He seemed like a schoolboy train enthusiast driving a proper railway engine for the first time and pipped the horn as he chugged towards Mrs Rawcliffe’s fine house at the other end of Aidensfield. David was in his seventh heaven but I wondered what Mrs Rawcliffe would think about a fire engine delivering her eggs. I had heard, though, sometime earlier, that Claude had once borrowed Bernie Scripps’s hearse to deliver his eggs. I just hoped he never gave driving lessons in it.
Much to my surprise, and to that of Sergeant Blaketon, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass seemed to be a success with his driving school. He managed to run a smart Vauxhall saloon for most of his lessons and he got several of his pupils through their driving test, not always at their first attempt, but he did succeed within two or three return visits. Even Mrs Ventress seemed to enjoy her lessons with Claude, although she lacked the confidence to submit herself to a driving test. All in good time, we were told; when she was ready, she would apply for her test. Then things went wrong.
One of the main junctions in Ashfordly was altered at the end of the High Street. It was always extremely busy with through-traffic from Harrowby heading towards Brantsford and the coast, while traffic from Brantsford and the coast rushed in the opposite direction. Both these busy routes used the same stretch of road which crossed the end of Ashfordly main street. The main street formed the junction with that busy main road, but because there were no traffic lights it meant that vehicles in the town centre could not easily or safely join that hurried and heavy flow during peak periods.
The result was that a back-log of traffic jammed the High Street at peak periods. Those included the morning and evening rushes in addition to weekend traffic heading to and from the coast. There were times when Ashfordly was blocked solid with traffic waiting to join the busy Harrowby-Brantsford road and when a police officer saw this he would leap into the middle of the junction and perform a spell of traffic duty in an attempt to get things moving. Standing at that point was one of our regular chores, especially at busy weekends during the summer months and we were always instructed to be available in the event of a traffic hold-up.
Then the authorities decided to rectify the matter by building a roundabout. The installation of traffic lights had been discussed but it was felt that a roundabout would be more aesthetically pleasing and just as efficient, and thus the construction of a roundabout was agreed. This meant widening the approaches to it, especially from the High Street, thus providing two lanes of traffic out of Ashfordly, one turning to the left to Harrowby and the other turning right to Brantsford and beyond. It all sounded very simple and, in fact, when the roundabout was completed the system did appear to function very satisfactorily.
If there was a local problem, it was educating local drivers into the idea of using two lanes leading out of Ashfordly as they approached the roundabout. For years they had been accustomed to just a single lane entering this notorious junction, taking their chance with oncoming traffic as they darted out. Now, they had to contend with a roundabout and two lanes of traffic on the approaches to it.
One Sunday I chanced to be on duty in the town centre and for a few moments was watching traffic entering and leaving the newly designed junction. It was a busy morning with non-stop traffic moving in both directions along the main road. Even with the new roundabout, Ashfordly traffic was having to wait a few minutes and I did wonder whether I needed to perform a short spell of traffic duty. Then, in the distance, I noticed Greengrass’s familiar red Vauxhall heading along the Ashfordly main street with ‘L’ plates displayed and a lady driver at the controls. As she approached the point where she had to decide whether to take the left or right lane I could see Greengrass, in tutorial mode, indicating she should take the left lane because he wanted her to turn left and head along the Harrowby road. While she was dithering two cars came swiftly alongside, on her left, and slowed as they approached the roundabout. Other cars followed immediately behind, thus making quite a long queue waiting to enter the Harrowby road. Her lane was deserted apart from the Greengrass car but, because she could not cross to the left, she was obliged to continue moving towards the roundabout in the right-hand lane.
Then Greengrass noticed there was a large gap between two of the waiting cars on his left. I could see him gesturing for her to move into the gap before it was closed — not an easy task for a learner driver. I think he must have taken hold of the steering wheel because, with striking suddenness, his Vauxhall switched lanes and the car managed to squeeze into the gap. There was a good deal of horn-tooting with Greengrass responding with hand gestures of his very own, but at least the Vauxhall was in the correct lane and position to drive forward when the traffic moved.
