“I need help, Rhea,” I detected the tone of a plaintive cry in his voice.
“What sort of help, sergeant?” I was still being very guarded.
“I note you are on Rest Day, Rhea,” he said, his eyes swivelling towards the duty sheet which was pinned to the wall, “and I thought if you hadn’t anything special to do, you might come to my rescue. After all, I did allow you to play cricket.”
“If it is something serious, sergeant,” I heard myself saying, “I’ll be only too pleased to help.”
“It is very serious,” he informed me sternly. “You’ve heard of the Ashfordly Veterans Club Football Team?”
“No,” I said truthfully, not being a football fanatic.
“I thought you were a sportsman, Rhea?” he put to me. “All this cricket and that cycling of yours.”
“I wouldn’t call myself a sportsman, sergeant,” I admitted. “What’s this got to do with the Veterans?”
He coughed. “I am playing for the Veterans this season,” he flushed ever so slightly. “In fact,” he smiled weakly, “I’m captain.”
“Congratulations.” I didn’t know what to say, or what I was expected to say.
“This Saturday is a very important game,” he went on. “We are playing in the final of the Ryedale Veterans League Challenge Cup, here at Ashfordly Sports Ground. It’s against the Brantsford side.”
I wondered if he wanted me to write up an account of the match for the local paper, or to act as linesman maybe?
“You’re playing too?” I smiled.
“I’m in goal,” he said proudly. “My old position. When I was a young man, Rhea, I was a crack goalkeeper. My height was useful and I kept for the Force on twenty occasions; indeed I was short-listed for the British Police Football Team, as goalkeeper.”
“Then your team will have no trouble winning,” I beamed at him. I had no idea that he’d been so skilled and he must have been outstanding to have been short-listed for the British team.
“We’re a man short,” he said quickly. “Full back. I wondered if you would play for us?”
“Me?” I laughed. “Sergeant, I’ve never played football since I was at school. I hardly know one end of a pitch from the other.”
“I can’t find anyone. We’re short as a general rule, but this weekend it’s desperate. Two of our members have gone down with rheumatism, and one’s got flu. We can’t play unless we turn out a full team.”
“But I’m not a veteran!” I protested. “I’m only twenty-six.”
“Anyone over twenty-five qualifies,” he beamed. “That’s a rule, I checked before asking you.”
To put it mildly, I was talked into playing for Sergeant Blaketon’s creaking team. Mary laughed and said she would attend the game, for she could do with a good laugh. The thought of me running around a football pitch, however amateurish the game, was more than a giggle – it was hilarious.
That Saturday afternoon, therefore, I reported to Ashfordly Sports Ground and found Sergeant Blaketon prancing up and down in a dark blue jumper and white shorts. My kit was in the changing room, and it was the same colour. As I changed, I felt awful; the men around me, most of whom were in their forties and very fit, were clearly addicts of the game and I hoped Oscar Blaketon had acquainted them with my total lack of know-how. If youth was on my side, experience was not.
I remember where full-backs were supposed to play, having dredged that fact deep from my school memories and I swotted up something of the game in one of my reference books. I also learned that Blaketon’s team had conquered all competitors prior to this game. This was the final. The thought that the fate of the League Challenge Cup lay at my feet was horrifying. I had agonised for hours before the game, worrying myself sick as to why he had selected me and what I’d done wrong to find myself in this awful position. The duty sheet told me – the three best footballers of the Section were all on duty, and Oscar could hardly change their duties to play when he’d been so critical of the cricketers and their time off. Local police politics were very much in evidence on this occasion. None of the civilians in town were interested in the game – they were too busy watching professional matches or doing their own Saturday things. Such a lot depended upon me.
In the changing rooms, he rallied his team and welcomed me to the game, never mentioning my amateurism. He punched a few pieces of advice at them, and spent time telling them about his favourite moves, his tactics, the weaknesses in the opposition and the strengths of their forward line. He did a good job, I felt, for he managed to demoralise me totally. I stood with the others, goose-pimples on my legs and a lump in my throat, as the clock’s pointers ticked irrevocably towards two-thirty.
