“Well?” I asked, settling at his side. “How’s the new electricity?”
“I don’t reckon much to it,” he said bluntly. “Our Millie still cooks on that Aga, it’s hot all t’time you see. And that cup of tea — well, that aud kettle boils on that Aga, all t’time, so it’s allus ready. Bubbling away all day, singing and warm. And she puts her iron on before she fettles my shirts and things . . . we don’t use t’electric, you know. We don’t need it.”
“Not at all?” I cried. “Not after all that expense?”
“I can’t use it in my workshop, Mr Rhea — I like a hand drill and hand tools. They’ve got feeling in ’em, you see. Power tools have no feeling, have they?”
“But surely you must make some use of it?”
“Aye,” he acknowledged gravely. “We do. That light on t’top of our stairs. We switch it on before going up to bed. It lights our way upstairs and we switch it off before we go into our bedrooms. That’s a very useful light, is that one.”
I called upon him many times after that, but I never saw him, or Millie, make use of anything electrical.
Incidentally, the youth responsible for the housebreakings was caught a month or so after my first contact with Stanley George. He’d run away from home and was sleeping in a barn about eight miles away, living by his thefts.
* * *
Perhaps my favourite craftsman was Aud John. Everyone knew him as Aud John and it was some time before I knew his surname was Frankland. John was the local blacksmith at Maddleskirk and he had occupied his smithy just off the High Street for over seventy years. It had been his father’s place before that, and John continued to operate with huge bellows, a pile of coke and an anvil which must have shaped thousands of horseshoes over many dozens of years.
John was well over eighty. He was a thickset man and weighed well over seventeen stone. He had a fresh complexion, a white moustache and white hair with sparkling grey eyes. He habitually wore a long leather apron which was scorched with heat and tattered from other labours. He worked day in, day out with his sleeves rolled up and I never once saw him wear a jacket. His feet always sported clogs; he was muscular and fit, as straight as the proverbial ramrod and he possessed a marvellous sense of humour. Everyone liked and respected Aud John.
In his heyday, the smithy had been the resort of horses from far and near, and that had been the sole living of John and his father. John had continued to earn a good living until that period after World War II when horses began to dwindle as a form of rural draught and transport. The motor-vehicle was taking over and John found business sliding from him. He was not one for letting things go and refused to give up his ancient craft. After all, it was his only skill. He began to fashion ornamental gates and other similar fittings, which he sold at the markets of Harrowby, Brantsford and Ashfordly. Business began to thrive once again, although he still shod the occasional horse when the occasion demanded. With a renewed interest in horses, John’s business enjoyed a second revival and he became busier than ever in his declining years. He reckoned that hard work kept him alive and fit. I believe it did.
I enjoyed visiting John. It was a long time before he totally accepted me, and I learned very quickly that he hated being watched at work. If he had a caller, he would promptly cease work and talk for as long as he considered necessary. He would then dismiss the visitor. As he worked in the open air in a square yard which abutted a lane running off the High Street, he had frequent interruptions, although I did discover that his trusted friends and local colleagues were allowed to talk to him while he worked.
My visits to his yard were originally for duty purposes. I was checking for stolen scrap metal. Unscrupulous scrap merchants might attempt to sell stolen property to him, or they might attempt to steal his stock of metal, consequently I paid regular visits to his small establishment, just to keep an eye on him and his belongings. Constant reminders kept him alert to the possibility of visits by criminals.
The entrance to his tiny square yard was through two wooden gates, just wide enough to admit a lorry, and these were always closed when he was working. He would sit or stand in a small clearing among his heaps of metal and there fashion his exquisite gates, brackets, fireplaces and other objects, many of which had been commissioned. Gradually, he began to accept me; I knew I had ‘arrived’ when he continued to work in my presence.
At the back of the yard was his storeroom and internal workshop; inside the workshop was the traditional blacksmith’s shop, with the anvil, the coke fire, the trough of water and piles of horseshoes. There was the ever-present smell of hot metal, coke and horses. On cold days, I would pop into that shop to get warm because the fire was always burning. There is nothing cosier than a working blacksmith’s shop.
One late autumn day, I popped in for a warm-up, for I’d been on a long motorcycle patrol and was chilled to the core. Aud John nodded me through and I went across his yard and through to the shop where I removed my motorcycle gear. I settled before the glowing fire, pumped the bellows to bring up a blaze, and warmed myself before it. Outside, John was busy with a wrought-iron gate which had to be finished that day, so I did not try to talk to him. I sat in his smithy while he worked outside, even though there was a hint of frost in the air.
And as I enjoyed the growing warmth, I became aware of two young men. They were strangers to the village and were leaning upon his gates, watching him at work. For a long time, he was unaware of their presence and I wondered how he would react when he realised they were there. I began to observe them, realising I was invisible to them within the darkness of the forge. The confrontation could be interesting.
Each visitor was about thirty years old, smartly dressed and obviously of good standing. One had thick fair hair and rimless glasses, while the other was rather thickset with a balding head. Finally, John realised they were there.
“What’s thoo fellers want?” he demanded, downing his tools with evident determination.