It was a remarkable piece of driving by a learner. Almost immediately, there was a gap in the Brantsford-Harrowby traffic, and the Ashfordly queue began to move, but suddenly, Greengrass’s car shot into the air as if it had been lifted by a jack at one side; it was stranded and had almost tipped on to its side. I could see its underparts from my position. The other cars stopped immediately. There was a great deal of tooting as I ran across to find out what the problem was and when I arrived the driver of the car in front of Greengrass’s was shouting and gesticulating wildly as the driver of the car to the rear was doing likewise. In the middle of it all Greengrass was shouting and gesticulating at them both, having somehow scrambled from the uplifted passenger seat. The woman, in the meantime, was weeping in her steeply sloping seat and hanging on to the steering wheel because she could not get out; her door was too close to the road. All other traffic had come to a standstill.
‘Let’s all calm down,’ were my first words. ‘What’s happened?’
‘This idiot made this lady drive her car between ours,’ the man, the driver of the first car, was struggling to retain his temper in the presence of a uniformed police officer. ‘I never saw him behind or I wouldn’t have set off, but look, Constable, I’m towing my mate. This clown told his pupil to drive into the gap . . . she drove across our tow rope and when I set off the rope tightened and rose into the air and tipped her car on to its side.’
‘How was I to know there was a tow rope there!’ snapped Greengrass. ‘Aren’t tow ropes supposed to be marked? I just saw a gap and we needed to get into it . . .’
‘It is marked!’ the man bellowed. ‘There’s a piece of red ribbon tied around it in the middle! You must be blind or daft or both!’
‘Gerroff, you can’t talk to me like that . . .’
‘Quiet, all of you! Let’s all calm down and see if we can sort this out,’ I said, as the hooting and tooting intensified around us.
The leading car was parked with its brakes on while the second car had not moved. It had its brakes on. The tow rope between them was now taut and it had risen from the ground like a tightrope-walker’s rope, lifting the nearside of Greengrass’s car clear of the road to a height of about eighteen inches. It was suspended partially on the tough rope but its offside wheels were still on the road. The car had not tipped completely over and, so far as I could see, there was no damage and no risk — and no one had been injured.
‘I tried to warn you,’ the second driver was saying. ‘I waved at this chap in the passenger seat and pointed at the rope, but he just kept that woman coming . . .’
‘If you reverse gently,’ I said to the lead driver, ‘the Vauxhall should gradually be lowered back to the road; I can’t see any damage, so it should be able to drive off the rope. Then we can all go home.’
We did that. With tremendous skill the driver of the first car eased his vehicle very gently backwards to release the tension on the tow rope and so Claude’s Vauxhall was slowly eased back to earth, with his pupil still hanging on to the steering wheel. Once the car was on the level, however, she opened the door and fled. I saw her vanish along a side street in a flood of tears.
Claude then had the job of manoeuvring his car from between the others, but when I looked at them all there was not a scrap of damage to any. From a r
oad traffic point of view I did not think this could be classified as a reportable road accident and so I suggested the tow-cars continue their journey while Claude moved his car to a convenient parking spot and then went to hunt for his pupil.
‘How was I to know there was a tow rope there?’ he muttered, as he began his hunt. ‘Isn’t there some rule about tow ropes being highly visible or something?’
‘A tow rope shouldn’t exceed fifteen feet in length,’ I said. ‘I don’t think this one was as long as that, but tow rope more than five feet long does have to be easily seen — and there was a red ribbon tied around this one, in the middle. Those lads did all that they should. Maybe you should have your eyes tested, Claude?’
‘Me? There’s nowt wrong with my eyesight! You’re taking this too lightly, Constable, if you don’t mind me saying so. I could have been killed!’ he muttered. ‘It could have thrown my car right over on to the roof with me underneath it if I’d been thrown out!’
‘It was nothing,’ I said. ‘Nobody was hurt, no damage was done. You’ll laugh about it next week.’