Then we were running on to the pitch. I kicked a spare ball around, and leapt up and down like the others. I tried to head one or two practice shots, but missed the lot and before I knew what was happening, we were lining up for the kick-off.
I was nicely out of the way in my full-back position, but the opposing team looked ominous and threatening. Brantsford Veterans had the reputation of being a formidable side, and as we lined up, they galloped noisily around the pitch in their bright red strip, threatening us with total annihilation. Sergeant Blaketon won the toss and elected to play into the wind, hoping they would tire themselves out by the time they had to do likewise. Then he made his way between the clean white goalposts, there to defend the reputation of Ashfordly Veterans.
I noticed that everyone was trotting on the spot so I did the same, then the whistle blew. It shrilled loudly, and I started to run about knowing that in the very near future, I would have to attempt to stop the onward rush of the opposition. I was the last line of defence before the goal, and Oscar Blaketon was in goal, I couldn’t let him down. I daren’t let him down.
The first half went rapidly. I kicked the ball several times which made me feel moderately useful, and I didn’t appear to do anything that caused groans and contempt from the others. In fact, one of my shots landed right at the feet of our centre forward and he raced towards the goal, being narrowly defeated on his run. I was congratulated because I had almost made a goal, and I felt proud. I could see Mary on the touch-line, mingling with the handful of spectators, and she applauded that piece of skill. Suddenly I felt confidence flowing through my veins.
By half-time, I was feeling even better. My patrol duties and my cricket during the summer had kept me fit and the exercise was not too strenuous. Age was on my side and I found I could outrun most of the Brantsford team members, although I must admit their skills were infinitely greater than mine. But I enjoyed the first half and walked off the field feeling very pleased. I waved to Mary as I entered the changing room for a drink of orange and a towelling.
The score was nil-nil at this stage, and everything depended upon the second half. We were now playing with the wind, an undoubted asset and I could sense Sergeant Blaketon’s confidence as we took to the field for the second half.
We were certainly the fitter team. In that second half, we ran rings around their men, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I raced up field with the ball and kicked it to our own men time and time again, our efforts being thwarted only by the anticipation and good luck of their goalkeeper. Time and time again he saved powerful shots, and then one of their men fouled our centre forward.
It was a dirty foul, the action of a desperate man, and our player fell to the ground in agony as his shin took the force of a well-aimed kick. My team exploded with anger because our man had been racing towards the goal as the goalie had come forward to vacate his position. We couldn’t fail to score – then we were fouled. The referee awarded a free kick, not a penalty and I didn’t know enough about the game to worry about the difference, but it angered our lads. Shouts and cat-calls filled the air and Sergeant Blaketon had a difficult job calming them down. The tension was intolerable.
But Blaketon succeeded. As our centre forward hobbled off the pitch with his leg bleeding nastily, we were compelled to continue with ten men. There were no
substitutes. We had about thirty-five minutes to play before full time, and while our earlier efforts should have produced results, it was now doubtful whether we could maintain that pressure. The centre forward, a butcher called Andy Storr, was a gallant and skilled team member and he would be missed. Their viciousness had hit us where it hurt most.
When all the fuss had died away, the game resumed and quite suddenly, I had the ball. I have no idea how it arrived at my feet, for I was still angry about the foul, but I thought of Sergeant Blaketon and the honour that could be his. Forgetting I was a full-back, I side-stepped a player who tackled me and tore down the right wing with the ball bouncing at my feet. I felt the thrill of the chase as players milled around and tackled me; I saw Mary on the touch-line, her hands waving and her voice calling to me, and I flew across the grass. Nothing could stop me now; I was on wings of happiness and success.