“Oh, er, nothing,” the fair-haired one answered. “We are just watching.”
“I’m a busy chap, and I don’t like being watched by strangers,” he told them. “Can I sell you anything?”
“No, thanks,” the fair one said. “Can we watch for a while?”
Grudgingly, John retrieved his tools and resumed work on the urgent gate. He was uneasy, I could sense that. He continually looked across at them and I knew he wouldn’t normally have worked like this, but the job was pressing. They remained leaning across his gate for a few more minutes, quietly observing his efforts. Finally, he could stand it no longer.
“Look here,” he pulled himself to his full height, a magnificent man for his age. “I can’t abide folks watching me when I’m working. If there’s summat you want, then get it and leave me be. I’ve got to finish this job.”
The balding one spoke.
“We’re sorry,” he smiled gently. “We’ll go in a moment. But we find it so nice to watch a genuine craftsman at work, especially a man like you, working in the open air. We are up here on business, you see; we’re heading for Brantsford and we stopped here to stretch our legs. We have a factory in the south; we’re from London and we manufacture precision instruments. For that reason, it’s so nice to find a real craftsman, working in the old tradition and using his own hands.”
“That’s right,” his fair-haired companion continued. “Mind you, our sort of work is very, very precise. We have to work to an accuracy of one ten-thousandth of an inch.”
“In that case,” said John with his eyes twinkling, “You’d better stay and watch. I’m exact.”
Chapter Five
With about a dozen Acts of Parliament and other minor pieces of legislation to cater for dogs, I realised the rich man’s guardian and poor man’s friend would feature in my daily work at Aidensfield. My beat was the home of numerous dogs and in common with other rural areas, they ranged from tiny indoor pets like Yorkshire terriers to keen, working and sporting dogs, but included the inevitable str
ays, sheep worriers, lost dogs and perpetual wanderers, to say nothing of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’s lurcher.
So far as the law was concerned, there were dog licences to check, stray dogs to house, sheep killers to be concerned about and collars to examine. Almost every week involved me in some form of doggy problem.
Due to this regular commitment, it wasn’t long before I knew many of the resident dogs by their first names. I began to accept the situation that it was not unusual in this type of rural bliss, for dogs to wander unaccompanied around the villages. Each did its own thing while its unseen master went about his unknown business.
One such wanderer was Rufus, a lethargic Golden Labrador, whose unquenchable lust was for dustbins. He roamed Aidensfield at all hours, up-turning the district’s dustbins so he could ferret among the contents. His master was a hairy musician who knew of Rufus’s craving and who had tried, many, many times, to cure him of the habit. Practically everyone else in the village had tried and while most of them had resorted to concealment of their bins, one man had gone to the lengths of wiring his bin to a 12-volt car battery. His hope was that Rufus would cock his leg against it or otherwise attempt to overturn it, and thus give himself a severe shock in a painful region. But Rufus never went near that bin. He must have realised it was dangerous and it was an unfortunate refuse collector who received a nasty kick from the lethal object.
As Rufus went along his merry way, leaving as his trademark many up-skittled bins and trails of rubbish, Sergeant Blaketon instructed me to check all dog licences. Every time I saw a dog, I must interview its owner to check the necessary document. It was around this time that the law changed slightly in favour of those farmers who kept dogs purely for working purposes. Hitherto, they had been permitted to keep a number of unlicensed dogs, based on the number of livestock they kept. Each year, these farmers required a certificate of exemption and came to the police for issue of the document. The change meant that any dog used solely for tending sheep or cattle could be kept without a licence and no certificate was necessary. The onus rested upon the farmer to prove that his dogs were for tending sheep or cattle, and even pups might be included under that general heading if they were being ‘brought on’ by older dogs. Among the people who could (and still can) keep dogs without licences were blind persons who kept guide dogs, persons keeping dogs under six months old, shepherds who kept dogs in the exercise of their calling, and keepers of hound dogs under 12 months of age, not having run with a pack.
I knew it would take weeks to check every dog licence on my beat, so I went into the four village post offices and, casually in the course of our small talk, I told the men and women behind the counters that it was my intention next week to check all dog licences. I knew the outcome — word would spread like wildfire that the bobby was having a purge and there would be a sudden rush of applications. I knew my ruse had worked because in the days which followed, several farmers came for advice about the new rules, and I later discovered the post offices had done a roaring trade in new issues. To satisfy Sergeant Blaketon’s desire for correct procedures. I did check a few and recorded them in my notebook. It kept the sergeant happy and also showed the village that I had meant business. This piece of strategy was necessary because there might, in the future, be a reason for letting a similar piece of confidential information loose upon the villagers. A follow-up, however minor, was important in any ruse of this kind.
To accommodate the numbers of stray dogs that roam the nation, many police stations possess what is conveniently known as a doghouse. Some rely on local dogs’ homes, but official police doghouses come in varying shapes and sizes. Unfortunately, architectural ignorance invariably sites them next door to the cells or beneath the windows of private houses which adjoin police stations. Because the captured strays howl their protests long and loud at all hours of the day and night, this leads to complaints from prisoners who say they cannot sleep and from neighbours who claim a reduction in their rates. Policemen, however, seem impervious to the howling of unhappy dogs and the occasional “shurrup” seems to achieve great things. One of the more important tasks of a police cadet is to take the captive animals for walkies and sometimes these youngsters are advised to ‘let the dog escape’, and to write up the books as ‘dog escaped’.