‘Laugh? This is no laughing matter, I can tell you. I’m going to give up giving driving lessons after this. And that woman hasn’t paid.’
‘She did really well to manoeuvre the car into that gap, Claude, it was a masterly piece of driving. It’s just a pity there was something else in the way — like a tow rope. It’s a good job it wasn’t a mobile crane.’
‘You’re going to have fun with this, aren’t you, Constable Rhea? You think it’s one huge joke!’
‘I’ll have to make a note of the incident in my pocket book,’ I said. ‘It will form part of the road traffic history of Aidensfield — I’ll report it as the car that hitched a lift!’
‘Give over,’ he groaned. ‘Now where can that woman have gone?’
‘For a stiff gin and tonic, I should think, Claude. And I think you should pay for it.’
‘Me, pay for a drink? Now you are joking, Constable!’
And as everything started to return to normal, Sergeant Blaketon arrived on the scene, looking rather agitated. ‘Rhea,’ he bellowed. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t know what you are doing about it, but traffic’s tailed back right to the bridge and halfway up the hill at the other side of it. People are getting angry and you’ve no idea what some of them called me! Shouldn’t you be getting things sorted out?’
‘Well, Sergeant Blaketon, it was like this. Claude Jeremiah’s pupil --’
‘If it’s anything to do with Greengrass and his driving school, I don’t want to know, Rhea. Just get this traffic moving, will you?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
* * *
This was not the only traffic problem created by Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.
The other was associated with a goat and such was that animal’s involvement with motorists in Aidensfield that it led to the reported fulfilment of a piece of local folklore. Perhaps to clarify matters, it would be wise to first mention that folklore.
High in the moors between Aidensfield and Elsinby there is a large and very dense coniferous forest, and for centuries Elsinby Forest has been the home of a herd of magnificent red deer. It is one of the few herds of red deer living wild outside Scotland and folklore says that if ever a white calf is born within the herd, then it heralds the death of a prominent person in the district. Within the last two centuries, only two white calves have been known and, on each occasion, the prophecy was fulfilled.
However, there is a little more to that tale — the White Calf of Elsinby is said to leave the herd and come down from the moors to visit the graveyard of the parish church, there to stand beside one of the graves. Whichever grave it decides to visit means that the living descendant of the family in question will die tragically before the next full moon. In both recorded cases, this has happened; in 1756, the White Calf of Elsinby was seen close to the grave of a man called Thomas Blackburn and within the month, Reuben Blackburn, a descendant, had died by being thrown off his bolting horse. Again, in 1877, a white calf appeared within the herd and it came to Elsinby churchyard to stand close to the grave of Adelaide Bowers. Within the month, Joseph Bowers, a direct descendant, had died by drowning. Since that time, almost a century ago, no white calf had been sighted within the herd and certainly, none had been known to visit the graves in Elsinby churchyard.
It was against this background that, for some unaccountable reason, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass acquired a splendid white billy goat. I am not quite sure of its origins or how he came to own it, but it was a handsome beast with a splendid pair of horns, a cross-breed with characteristics of the Bagot, the British Saanen and the English goat. I do not know what possessed Claude to acquire this animal because none of his previous goat-keeping ventures had been a success. My first intimation of this development occurred during a telephone call from Sergeant Blaketon.
‘Rhea,’ he said, ‘get yourself over to see Greengrass and instruct him to keep his goat under control. Tell him that if he doesn’t, I will personally report him and will seek a court order to have the thing declared dangerous and kept under control, or alternatively destroyed.’
‘I thought that procedure was for dogs, Sergeant,’ I said in all innocence.
‘Dogs, goats, hens, sheep — you can’t let these things loose on the highway to the danger of the public, Rhea, and I don’t care if there is no law to say so. Common sense says so, and I conduct my life by common sense, Rhea. So, get yourself over to the Greengrass establishment, and lay the law down. Make him understand.’
