CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

by Nicholas Rhea

  The fire wasn’t at Arthur’s farm either, and it took a further four or five minutes for the brigade to find their way to Alan’s new buildings in their remote setting, by which time the haystack was well alight and throwing sparks among the neighbouring buildings with a freshening wind threatening to drive the flames towards the house itself. I was called out too — I could see the blaze from my hilltop police house and knew which of the Abbey Farms was at risk. Police officers attended all fire service call-outs where there might be suspicion of arson or malicious damage, but when the brigade eventually brought this blaze under control their experts felt it was a case of spontaneous combustion, a common cause of fire among haystacks.

  However, it had been an extremely worrying time for Alan Gilham, particularly as, in the darkness of that night and from his slightly elevated viewpoint, he could see the blue lights of the fire appliance twice heading for the wrong farm. At one stage, he did think he was going to lose his new house but when the fire service later rang him to say the confusion had occurred due to the similarity of neighbouring names and addresses it prompted him to rename his farm. He called it Abbey View Farm and, as a gesture of solidarity, Arthur renamed his Abbey Church Farm, although Adam retained the original name. After all, he was in a different parish anyway.

  Now, though, they’ve all left those farms on that ancient abbey site. All the new owners are now called Smith.

  Chapter 6

  It is often claimed that one of the roles of the police is to rescue members of the great British public from the results of their own stupidity. Certainly, some people — supposedly adults — do behave in a rather childish fashion, particularly when they are on holiday, and this often results in them requiring the aid of the emergency services. They do things like getting swept out to sea on rubber dinghies, lost in fog or snow in the mountains, trapped by the tide on beaches and setting fire to forests and moors; such dilemmas often occur through sheer carelessness, base stupidity or ill-preparation but it is the public who usually fund their rescue. It has often been suggested that fools should be made to pay for their own mistakes, but how can a daft working man afford to pay thousands of pounds for a combined air-sea rescue when his inflatable has been washed out to sea because he fell asleep in it, or his actions in lighting a campfire to cook his sausages and baked beans resulted in the loss by burning of thousands of acres of heather and peat moorland?

  In similar vein, the fire brigade would say that a high proportion of chip-pan fires occur at tea-time when women leave them on full heat while gossiping, cars fall on to men working beneath them because they are not properly jacked up and do-it-yourself merchants sometimes find their houses collapsing around their ears because they haven’t been sufficiently careful in their ‘improvement’ work. It is beyond doubt that the police, fire brigade and ambulance service spend a lot of their time — and a lot of public money — going to the assistance of total clowns and coping with the lamentable behaviour of idiots.

  Having said all that it is also a fact of police life that some silly incidents occur, not through carelessness or stupidity, but through an unfortunate and unpredictable combination of circumstances. And, like those who are fools, it is often the police or some other emergency service who have to remedy the matter.

  For example, consider the case of Cuthbert Crombie who became known in Aidensfield as Crombie the Zombie. Cuthbert was what might be described an idealist; he was very left-wing and voted Labour; he wanted to ban the bomb, nationalize all systems of production, have no private ownership of property and live in a happy clappy world where everyone was equal, except those who were more equal than the others because they had more brains. They would be the leaders of his new world, and he would be among them showing others how to lead the ideal life. Full of socialist zeal of the loonier kind, he left the urban haze of industrial Rotherham to live in the fresh moorland air of rural Aidensfield where he could convert the unbelievers, or just sit and think, or perhaps just sit.

  In his late twenties, bearded, long-haired, be-sandaled and fond of wearing jeans, Cuthbert was married to Clarissa and they had two sweet children, a boy and a girl, aged five and three respectively, who were called Clement and Cleo. They lived in a small but gloriously untidy rented cottage behind the main street of Aidensfield; the cottage had a paddock and a large garden, both of which were overgrown, and the couple kept hens, geese, several pet rabbits and three cats. They also tried to grow food such as potatoes, carrots, lettuce and cabbages, but the weeds invariably won the battle for space and food.

  It seemed Cuthbert thought garden produce would look after itself once it had been planted, as weeds do.

  Cuthbert worked as a lecturer in Rural Studies in a local polytechnic college, travelling to the deepest West Riding of Yorkshire in his battered old car two or three times a week, during term time, for his few stints behind the lectern. At home, he liked to pop into the local pub for a pint of ale and a chat with the local yokels and, from these talks, the villagers understood that it was his dream to become self-sufficient. The locals knew it was impossible with such a small patch of land, but as an academic and lecturer in Rural Studies, Cuthbert was not expected to know that.

  When he was not expounding the theory of rustic living to his little band of enthusiastic students it seems he spent the rest of his time at his cottage producing learned articles about various rural topics. These included his plans for a socialist future full of maypole dances, happy people who worked wholeheartedly for the state and ultimately a future where it was not necessary to do any work at all, and where a classless society allowed everyone to earn the same money, eat the same food, buy the same clothes, live in the same houses and never refer to other people as sir, Your Grace, Your Worships or Your Majesty.

