bristled with grey hairs.

  “It’s t’father-in-law of our opening bat,” announced Jake. “He’s over for t’day, helping out with some pigs, but said he’d help us out if we were stuck.”

  We agreed to this last minute substitution, but didn’t really see that it mattered. The fellow was clearly a non-cricketer and had come along as a goodwill gesture.

  The rules having been explained, we tossed and lost. Jake elected to bat, and I knew why. We’d have an awful job coping with stray balls in that outfield, and so we did. They knocked our bowling all over the field, causing the ball to get stuck in cow-claps, to get fast in the hedge, to get lost in long grass, and to vanish over that hidden boundary below us.

  It is difficult, due to the passage of time, to highlight the most memorable aspects of that enjoyable game, but one character does stand out above all the others. It was the last minute addition, Ebenezer Flintoft with his flat cap, hobnailed boots and braces.

  He came in at No. 5 and we then realised their best batsmen had performed. If they were putting Ebenezer in to bat at this early stage, the remainder must be rubbish. Sergeant Benwell decided to give our opening bowler another crack at them, fully expecting him to skittle out the remainder for a very low score.

  But they had expected nothing like Ebenezer. He flung the bat around like lightning, hitting everything that moved. He kept scoring fours, sixes and eights with monotonous regularity, and nothing seemed to beat him. He was very evidently having a whale of a time. The others came and went, but Ebenezer returned to the pavilion not out and beaming all over his whiskery face. “By gum,” he said, “I right enjoyed yon knock about. How many did I get?” He’d scored 125 out of a total of 187.

  We broke the proceedings for tea, and it was magnificent. The wives of the Brantgate team laid on a gorgeous tea worthy of any moorland funeral, and we resumed the game shortly after five o’clock. We didn’t stand a chance of reaching their score, although sixes and eights could soon rattle up a useful total.

  Sergeant Benwell was our opening batsman and I was amazed to see that Ebenezer was their opening bowler. The large, heavy Yorkshireman took a short run, whirled his arm in a peculiar sideways motion and delivered a ball that utterly beat poor old Benwell.

  By some good luck, he survived the first over and began to score off the second bowler, but when Ebenezer returned, I could see that poor old Sergeant Benwell was struggling. He was clean bowled with the fourth ball of the second over, and this signified our impending collapse.

  We did manage a creditable 56, all scored off the other bowlers, because Ebenezer was totally unplayable. We limped back to the pa
vilion, beaten and trounced by this village team from the moors.

  But they treated us well. We were invited to the local pub for a friendly drink, and the blacksmith did something to Sergeant Benwell’s brakes which made his old truck mobile once again. The way home was jolly and happy as we sang loud songs and told countless jokes. I certainly enjoyed that day’s cricket, and all that followed.

  I was to learn later that Ebenezer played for most of the moorland village teams. He lived in an isolated farm which did not belong to any village, consequently he was invited to play in several teams. He invariably won the match when they played outsiders, and I wondered how the teams coped if he was supposed to play for both. Knowing how these fellows played, he probably did play for both sides, just to even things out!

  Some weeks later, I was chatting to a farmer from the moors and mentioned that match, with special reference to Ebenezer’s role.

  “Aye, Mr Rhea,” he said, “if awd Ebenezer had taken t’game seriously, he might have been some good at it.”

  I did not play cricket every Saturday, for my performances were by no means memorable. I was unreliable as a batsman, erratic as a fielder and moderately useful as a bowler, so I played only when the best could not be spared from their shifts and unexpected duties. But I enjoyed my games. They did provide me with several opportunities to take Mary and the family into the country and they did introduce me to other members of our widespread Division. The social life was fine.

  My own sport, which I had practised as a youngster before marriage, was cycle racing. It was not a sport which was encouraged within the police force, and I sold my trusty drop-handlebar special ten-speed lightweight Tour de France model. I could never envisage myself aboard such a machine in full uniform, with my backside elevated, my head down and my big boots turning lightweight pedals. This meant I no longer partook in cycle races or time-trials.

  Furthermore, I never expected to use my cycling skills in the police force, but one night, I was instructed to take the Ashfordly official police cycle and patrol the main road. The reason was that the county car had broken down and my motor cycle was due for a service. And so it was with great amusement that Sergeant Bairstow allocated me a cycle beat from 10 pm until 2 am.

  I found the huge black monster and trundled it from the garage, where I dusted it down and tested things like tyres, brakes and lights. Everything worked well, thanks to the immaculate attention of P.C. Alwyn Foxton. He kept everything in fine working order. With some trepidation, therefore, I mounted the massive cycle with its double crossbar and straight handlebars and sallied forth upon my cycle patrol. It was, in truth, the very first, and indeed only, cycle patrol I performed in my career.

  It wasn’t long before I was enjoying the experience. I could feel the wind against my cheeks and I enjoyed the solitude and silence. Memories flooded back as I pressed those heavy pedals round and round.

  I patrolled the main road and took little sojourns into the lanes at the side of the highway, calling at villages and inspecting out-of-the-way lock up properties while on patrol. I had lost a little of my racing ability but the old techniques soon returned as I steered the heavy cycle about its business. I found hill climbing difficult because of the straight handlebars, and found the heavy gears rather clumsy but a bonus did occur due to the weight of the cycle. Once I had encouraged it to speed along in top gear, its own momentum kept it going and it was possible to reach a moderately high rate of knots. I liked this sensation, and concluded that Sergeant Bairstow had unwittingly done me a favour tonight.

