I chuckled at his description. “What happens?”
“I’ll show you.”
With no more ado he laid his pipe to one side, switched on the P.A. and cupped the handset in his hands. He bent to his task and there emerged from the loudspeaker on our front bumper the most awful bellowing noise. I watched the cows. Without exception they pricked their ears and looked in our direction. As one they stared at the big black bull who was calling to them so lovingly.
“See! I’ve got their attention!” he smiled, returning to his task.
He repeated the love-sick bellowing and the amplified noise echoed about the landscape. The cows loved it. They began to walk towards us. The entire herd was moving.
He repeated the exercise, his eyes closed tightly with concentration as he fought to produce exactly the right sound. By now, the herd was in full gallop, responding to his music…
“Hey!” I nudged him. “They’re coming for us…”
“Just curiosity,” he replied. “Cows are like that,” and he didn’t look up from his work as he began another love-call. This final one galvanised the eager cows into a frenzy of activity, and the entire herd was now in full flight and heading for our car.
At the approaching thunder of hooves he looked up.
“God!” he cried, and in an instant started the engine. He rammed it into first gear and we roared from our vantage point as the leading cow crashed through the fragile hawthorn hedge in a passion of lust. She was followed by all the others and as we roared along the road the entire herd galloped after us.
My final memory that night is our speeding car tearing along a rural lane, hotly pursued by fifty love-sick maidens, all with their tails in the air.
Thus ended my first lesson with the Road Traffic Division.
Chapter 7
Keep the home fires burning while your hearts are yearning.
LENA GUILBERT FORD — ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’
*
In their early days some police forces combined law enforcement with firefighting and indeed many pioneer police officers were equally skilled in both roles. As the police became more professional and their area of responsibility more specific their firefighting duties were cast aside. Today the Fire Brigades and the Police Service work side by side at many incidents and indeed continue to share buildings in some places. The modern policeman does not possess a fund of stories connected with firefighting, although I do like this old yarn.
In the days when police did fight fires a large blaze broke out in a well-known store in York, and the police were called to the scene. Unfortunately, their horses were all engaged upon a ceremonial occasion and none was available to haul the firefighting appliance to the fire. Undeterred, the chief rushed into the street and halted the first vehicle he saw, a large cart drawn by two equally large horses. He commandeered these for the job.
After skilfully harnessing them to the fire-tender the firefighters climbed aboard and whipped the surprised horses into a gallop. Unaccustomed as they were in this task the gallant animals responded magnificently and were soon galloping through the quaint streets, en route to the blazing building.
The machine careered across the River Ouse bridge and there was the fire. The driver tried to bring his team to a halt, but they were having none of that! They continued past the seat of the fire and, in spite of yells, shouts, whips and other methods, they refused to stop. The horses eventually ran themselves to a standstill some three miles on the road to Tadcaster. From that date spare horses were available in case of emergencies.
When I joined the Force those days had long passed and the Fire Brigade was a modernised unit noted for its extraordinary speed, coupled with sheer efficiency and ability. Even though we were two quite distinct organisations, however, the police initial training course contained instructions on how the police should cooperate with the Fire Brigade.
If my memory has not faded, a complete lesson was devoted to the police duties and responsibilities at fires. This was considered necessary because the work of a police officer inevitably brings him to the scene of most fires and it was, and still is, essential that a patrolling bobby knows what to do when faced with an emergency of this kind.
We were taught that, when patrolling our beats, we had to familiarise ourselves with the locations of all turncocks, principal fire hydrants and their water supplies. For the latter we often relied on rivers, canals, reservoirs, tanks and the like. We had to know the local procedures for calling out the Fire Brigade and were exhorted to discover the whereabouts of essential equipment like blankets, ropes, sheets, sand, tarpaulins, sacks, ladders, buckets and a host of other useful things.
Another aspect of our local knowledge was that we were expected to know who was likely to be in a particular building at any one time, or who to contact out of normal office hours.
It was always useful to know if a building had a resident caretaker and which buildings were deserted at night, weekends, holidays or other times. The intricacies of emergency firefighting apparatus had to be understood and it was prudent to visit buildings with a view to learning the location and modus operandi of those items.
All this was drummed into us at training school in a one-hour lesson and we were then compelled to learn, parrot-fashion, our responsibilities at the scene of a fire. These were resolutely hammered into our brains, just as children learn their arithmetic tables and alphabet. The result was that we never forgot them. I remember our responsibilities, for they conveniently provided ten answers, which made them a very handy examination question.
They were:
(a) Ascertain whether the fire service has been called; if so, by whom. If not, do so IMMEDIATELY;
(b) save human life;
(c) save animal life;
(d) save and protect property;
(e) prevent stealing;
(f) assist the Fire Brigade;
(g) divert traffic where necessary;
(h) keep a record of important matters;
(i) if the building is unattended, inform the owners or key-holders;
(j) in large outbreaks, ensure police reinforcements are available.