Unclaimed dogs are destroyed after seven days so this ruse saves the lives of many. The escape procedure, highly unofficial though it is, solves a lot of other problems because stray dogs very often find their own way home, having never been a true stray in the first place, but having been incarcerated through the misplaced kindness of an animal-lover. Someone else might find the ‘escaped’ dog and be willing to retain it until the true owner turns up, or indeed to retain it forever. Not many come back a second time, which proves the sense of this procedure. It is somewhat embarrassing, however, when the same person finds the same dog two or three times a day and insists on fetching it back into custody, even though his kindness can lead to the death of a very nice dog.
On one occasion, I was on office duty from 2 pm until 10 pm at Eltering when a minute and elderly gentleman wearing plus fours and brogue shoes entered the police office. He was carrying a tiny Yorkshire terrier and it would be around 2.30 in the afternoon. The dog was one of the miniature variety which shiver all the time, and this one wore a blue ribbon in its hair. It wore a collar but bore no name and address. Its tiny eyes looked around in horror as the gentleman placed it on the counter and said, “I’ve just found it wandering in Flatts Lane, lost.”
“Lost?” I commented. “Are you sure?”
“Aye, dogs like this don’t wander alone, they’re pets.”
“There was no one about, eh?”
“No, Officer. No one. It’s criminal, letting dogs like this wander at large. All kinds of harm could be done.”
The little man steadfastly refused to take the dog home with him, which meant it had to be lodged in the doghouse at Eltering Police Station, pending the arrival of its owner. Like all strays, if it was not claimed within seven days, it would have to be destroyed. In practice, we tried to save good dogs by dropping a word in the ear of the local newspaper reporter in the hope he would print a sob story in his columns. Very often, strays were handed over to people who would love and care for them, and many have acquired beautiful dogs through this system. It saved the Force, and ultimately the ratepayer, the cost of destroying the animals. I could hardly let this one escape — where would it run to?
The doghouse at Eltering police office was a huge one. It had been built from plans prepared by the County Architect who probably thought he was designing a buffalo cage for the local zoo. The kennel was well constructed, airy and clean, and could have accommodated something as large as a buffalo. This little Yorkshire terrier was destined to be its first occupant and after I had entered the necessary details and description in the Stray Dogs Register, I carried it through the office and out into the yard where I placed it in the brand-new doghouse. It stood and shivered in the centre of the huge compound, its beautiful fringed eyes pitifully gazing up at me. I wondered if it slept on a silken bed at home. It yapped despairingly as I left, but once I was back in the office, its high-pitched protestations were beyond my ears.
I made sure we had sufficient food for it; we kept a stock of dog biscuits and were allowed to purchase other forms of dog food if necessary, the cost being recovered from the owner or from the person who decided to accept the dog as a stray, with our compliments. I popped out to see the little creature after about half an hour, taking with me a bowl of fresh water and some biscuits. It yapped its thanks, gazing expectantly at the wire netting.
I was surprised that no one had come to claim the little animal; pets like this were seldom lost and if they did go astray, you could guarantee their owners would come rushing around to claim them within a very short time. But not so with this little dog. By tea-time, no one had called or telephoned and I began to grow concerned about its future.
At five o’cloc
k, another problem presented itself. A little girl entered the office towing a donkey behind her. She was about ten years old and had found it wandering down the lane behind her house. Her dad had instructed her to take it to the police station, with orders not to fetch it back. I noted her name and address and suggested she take it home until the owner was traced.
“My dad says you must keep it,” she said firmly. “We’ve nowhere, we only live in a little house.”
“Surely your dad knows somebody with a field,” I suggested, knowing there was no formal procedure for dealing with found donkeys.
“No, no one. That’s why he said to bring it here.”
It wasn’t a very large donkey, but it was a genuine, living one nonetheless.
“We’ve no fields here,” I said inanely, “and I can’t leave the office to take it anywhere.”
“I’ve got to get ready for Brownies,” she smiled. “Bye”.
And with that, she turned and hurried from the station, leaving the benign ass standing before the counter like a baleful drunk. It looked about its new quarters and began to walk around, trailing the rope which was attached to a hessian halter.
“Oh no!” I shouted at it. “You can’t have the freedom of the station, you’re coming with me.”
Our commodious new doghouse was the answer. It was cosy and certainly large enough. The County Architect had some sense after all. Because the donkey might stand on the little dog, I decided to fetch the dog into the office, at least for the time being. And so the animals changed places. The donkey entered the doghouse quite happily and sniffed at the clean hay, while the dog pranced and yapped in its new freedom. It followed me back into the office where it continued to yap and bark with delight. Because it was my mealtime, I made sure all the doors were closed and allowed it the run of the place while I settled down to eat my sandwiches.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 9