  In addition, though, he did spend time wondering how to become a thoroughly rural person — in truth, his vision was impossible. He envisaged a socialist countryside, something that could and would never happen. Most of us got the impression that rather than lecture about rural matters, he wanted to actually live within the theories he perpetually expounded to his eager students.

  To give him due credit he was a charming fellow who wouldn’t harm a soul and he did take an active part in village affairs, becoming a member of the committee of the village hall, a member of the parish council, secretary of the local CND committee and chairman of the Aidensfield Labour Party of whom there were three members. One was his wife and the third member was a former guard with British Rail who had been sacked or ‘victimized’ for sleeping while on duty. With a really Socialist Britain, so it seemed, no one would ever be sacked from their state-controlled job whatever they did or did not do.

  If Cuthbert was to achieve his dreamlike mission he knew he must become a countryman. From his visits to the pub we knew that was his way of infiltrating the simple rural people, but it seemed they were happy to enlighten him because he began to learn a little rural realism from the local farm workers and landowners. He felt he had won a minor battle when, over a few pints, they persuaded him to attend the local agricultural shows which would be held during the summer while his college was on holiday. There he could look at animals and vehicles, new methods of controlling pests or fertilizing crops, and learn something about the financing of rural life, not forgetting the drawbacks such as diseases of animals, the need for slaughterhouses and knackers yards, the necessity of fox-hunting, rat-poisoning and other vermin control.

  From time to time I enjoyed an off duty drink in the pub, or perhaps a visit during the course of my work, and even on those occasions I could see that Cuthbert was losing his battle.

  He thought he was winning the conversion stakes, but in fact the regulars were steadily converting Cuthbert into a capitalist-countryside way of thinking. They were clever enough to let him think he had thought of some of the startling new ideas he began to propound, such as ‘It’s not really a capitalist idea to own a pig’ or ‘No man is an island’ and ‘Money is a sort
of fuel, it helps the economy to function’.

  Somehow, through all his pontificating, they had persuaded him that it would be a good idea to create a herd of dairy cattle, there to provide the finest of sustenance to the masses, and they persuaded him it was easily achieved through sales of milk, sales of animals for meat, selective breeding and, of course, the wonderful subsidies offered by the government.

  Thinking about it Cuthbert realized he would need a field to accommodate his cows, but, as he had no desire to be known as a landowner, he could rent the necessary grazing land, but he would require buildings and equipment, then there would be veterinary fees and umpteen regulations to obey, all of which could be financed from sales of milk without necessarily making a capitalist profit.

  And so it was, that a somewhat enlightened Cuthbert went off to Brantsford Agricultural Show one hot summer Thursday, there to try and learn at least a little of the true benefits of owning cattle, perhaps a dairy herd, or even fat stock for eventual sale. Such was his new enthusiasm for all things rural and all things farming, and such was his desire to actually be able to call something his very own that he entered a typically rustic competition, the first prize of which was a fully grown Charolais bull.

  The competition was easy — one had simply to guess the weight of the huge creamy-white bull itself, and it was standing there in a pen, looking almost cuddly, as competitors examined it.

  I was on duty at the show, initially in the car park and later patrolling the showground during the course of the event as a deterrent to drunks, pickpockets and other socially unacceptable offenders. During the event I did have a passing chat with Cuthbert but was later amazed and shocked when I discovered he had won the Charolais. His name was mentioned over the loudspeaker system. I knew that some socialists did not like people owning valuable objects and I wondered how he would deal with that idealistic problem, but I discovered that winning things without actually working for them seemed to be acceptable within that ideology. And so it was that Cuthbert padded off to the secretary’s tent to claim his prize bull. While he went to claim his animal I moved to the exit gate so that I could supervise the departing traffic and while I was there he came up to me.

  ‘Nick,’ he said, his face a picture of misery, ‘I’ve won that bull . . . I mean, what on earth can I do with it? I’ve been to claim it and they say I have to move it from the showground. It’s my responsibility because it’s my animal and it can’t stay on the showfield; they’re starting to clear it already and then there’s the question of food and transport and things . . .’

  ‘There’s George Boston over there.’ I pointed to a parked Land Rover belonging to an Aidensfield farmer whom I knew well. ‘Have a word with him.’

  ‘He’s only got a Land Rover!’ whispered Cuthbert.

  ‘Yes, but he’s likely to know someone who might transport it away for you, for a small fee of course, but where are you going to put the bull? It can’t go into that little paddock of yours.’

  ‘I was wondering about that field behind the village hall.’ His brow was furrowed in deep thought. ‘Temporarily, of course, until I decide what do with my bull.’

  I knew the field concerned. It stretched from the back of the village hall and sloped down towards the beck at the rear. About an acre in extent with good grass it was secure on all sides with stout hedges and fencing and the gate from that field led into the lane beside the village hall. That meant there was good access. In fact, the field was owned by the village hall. Years ago, when the land had been purchased for the building of the hall, that field had formed part of the whole plot and now it was retained should there be a need to expand, perhaps as a car park or even a children’s playground. Apart from the fact that the double-doored emergency exit opened on to that field it was surplus to current requirements and I thought Cuthbert’s idea was sound.