Someone attempted to intercept me, and I did a quick body-swerve to deposit him on the ground as I continued my racing run. Never before had I experienced such a thrill and I could hear the cheers of the spectators as I raced towards the goal. I beat all comers; I was in a haze as I switched into skills I never knew I possessed. I thought of Sergeant Blaketon and the cup, my eyes filled with tears of happiness as I raced those final yards to the goal. I was unstoppable. Then a hush descended. The ground bore an air of expectancy and I knew it all depended on me.
I was before the goal-keeper; he crouched between the posts and my misty eyes could distinguish his dark figure with arms outstretched as I took my careful aim.
I have never kicked a football with such power and accuracy. It flew from my right foot and the goalkeeper didn’t stand a chance. He dived across the goalmouth in a desperate bid to beat my shot, but the driving ball crashed into the net with a resounding thud of leather against netting.
I wiped my eyes. I had done it. And me a full-back too!
“What the bloody hell are you doing, Rhea?” cried Sergeant Blaketon as he picked the ball from the back of the net. “This is our goal!”
He didn’t ask me to play again, for his team lost by that solitary goal, and I daren’t ask him for time off to play cricket the following year.
He retired from football after that game, and I must admit I felt sorry for him.
I hope he didn’t think I’d done it on purpose.
7
“If you want to win her hand,
Let the maiden understand,
That she’s not the only pebble on the beach.”
Harry Braisted 19th century
As I settled in my office to compile the quarterly return of farms visited and inspections of stock registers, I discovered I had omitted one busy establishment. According to the record maintained in my office, my predecessor had called there at least once a quarter and I had been lax in not continuing the practice.
On that May morning, therefore, I decided to rectify matters. I began my journey on the little Francis Barnett with the fresh breezes of May stirring the blossomed trees and the growing grass along the lanes. May must be the most beautiful of the English months for the landscape is bursting with fresh life, with flowers, leaves, insects and birds, all enjoying the warmth that comes from the strengthening sun. To be paid for patrolling through such splendid environs is indeed a bonus, and I enjoyed my ride across the valley.
I was heading for Slape Wath Farm, a lonely homestead buried deep in the moors over by Whemmelby. I had to consult my Ordnance Survey map before leaving the house, but established that I had to descend the steep 1-in-3 hill into Whemmelby, drive out towards the summit of Gallow Heights and turn left about a mile before reaching the Heights. This took me along an unmade track which climbed across the heathery landscape before descending dramatically into a small valley. Deep in the valley lay the homestead called Slape Wath Farm, so named because the track crossed the mountain stream near the farm, then wound its way across the moors, eventually leading to the main road from Eltering to Strensford. In our Yorkshire dialect, slape means slippery and a wath is water-splash or a ford, so the farm was aptly named. The crossing would be treacherous in winter.
I had to open several wooden gates, a tricky job with a motor cycle, but eventually found myself entering the yard of Slape Wath Farm. It was clean and nicely concreted, and I placed the machine against the wall of an outbuilding before walking across to the farm house. The time was shortly before eleven one Wednesday morning.
I halted before knocking on the door in order to check my records, and reminded myself of the occupants’ names. The owners of this remote spread were the Misses Kirby, Frances and Irene to be precise. There was no other explanatory note in my records and I had never heard anyone mention these ladies; their farm, I appreciated, was far too remote for casual callers and I doubted if the two ladies in question enjoyed much of a social life.
My memory refreshed, I knocked on the kitchen door.
“A minute!” called a voice, and I waited. Presently, the door was opened and a huge masculine woman stood before me. She wore a hessian apron, a long working dress buttoned up to the neck and a curious dust-cap on her head. She was nearly six feet tall, with a head of ginger hair peeping beneath her headgear; her face was red with the effects of the weather but her eyes were unusually bright blue and bored into me as I stood on the doorstep. She was hefty and muscular, and wore heavy Wellington boots which peeped beneath her long dress.
“Oh,” she said, eyeing me. “It’s t’policeman. Come in,” and she stepped back to permit me to enter. I noticed she had a large broom in her hands and she appeared to be in the middle of sweeping the sandstone floor of her kitchen.
