Then she set about recruiting sufficient volunteers to reach the casualty and, if necessary, to carry her on a stretcher to a waiting vehicle. The rescue effort entailed a five-mile trek by Land-rover from Ashfordly to the farm, followed by the walk of a mile across rough moorland to the casualty’s resting place. Time was vital, but the moorland walk through difficult terrain and in intense heat would be arduous and tiring, even for fit people. Gillian knew there would be an even tougher walk on the return journey because they’d be bearing a loaded stretcher.
The ambulance service was alerted too, just in case more expert medical attention was needed, and they said they would rendezvous with ASRO at High Dale House.
And so the rescue attempt began with Gillian Wetherby going to the scene as one of the party.
‘It was a blistering hot day on those moors,’ she told me afterwards. ‘Five of us trekked from the farm to the spot she’d identified and we soon found Miss Piper. She was waving a large white handkerchief to direct us, and she shouted that Mrs Robinson was still lying exhausted in a small gully just above High Gill. We ran to the scene with the stretcher and found her with no trouble. But you’ll never guess who Mrs Robinson was!’ I knew that the rescue of a famous person was always good for such an organization because the subsequent publicity served both to warn the public of the dangers and to highlight the work of the search and rescue parties. But I shook my head — I could not think who Mrs Robinson might be; I considered it might be the real name of a pop star, the name of a faded musical-hall artist or film star, a person high in the professional world or politics or the arts . . .
‘Sorry, Gillian,’ I had to admit. ‘I’ve no idea who Mrs Robinson is.’
‘She’s a dog,’ said Gillian. ‘A great, fat, idle, golden Labrador, far overweight and totally out of condition . . . she simply gave up in the heat and refused to move.’
‘She called you out for a dog?’ I cried. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘She did. The silly old woman . . . she had no thought to the fact we might be needed for a human being who’d collapsed or in dire straits.’
‘So what did you do?’
She smiled. ‘Our men took the stretcher to the dog, lifted it aboard and then took it to the gill. Then they dumped the dog in the cool water. It recovered immediately in spite of its age. It was fifteen years old, a big age for a dog.’
‘And you’ll send the silly Miss Piper a bill?’
‘No, we can’t really do that. It might be argued we should have carried out closer checks before responding, but we suggested she gave a useful donation to the team and sent a letter of apology to the ambulance service.’
‘And did she?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. We got a hundred pounds from her. After all, we had cured the dog and it walked to the Land-rover with us! It was not a wasted day, though, we could consider the outing as a good training exercise, which it was. We learned lessons from it. And I’m sure we helped poor old Mrs Robinson.’
‘Mrs Robinson, eh? An odd name for a dog,’ I mused.
‘When Miss Piper was working — she was a secretary in a clothing factory — she hated to say she had to rush home from social events or even from work, just to feed her dog. So she called the dog Mrs Robinson, so when she said she had to rush home to care for Mrs Robinson, no one argued or thought it odd. Not a bad idea, actually, and once we got to know her, she was quite a nice old lady.’
‘Who? Mrs Robinson or the other one?’ I laughed.
‘Both,’ she said.
* * *
The lessons learned from the rescue of Mrs Robinson were rapidly put into practice because, within a week, there was a second request for the services of the Ashfordly Search and Rescue Organization to go to the aid of a sick dog. On that occasion, it was rapidly established that the casualty was a dog and so ASRO turned down the request. As things worked out, Gillian, the ASRO secretary, was on holiday at the time and, during her absence, it had been decided by team members that all requests for ASRO’s services should be directed through Ashfordly Police Station. It was one of the few places in the small market town which operated on a twenty-four-hour basis, and the local police were well equipped to implement the search and rescue procedures.
Although the call was taken by PC Alf Ventress, the decision not to turn out the ASRO team on that occasion was taken very speedily by Sergeant Blaketon who happened to be in the office at the time. I wondered if his decision was influenced in any way by the fact that the ailing dog was none other than Alfred, the scruffy lurcher, the best friend of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. Quite by chance and rather unwittingly, I was later to become involved in that sick-dog saga, but the preamble happened like this.