Once those points were firmly implanted in our brains it was deemed acceptable to turn us loose to hunt for fires. In reality, there was a lot more to the practical application of our duties, but those ten points did remain implanted in the brains of police officers who assisted at fires. It was rather like checking off a shopping-list.
In addition to those pertinent points there was the responsibility of knowing what to do at the scene if we were the first to arrive. For example, we had to attempt to cut off the fire’s supply of air, we had to search buildings for casualties and beware of weakened walls or floors. In the event of chimney fires we were advised to help the householder remove the fire from the grate and shift any inflammable material from the vicinity of the fireplace. Rugs, furniture, curtains and so forth had to be taken away from the heat and one suggested method of stifling the blaze was to shove wet sacks up the chimney. I learned that finding wet sacks was never easy.
We must always be aware of the risk of inhaling smoke or lethal fumes and were told to crawl about burning buildings on our hands and knees to avoid those problems. This is the advice given:
‘Remember, heat rises and with it, smoke. When in smoke, CRAWL and keep your nose and mouth near the floor. You will get air, you will see and you will not trip up.’
I felt it was sound advice and it did provide a memorable mental picture of a firefighting constable. We were taught that the best way to remove an unconscious person from a smoke-filled room is to drag him along the floor. This could be done by tying the casualty’s hands about one’s neck and crawling with him between one’s legs. The advice continued, ‘Proceed downstairs backwards, supporting the patient’s head and shoulders.’ It was all good stirring stuff.
To escape from upstairs windows we had to lower ourselves until hanging by the fingertips on the window-ledge, then
kick backwards and drop with bended knees. We had to beware of arson, and therefore preserve what we could at the scene, like cans of paraffin, matches, electrical devices and so forth. We were reminded of the various legal rules appertaining to fires. For example, at that time it was an automatic offence for anyone in a town to allow a chimney to catch fire, and it was equally illegal for anyone to knowingly make a false alarm call.
Like firemen, the police had certain powers to enter premises in which a fire had broken out or was suspected, when entry was necessary for the purpose of extinguishing fire, and this could be done without the consent of unhelpful, obstructive or absent owners or occupiers. If necessary, we could break in. Furthermore, the senior police officer present could close any street or regulate traffic whenever necessary or desirable for firefighting purposes, and in the absence of a police officer, those powers were given to the senior fire officer.
Armed with this kind of close knowledge about my powers, duties and responsibilities I sallied forth into the world beyond Training School and felt rather more confident than some of my colleagues, so far as firefighting was concerned. This was because, as a member of the Royal Air Force during my National Service, I had compulsorily attended a two week firefighting course near Blackpool. There we were lectured about the various types of fires, about methods of putting them out, about how to shout ‘Water On’ and ‘Water Off’ at the right time, how to hold a hose as the power of water was pumped through, and how to climb ladders correctly.
In a rural area like Aidensfield, however, all this knowledge and training could be wasted. The likelihood of a fire was remote, or so I thought.
As it happened, they seemed to break out all over the place. I doubt if there were more than usual in other places, but a village policeman knows everything that happens, and whereas most fires do not reach the ken of the public because they are minor ones, they are made known to the local police officer, even if they are nothing more than chip-pans bursting into conflagrations.
One of my first problems with a fire occurred at the Moorcock Inn, some miles beyond my village. It lies on a lonely road which spans the spacious heights of the North Yorkshire moors. It is a fine old coaching inn of considerable interest, and one of its noted and much publicised claims to fame, was its peat-fire.
Peat provides a most useful fuel in moorland homes. It burns very slowly and steadily, and throws out a considerable heat. It is dug from the moors after which the square turves are neatly piled into stacks to allow the wind to pass through and dry them. These are known locally as ‘rickles’ or even ‘rooks’, and can be seen dotted across the windswept heights.
When the peat is dry it makes a beautiful fire. It is enhanced by an interesting smell which is a permanent feature of peat-burning homes and which can sometimes be recognised at a distance when tramping across the moors. Many a sensitive nose had identified peat-smoke rising from isolated chimney stacks.
The Moorcock Inn, being very isolated and therefore liable to be cut off for weeks in the winter, solved its heating problems by burning peat. Outside the cosy inn numerous heaps of peat were stacked, while inside the bar was a traditional peat-fire, complete with traditional peat-smell. That fire has burned through some of the worst winters on record and even though local coal supplies have failed to reach the inn the establishment remained warm and cosy, a true bastion of delight against the storms outside. Just as it had sheltered marooned coaching-parties in bygone days, so it now offered the same hospitality to lone motorists or even modern coach-parties.
It was a modern coach-party which created something of a storm within that peaceful place. At the time the inn was not cut off by snow, although it was a bleak winter’s night when the party arrived. The coach was full of young men, about forty in number, and within seconds that peaceful rural haven was transformed into a maelstrom of arms, legs, tongues and shaking heads, accompanied by loud voices and hearty laughter. Clearly, members of the party were enjoying themselves and very soon the strong Yorkshire beer did much to further that happy state.