“That’s a useful brush,” I said by way of making an inane introductory comment.
“Aye,” she said, looking at it with pride. “We’ve had it for thirty-five years, and all we’ve had for it is three new heads and two new shafts.”
I didn’t know whether I was supposed to laugh at this statement as a joke or treat it as a piece of moorland feminine logic, but my embarrassment was avoided by the timely appearance of another lady. She was much smaller than the first but with the same ginger hair and masculine appearance. Her eyes were a paler blue and her face a trifle less colourful, but it was easy to deduce that the big lady was the man-about-the-farm, and her sister was the woman-about-the-house.
“I’m P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield,” I introduced myself. “The new policeman.”
“Oh,” said the big one. “Thoo’ll be calling about our registers, then?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “I’ve been rather busy …”
“Think nowt on it, young man,” the big one said. “Sit thyself down and Rene, fetch him a cuppa tea. Sugar?”
I shook my head and said, “No thanks. Milk, no sugar.”
“Mak it three, Rene,” ordered the big lady. “Thoo come as well.”
Rene never spoke as she drifted across to an oven at the far end of this large kitchen and busied herself with pots, pans and bottles of milk. I placed my helmet on the scrubbed kitchen table and sat on a bench. The big lady, who I reasoned was called Frances, sat on the bench opposite and peered steadily at me.
“It’ll be about them pigs, is it?” she put to me.
“You got some at Malton Mart last week,” I said. “I’ve got to check to see everything’s in order, and that you’ve entered them in your register.”
Without a word, she left her seat and went across to a cupboard hanging on the wall. She produced the register and flicked it open – an immaculate entry graced the pages and I said, “I’ll have to see the stock in question.”
“Thoo’s a keen ’un, eh?” she grumbled, heading for the door.
“Just doing my job,” I said softly, following behind.
“We’re off to t’sties, Rene!” she bellowed, her loud voice blasting my ear-drums. “Three minutes, no more.”
She led me in silence down to her pig sties and showed me the store pigs she’d bought. I leaned over the bottom half of
the door, enjoying the sight of young pigs grunting in happiness as they nosed among the straw and potato peelings which covered the floor of their pen.
“Nice pigs,” I commented, for they were lovely.
“The best,” she said with some force. “Me and our Rene nobbut buys t’best, thoo knaws. We show pigs and sheep, so we’ve got ti have t’best.”
“You show them?” I expressed interest in her remark. “Do you win prizes?”
“Win prizes?” she bellowed. “I’ll say we win prizes. Great Yorkshire, Stokesley, Egton, Danby, Castleton, the Royal, you name it, and we’ve won there. We’ve got the best pigs this side of the Pennines.”
“You don’t show these though?” I gestured towards those in the pig sty. “These are for fattening, aren’t they?”
“Aye, they are, young man. No, we breed our own show pigs.”
The kitchen door opened and the smaller edition said, “Tea, Cis.”
“Tea, constable,” said Cis striding towards the house with me almost trotting to keep pace. She led me inside. Rene had placed a green patterned oil cloth on the rough table, and there were three cups, some scones, jam, butter, three slabs of fruit cake and a pile of chocolate biscuits.
This was a typical ’lowance, as they called it here; tea break is the word elsewhere, or elevenses. To these folk, it’s ’lowance time, or allowance time.
“Thank you, ladies,” I settled down and signed the book with a flourish. “You keep a very nice tidy farm.”
“We’ve a man in,” said Cis. “Jack Holtby.”
“He’s employed full time, is he?”
“He lives in, Mr Rhea, gets fed and bedded here, all found. He looks after my pigs.”
“And my sheep,” said Rene quickly. “Jack looks after my sheep as well.”
“She breeds sheep. I do the pigs.”
“They win at all the shows, Mr Rhea,” said Rene, getting into top gear now her tongue had been loosened. “Good stock, is ours. You’ll have heard of t’Kirbys of Whemmelby?”
Constable Across the Moors Page 13