For reasons known only to himself and perhaps to Alfred, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was wandering across the loftiest parts of the North York Moors. It was a hot August day, the heather was in full bloom and the moors, at their most spectacular during the latter weeks of that month, were a sea of incredible purple plants, millions of them.
I don’t think Claude was there to admire the scenery, however. The fact that the grouse shooting season had been underway since the Glorious Twelfth might have had some bearing on his presence that day although, in his usual manner, he steadfastly denied being on the moors for nefarious purposes. Nonetheless, he was in possession of a twelve bore shotgun and cartridges at the time, and Alfred was searching the heather and periodically putting up birds. I cannot say whether Greengrass succeeded in bagging a brace or two because he never admitted such a thing, nor did I, when I became involved, find him in possession of any shot grouse. On the other hand, he did not have any transport and I wondered if he’d secreted it somewhere until the coast was clear.
However, it seems that Alfred, busy snuffling through the thick, strong heather, failed to see an adder which was basking on a patch of dry, bare earth. The adder is Britain’s only poisonous snake. Growing to a length of two feet in the case of the male, and up to two feet six inches so far as females are concerned, these handsome creatures can be identified by the black zig-zag or diamond-shaped markings which run the length of their spines. Their base colour can vary from a warm, light brown to a dark grey colour but in general they are docile creatures which will not attack without reason. At the approach of danger, they much prefer to slide away and disappear in the undergrowth, but if challenged they can administer a nasty bite which injects poisonous venom into their adversary. In this case, Alfred arrived quickly on the scene without the dozing adder being aware of his proximity, and, snuffling through the heather, he had nudged the snake from its slumbers.
Reacting instinctively, it bit its foe — it seized Alfred by his lower lip. The dog howled and threw up his head in surprise and pain, at which Claude saw the snake being thrown over Alfred’s back as it released its grip. It sailed across the heather for a few feet and then crashed to earth to disappear among the deep plants. Observing this little drama, Claude knew what had happened. He knew that the bite of an adder was rarely fatal in humans, unless they were allergic to the venom, but he had no idea of its effect upon dogs. He was soon to learn.
The immediate effect seemed to be nil and apart from constantly licking the wound, Alfred did not appear to be seriously injured, but within half an hour, he was struggling to walk and a few minutes later collapsed in a heap. He appeared to be in a coma and, despite entreaties from Claude, failed to respond. Claude, extremely upset at the thought of Alfred dying, picked up the dog in his arms and hurried for help. On those exposed wastes, however, there were no houses, farms or telephone kiosks and it took him nearly an hour to reach the moorland hamlet of Lairsdale. By this stage, Claude was almost walking on all fours through exhaustion; sweat was pouring from him and his old legs were aching interminably. Alfred had made no progress, but happily he was still alive, his thin chest showing that his heart continued to beat.
There is a roadside telephone kiosk in Lairsdale and Claude had just enough money to ma
ke a couple of calls. Luckily, someone had written the number of the Ashfordly Search and Rescue Organization in the kiosk, a wise idea in this remote dale, and so Claude rang them.
But, as we know, Gillian was on holiday and the person deputizing for her in the National Park office, told Claude to ring the police who would make arrangements for the call-out. With his last coin, Claude did so. After first talking to Alf Ventress, Sergeant Blaketon took over and immediately turned down his request. Thus Claude was marooned in Lairsdale with no money, no vehicle, his twelve bore and a very sick Alfred. Almost weeping with dejection, he sat on the ground outside the kiosk, laid the gun on the ground and cradled Alfred in his arms. He would wait in the hope that a Good Samaritan might pass this way. There was nothing else he could do.
It was at that stage that the radio in my Mini-van came to life and I heard my call sign being broadcast. I was patrolling the hills, dales and villages around Brantsford and received a loud and clear signal.