In their mellow mood it was not long before the cheerful bunch discovered the history of the peat-fire burning so gracefully and pungently in the grate beside them. Legend said that the fire had never stopped burning for 125 years; it had burned continually during that time in spite of hot and cold days, fuel shortages, sick landlords, tired and lazy staff and spells of isolation during the long winters.
As interest mounted in this piece of history it transpired that the boisterous party was a rugby football team and its supporters. A reputation of the kind enjoyed by this fire presented a challenge to these men — if that fire had burned for a century and a quarter it seemed to be their earth-bound duty to extinguish it. A rapid conference was held and, within minutes, six volunteers stepped forward to put out that ancient moorland blaze. The method proposed was to do so in the manner expected of a beer-swilling rugby football team.
The six stood proudly before the smouldering chunks of peat and in spite of angry representations from the unhappy landlord they opened their trousers, took out their hoses and promptly began the task of extinguishing the fire. Their team mates gave them valuable support during this performance and shouted encouragement from the ranks, while a second team stood by to continue, should the first effort end in failure.
I arrived not by choice but by coincidence. By then the deed had been done and the merry coach had left for a famous West Riding of Yorkshire town, noted for its own strong beer and rugby team. Unaware of these very recent events I walked into a bar seething with furious locals and reeking of something which was definitely not peat-fumes. When I expressed my distaste at the aroma the landlord told his sorry tale and led me to the fireplace. Its contents looked dead. The old stone hearth contained little pools of liquid and the lumps of half-burned peat showed no signs of life. I knew I was witnessing the end of an historic era.
One hundred and twenty-five years of history had been snuffed out within seconds. It was not surprising that the regulars were very, very angry and complained bitterly to me. I turned to the landlord and asked,
“Is this an official complaint?”
“Is it summat you can deal with?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said, racking my brains to determine whether it was a criminal offence to urinate upon a peat-fire. I wondered if the actions qualified as malicious damage to a fire but knew of no such provision, although there was a possibility that their actions could be construed as ‘conduct likely to cause a breach of the peace’. This is an offence which can occur only in a public place, so that raised the question of whether a bar was a public place…
“There must be summat I can do about it,” he said, ruffling his hair. “They’ve ruined my main feature — folks come miles to see that fire. It’s the longest burning fire in the country, and they’ve put it out! That’s criminal! It must be. There must be summat you can do!”
“I think it’s a civil matter,” I pronounced. “You should see your solicitor — he might be able to claim damages or compensation for you.”
“That’s no good,” he snorted. “It’ll take ages to fix that, and besides, there’s no guarantee I’d win, is there?”
“In that case, it hasn’t been put out, has it?” I stated firmly.
“It has, there’s not a sign of life. See for yourself.”
“It’s still burning,” I said to him, equally firmly and hoping he would get my message. “They didn’t succeed did they? In spite of their watery efforts, your peat-fire is still burning.”
One of the regulars, an old farmer with skin like leather and a curved walking-stick in his hand, said, “Nay, it’s nut oot, Harry. It’s bonning yit. Ah can see it. It just needs a spot o’ help
“You could tell the local papers,” I suggested. “Imagine the publicity — a team of West Riding rugger players trying to put out a North Riding peat-fire that’s burned for a century and a quarter — and failing. You’ve got all these witnesses who�
�ll swear to that failure, hasn’t he, lads? You wouldn’t let Lancastrians put it out, would you?”
The others, including the landlord, remained silent, not apparently understanding the import of my statement. I tried again.
“The fire didn’t go out, did it?” I spelled out the situation. “Those silly bloody rugger players did not succeed, did they? We couldn’t let ’em beat this pub, could we? You’re all witnesses — you can all say they failed, can’t you?”
And then they all laughed.
“By lad, thoo’s reet,” said one of them, and the gnarled old fellow with the stick stooped to peer into the smelly grate. “It’s bonning yit!” he said smugly. “Nay, Harry, them daft buggers didn’t kill it.”
As Harry went back to his bar feeling happier, if a little puzzled, we collected a few pieces of paper, some dry kindling sticks from the shed behind the pub, and we gave a burst of assistance to the struggling peat. The underparts had not been dampened and very soon, the peat ignited and returned to its old smouldering ways.
I did wonder whether the challenge would be accepted by lots more passing teams, and suggested that Harry placed a second fire in an outbuilding, especially for them to pee on. He said he’d consider it.
A local paper got hold of the tale and published a lovely piece about the resilience of the fire and it gained some valuable publicity for the inn. Even today the pub boasts of its longest-living peat-fire, about which legend says that not even a noted rugby team and several gallons of strong Yorkshire beer could extinguish.
The next fire I had to cope with occurred in the early hours of one morning while I was on duty at Eltering. It had been a very peaceful night with no occurrences and by three o’clock I was beginning to feel rather bored and tired.
Then I smelled smoke.
As I stood beside the telephone kiosk outside Eltering Post Office I could smell smoke. It was drifting from somewhere behind the main street, apparently from a clutch of buildings although the darkness made it impossible to see its source. I wandered up and down the street, sniffing the night air while trying to trace its origin.
Constable on the Prowl (The Constable Nick Series Book 2) Page 13