  I paused at a telephone kiosk to make a midnight point and as I stood in the silence, I heard the distinctive swish of oncoming tyres. Another cyclist was approaching – could it be Sergeant Bairstow?

  I peered from behind my kiosk and saw the approaching light. It was weaving slightly from side to side as the cyclist pressed towards the conclusion of his journey, and when he passed me, I noticed it was a racing cyclist. He had his head low over the handlebars and was clad in all-black gear, comprising a sweat shirt and shorts, topped by a black cap. The cycle was a racing machine, and I guessed he was clocking himself to compete in a time-trial at some future date.

  But as he passed my vantage point, I saw that his back light was not working. As he rode away from me, he was rapidly lost in the darkness and his black clothing made him virtually invisible. The fellow was a risk to himself and to motorists, and I could foresee an accident of a horrible kind. I imagined some motorist running into the rear of this cyclist and killing him, or at the least severely injuring him.

  “Hey!” I shouted, emerging from my waiting place. “Hey, stop!”

  There was no response. The cyclist kept his head down and tore away into the night.

  Not liking to be ignored, and angry that my call had been unheeded, I mounted my trusty old police cycle and gave chase. The heavy machine seemed like a tank, and it took an awful lot of pedal pressure to persuade it to move at speed. But within a few minutes, I was hurtling along in pursuit of the unlit cycle, hell-bent on reporting this thoughtless character for riding without lights.

  The thrill of the chase spurred me to great efforts, and I felt as if I was riding in a time-trial, striving to catch up with the chap who would have one full minute’s start on me. But this character had only a few seconds lead, and I succeeded. My own headlight caught the reflection of his pedals and I urged my sturdy steed to even greater efforts as I drew closer.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “Police, stop!”

  I was panting by this time, but my legs were holding out and I was certainly drawing closer to him. “Hey, you!” I began to call. “Police, stop!”

  The fellow did not respond. His head was low over the handlebars as he pressed his pedals and I thought he was trying to get away from me. I called upon my reserves and all my past cycling skills as I forced the old police bike to draw level with him.

  “Hey!” I shouted across at him, for I could see his ears now. “Hey, stop. Police.”

  He looked across at me and I could see the pain and anguish of competition on his face.

  “What is it?” he panted.

  “That back light of yours. It’s not working. I’ve been trying to halt you … you ignored my orders …”

  “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” and he continued to forge ahead. “I’m in a desperate hurry, officer, can’t you see? I’m breaking a record …”

  “A record?”

  “Doing a fifty,” he said in racing jargon. “I’ve only a mile to go … I daren’t stop …”

  “You’re a danger to yourself!” I shouted, but my cycling days had also taught me the agony of attempting to better one’s own time, and the thrill of breaking other people’s records.

  “I daren’t lose precious seconds fixing that light,” he pleaded, head down again. “Please bear with me, it’s not far now.”

  “You could get killed,” I snapped, and then I realised I could help him.

  “One more mile, officer, then I’ve done it … the fifty record will be mine, I’m ahead on time.”

  “Right,” I decided. “Keep going. I’ll tuck in behind you, and my light will act as a warning. Keep going, and don’t flag …”

  And I moved into his slip-stream. I followed him for that final mile, he breaking some record and me urging the old police bike to its utmost speed as I kept pace with the record breaker. Towards the end, I knew he was flagging; I most certainly was, but I think my presence immediately behind helped to keep him going. After all, it would look rather odd if a fully uniformed policeman on a police cycle crossed the line ahead of him, so I reckon I did him a service.

  He achieved his record by knocking some 50 seconds off the local record and he thanked me for my help. He fixed his light – the bulb had worked loose and I did not report him. I doubt if I could have spoken the necessary words. It took an age to regain my breath and cool down.

  I did wonder how that old bike would have performed ov
er the full fifty miles, but decided against making the attempt. After all, a quick sprint over one mile is exhilarating, even on a police cycle, but it would have been impossible to sustain that pace for much longer. He deserved his record.

  If there was one sport in which I had no interest, it was Association Football. I had played at school but completely failed to understand the off-side rule. In my teens, I had never felt inclined to attend Saturday afternoon matches, either of the village variety or at Middlesbrough which was then a top-class First Division team. Consequently, upon my appointment as a constable I had never expressed the slightest interest in playing football for my Division, my Station or the village team. Even if this did promise time off on Saturday, less night duty and more beer swilling, the appeal of the sport in all its facets was lost on me.

  Following my first cricket season, therefore, I was somewhat horrified when Sergeant Blaketon sidled up to me one Wednesday morning and asked,

  “Rhea, are you busy on Saturday?”

  In my mind, this was a loaded question. I was supposed to be on Rest Day, and I knew that Mary was hoping for an outing of some kind; if I said I was busy, he’d ask what it was, and if I said I wasn’t busy, he was likely to put me on night duty.

  “Why, sergeant?” I replied with a question, a useful form of defence.