‘It’s Alf Ventress,’ said the distinctive voice. ‘What’s your location, Nick?’
‘Brantsford area, Alf, approaching Rannockdale,’ I responded.
‘Look,’ said Alf, reducing his voice until I could hardly hear him, ‘Sergeant Blaketon’s popped into town for half an hour, so I thought I’d call you while he’s out of the way. We got a call from Greengrass; he rang from the kiosk in Lairsdale. He’s in a bit of state, his dog is ill with a snake bite, he tried to get ASRO to go out and help him but Blaketon wouldn’t sanction it, not for a dog. Claude hasn’t got his pick-up truck or any transport. I wondered if you were anywhere near Lairsdale, just to see if we can do anything to help the poor old rogue get his dog seen to.’
‘I can be there in twenty minutes,’ I said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Well done, Nick. Not a word to Blaketon. If he asks, you were just passing and you happened to come across Claude!’
‘Right. Now, those kiosks take incoming calls so can you ring Claude and tell him to wait for me? Twenty minutes or so.’
When I arrived, Claude was still sitting on the ground nursing Alfred and the relief on his face as I pulled up was a joy to behold. He gabbled the story to me as I urged him to put the dog and gun in the rear and then get into the front passenger seat beside me, but Claude refused. He wanted to nurse Alfred, and so both of them squeezed into the cramped front seat of the Mini as I laid his gun in the rear, checking that it was unloaded. Then I turned around and drove off.
‘You’ll get it in the neck, Constable Nick, for using police transport to come and give my dog a lift.’
‘Look, if anybody asks, I happened to be on patrol in Lairsdale and found you and Alfred in a distressed condition. Right? And if Blaketon sees us, you’d better have a licence for that gun!’
‘Anything you say, Constable! And I do have a gun licence. Anyroad, where are you taking us?’
‘To the vet in Harrowby, it’s not far out of my way,’ I said. ‘If Alfred’s been bitten by an adder, he needs treatment.’
I dropped Claude, Alfred and the gun at the vet’s surgery in Harrowby, but Claude advised me not to wait. He said he would find his own way home because he wanted to take sufficient time to ensure Alfred was properly treated.
As I left, he said he’d leave a couple of pints for me at the Hopbind Inn next time I called, his way of expressing his gratitude.
As there were a further two hours to my patrol before I knocked off duty, I decided to head for Eltering, there to execute a foot patrol of the town centre, visit a few villages and farms, and head back to Aidensfield to knock off at 6 p.m. At two minutes to six, as I turned down the road which led to my police house, I noticed Sergeant Blaketon’s car parked outside. He was there to book me off duty, to make sure I did not sneak into the house before the end of my shift.
‘All correct, Rhea?’ he asked, as I clambered out of the Mini-van to meet him.
‘Yes, Sergeant. No problems. I’ve done an extended patrol of the Brantsford areas and Eltering town centre. All’s very quiet.’
‘We were nearly made busy with an ASRO call-out,’ he smiled. ‘We could have been dragged into a search and rescue operation on the moors but I smelt a rat — or to be precise, a rather mucky dog. It was Greengrass, would you believe, ringing the ASRO headquarters and wanting them to go out and bring his dog home. I dread to think what might have happened if I’d not taken the call . . . we’d be the laughing stock of the area, rushing off to rescue sick dogs! And now, would you believe, I was in your village centre a few minutes ago and there was Greengrass with his dog and gun, as large as life, getting off Arnold Merryweather’s bus! Sick dog, my foot! He’d been shooting and that mutt of his was as fit as a lop. You’ve got to keep one step ahead of Greengrass, Rhea. Next thing we know, folks will be wanting search and rescue parties to clean up after their picnics or fetch the hamper back to base.’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I nodded, recalling an incident where a search and rescue party was asked to ferry people down from the moors because otherwise they’d be late for a dinner party. That request was turned down. ‘It would have been a very hot job, searching those moors in this heat.’