‘What’s happened, Sergeant?’ I thought it best to know what lay behind this latest order from on high.
‘Greengrass’s goat is attacking motor cars, Rhea. For some reason, it likes butting headlights and smashing the glass. I’ve had a chap in only this morning, not very pleased I might add, to say Greengrass’s white billy goat had charged at his car and smashed the headlights. He reckons he’s not the first.’
‘Malicious damage by goat,’ I said. ‘I’ve had no other reports.’
‘You will if you don’t do something about it, Rhea. And you can’t prosecute a goat for committing malicious damage, so I have suggested the aggrieved person sends a bill to Greengrass. In the meantime, he’d better keep the goat under control, otherwise he’s going to be faced with more bills.’
But, even as I replaced the telephone, there was a loud knocking upon the door of my office and when I opened it, Rudolph Burley, the auctioneer who lived in Aidensfield, was standing there with a bright red face bearing an expression of deep anger.
‘Nick,’ he said. ‘I want Greengrass prosecuted for keeping a dangerous wild animal, or for failing to keep a goat under control, or not having a savage animal safely tethered, or for allowing livestock to stray on the highway or whatever else you can think of.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’ I asked.
‘That goat of his has rammed my car headlights. There I was, parked outside Armitage Cottage assessing it for a future sale, when wham! This white billy goat took a running jump at both my headlights with his head down and horns like lances and he’s smashed both of them, glass, bulbs and reflectors, the lot.’
‘You’ll send Greengrass a bill?’ I asked.
‘I’ll deliver it personally, and if he doesn’t pay, I’ll smash his headlights and see how he likes that!’
‘You can’t take the law into your own hands, Rudolph,’ I advised him. ‘But, yes, I will talk to Greengrass.’
‘Talk to him? What good will that do?’
‘I hope it’ll persuade him to take care of his goat. As a matter of fact, this is the second complaint I’ve had in about as many minutes, so I’ve plenty of ammunition to fire at him.’
‘Same goat, is it?’
‘Same goat, and headlights again. It seems it has a dislike of headlights,’ I said. ‘But leave it with me, Rudolph. I’ll have words with Claude. But it’s hardly a police matter, more of a civil dispute, I’d say
. So, make sure you send him your bill for the damage.’
When I called on Claude, he said he had no idea his goat had escaped from the confines of his smallholding, nor did he know about its propensity for head-butting motor car headlights.
‘I’ve only just got him,’ Claude told me. ‘A mate of mine dropped dead and his widow gave me this goat; it was his, you see. Billy, they call him. How was I to know he’s a ram-raider?’
‘Well, just make sure he doesn’t get out again, otherwise you’re going to be faced with a lot of bills from irate motorists.’
‘You’re not going to prosecute me, then? For keeping an unruly goat or summat?’
‘There’s no such offence known to criminal law, Claude, but the civil law is just as fierce when it comes to nuisances. If that animal keeps up his head-butting jaunts, you’re going to be faced with some big bills and even civil court action.’
‘Right, thanks for the warning, I’ll make sure he’s locked up.’
In spite of Claude’s promises Billy managed to escape several more times, and on each outing, he head-butted the nearest motor car headlights. Fortunately, all the cars were stationary at the time, otherwise I would have had to classify the incidents as reportable accidents, a goat being the equivalent of a dog or cow so far as road traffic accidents were concerned. I think the goat must have heard the sound of the cars near his run because all were very close to Claude’s home; it seemed the noise of the cars triggered this overpowering desire to smash their headlights. On each occasion, I was approached by the aggrieved driver, but all I could do was to suggest they invoiced Claude for the cost of the repairs.
In all cases, I rang Claude to say it had happened again and eventually he said, ‘That’s it. I’m getting rid of Billy. He needs to live somewhere where there are no cars!’
Then the head-butting stopped as suddenly as it had started. I was expecting calls almost on a daily basis, but when a week passed without any further reports I wondered how Claude had dealt with the problem. I happened to catch him outside the post office one afternoon.
CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 7