  If necessary, he could pay rental to the village hall committee, and being a member of that committee, he might persuade the chairman to give him a decision immediately. Tonight, the village hall might have a bull as a neighbour and I wondered whether, if the bull remained there for an extended period, Cuthbert would have to erect a ‘Beware of the bull’ notice.

  I saw Cuthbert in earnest conversation with George Boston and then the pair of them disappeared among the stalls and marquees as I decided I should do a spot of traffic control duty. The crowds and the traffic were leaving and unless the rush of vehicles was regulated we’d have a bottle-neck of cars trying to reach the exit together. It was about an hour later when I saw Cuthbert, who now looked quite pleased with himself and, as he left the showground in his battered car, he called to me. ‘George found someone with space in a trailer, Nick, they’re taking the bull away for me. I’ve seen Rudolph too, he’s at his auctioneer’s stand over there and he says I can put the bull in the village hall field until I’ve got myself sorted out.’

  Rudolph Burley, Aidensfield’s resident auctioneer, was also chairman of the village hall committee and it seemed he had applied common sense, and the chairman’s prerogative, to Cuthbert’s urgent and unusual request. And so, at least for a while, the village would have a resident bull and I must admit, from what I had seen of the beast, it appeared to be a charming, docile creature, if a little on the large side. It looked like a huge cuddly toy, although one kick from its feet or a butt from its massive head was likely to do serious injury.

  Although I performed my traffic duty until the car-parks were virtually empty I left the showfield well ahead of Cuthbert’s bull, but had to call at Ashfordly Police Station before returning home in order to deal with a few routine matters. Later, when relating the day’s highlights to Mary over my evening meal, she told me that while coming home after visiting a friend she’d seen a cattle trailer disgorging a huge creamy bull into the village hall field.

  In my mind, that confirmed that Cuthbert’s bull had been placed in the village hall field and I must admit, I thought no more about that saga. The following night, however (Friday), was important for the village because Aidensfield String Orchestra was performing a concert of classical music in the hall to raise funds for its (the hall’s) modernization scheme. It was hoped there would be a full house but, although the tickets sold very well, the hall was less than half full on that evening — the hot, warm weather was blamed. People did not want to be cooped up in a hot village hall when they could be out in the countryside or enjoying a barbecue in their own garden. For some, the act of buying a ticket was more of a donation to the cause than a promise to attend the function.

  Nonetheless, the concert began at 7.30 p.m. with a stirring rendition of Vivaldi’s ‘Summer’ from his Four Seasons and although it might be said the double bass lingered rather too long upon some notes, that the lead violin’s ‘A’ String was a bit flat, that some of the notes did not quite appear to be in the correct sequence and the woman playing the cello was showing rather too much of her red knickers, it was a lively start to the proceedings. This was followed by a varied and interesting selection of popular and almost recognizable pieces with Rudolph Burley brightening the evening with a solo rendition of some Irish dance music. The first half was scheduled to conclude Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, complete with loud drums and mock explosions.

  Later, I was told that the sounds within the hall, when heard from the outside, were rather horrific.

  We had no idea just how awful it must have sounded until the double emergency exit doors at the end of the hall, just to the right of the stage, suddenly burst open. They were smashed like matchwood from the outside, then amid screams and shouts and the sound of dwindling violins, coughing cellos and a wheezing double bass, in charged Cuthbert’s angry Charolais bull which hurtled inside for a few yards, then halted and stood glaring at the orchestra whose members had by now, and without exception, ceased their stringy noises. The lack of music seemed to calm the bull — clearly, it had been very annoyed at the constant din just behind the doors and the banging and clattering of the 1812
had been sufficient to persuade the bull to do something about it. And it had worked. The minute he battered down the door the music stopped, and peace was restored. I have no doubt that clever bull thought he had solved his own problem. Our problem was what to do next.

  ‘Nobody move!’ shouted Rudolph Burley, who knew about these things. ‘Just stay where you are . . . they don’t like sudden movements . . . keep very still . . .’

  And we did.

  Every one of us froze in our seats, the orchestra froze, the doorkeeper froze and Rudolph Burley, now in his capacity of a man experienced in auctioning bulls rather than the conductor of a string orchestra, stopped waving his hands and stood immobile, watching the huge head of the bull as it studied the interior of the hall, snorting from time to time but not yet venturing further into the building.

  ‘Nobody move!’ came Rudolph’s voice yet again, because the handsome Charolais began to walk the length of the hall, crossing in front of the stage and then padding along the centre aisle towards the main door. This was standing open due to the heat and when the doorman made a move to close it to prevent the bull’s gentle exit, Rudolph shouted, ‘No, Jack, stay put . . . leave him . . . we can round him up outside, it’ll be safer than trying to do it in here . . . let him go . . .’

  And so the giant bull moved steadily along the aisle, with the ring in his nose glinting in the reflected lights of the stage and he glared at the rock-steady audience in their chairs before disappearing into the street beyond.

  ‘Right,’ said Rudolph. ‘Stay in here, all of you. I’ll follow the bull. Nick, you ring Cuthbert, or better still find somebody with a dog or two who can head him off or drive him into a field or barn or something. We don’t want him stampeding into a gallop or butting his way into the pub or anything.’