‘It would indeed. Well, Rhea, another peaceful and uneventful day. Get yourself booked off duty. I’ll see you tomorrow — and make sure Greengrass has a licence for that gun of his.’
‘Very good, Sergeant,’ I smiled as he drove away.
I was delighted that Alfred was all right and thought a couple of pints of cool refreshing beer, paid for by Claude, would be a very good reason for popping into the pub on this hot, August evening.
* * *
The Ashfordly Search and Rescue team did have more serious work to consider and a good example occurred one year in the week after August Bank Holiday Monday, which at that time was the first Monday in August. This was the time for school holidays and some Girl Guides came to camp on a site close to a moorland stream which flows past Hagg Bottom. Hagg Bottom is the location of the Greengrass ranch but their campsite was not on Claude’s property. It was only a couple of fields away, however, at a place known as Hagg Carr which was regularly used to accommodate Scout and Guide camps. Claude regarded this as a most convenient arrangement because he offered to supply, for a price, of course, fresh eggs and goat milk or anything else they might require.
His range of merchandise included frying pans, bundles of firewood, tent pegs, paraffin, candles and even extra food such as sausages, potatoes and tins of baked beans.
This particular group of Guides came from Leeds. They were known as the Seventh Woodhouse (Leeds) Girl Guides and comprised some two dozen teenage girls aged between eleven and fifteen. They were led by a busy and efficient Guider called Sylvia McNeil who was in her late thirties and whose 14-year-old daughter, Susan, was one of the campers. The girls arrived on the Friday before Bank Holiday Monday and the camp was to continue until a week the following Saturday, nine days in total. Some of the girls arrived in cars which the Guiders drove and others travelled from their homes military style in the back of a covered lorry which also transported their tents, food, sleeping-bags and other gear. A couple of mothers accompanied the troop to help Sylvia in her work, and the lorry driver, the father of another of the girls, helped them unload and erect their tents. Once the camp-fire was burning, the tents erected, the evening meal under way and the girls unpacked, they had a sing-song around the blazing log fire as a means of blending them into one cohesive unit prior to their first night under canvas.
In general, the police service was not concerned with or worried about Scouts and Guides who came to camp in their area, although in the case of a small village it was usually wise for the resident constable to acquaint himself with such arrivals. Almost invariably, the camps were well supervised by responsible leaders and their young charges were well behaved.
Sadly, there were a few instances where undisciplined Scouts or Guides from inner-city areas escaped into the nearest village to shoplift sweets or steal app
les and fruit from the local store or even from cottage gardens. In Aidensfield, such cases were very rare indeed and we seldom experienced problems from Guides and Scouts. Sometimes, of course, snoopers and peepers would prowl the vicinity of the campsite under cover of darkness, particularly if interesting female campers were likely to be observed; consequently, it was wise for a police uniform to be evident at some stage of the campers’ stay. For that reason, I would patrol the vicinity of the camps from time to time, hoping my uniform would serve as a deterrent to wrongdoers.
In the case of this group, I was aware of their arrival because Joe Steel, the owner of the village shop, informed me. He’d been contacted in advance to supply some grocery items, and he’d put Sylvia in touch with the milkman and local butcher. In that typically village way, most of the population of Aidensfield was soon aware that a troop of Girl Guides from Leeds was camping close to the Greengrass estate.
I always made a point of calling at such camps soon after their arrival so that those in charge knew me and my address, should they require my aid in any emergency, large or small. I was amazed at some of the things that happened during these modest camping holidays. In the short time I had been at Aidensfield, the following calamities had happened to a succession of campers — tents had caught fire; campers had broken arms, legs and ankles or burned their fingers, got stung with wasps or cut with broken glass in the river; some campers had been flooded while asleep at night when the river rose unexpectedly; cattle had broken out of a field and trampled the tents while the campers were away for the day, vehicles had broken down or refused to start; foxes had raided the larders . . . these were among a variety of relatively minor incidents during just a few summers and it was all part of the fun.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 8