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 wou
ld 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.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
“What’s going on, Rhea? You’re like a bloody greyhound, sniffing like that.”
Sergeant Blaketon had emerged from one of the alleys in time to see my perambulations with nose aloft.
“I can smell smoke, Sergeant. It’s not far away.”
“It’ll be a bonfire,” he said. “Somebody will have lit a bonfire and it’ll be smouldering. They do that, you know.”
“It’s not that sort of smell,” I insisted. It wasn’t a bonfire smell. Bonfires have their own distinctive smell, and this was different. It is difficult to describe a smell, but I knew this was definitely not a bonfire. I continued to parade up and down the street, sniffing and looking for signs of smoke. He joined me, and together we promenaded, noses in the air, sniffing loudly. It must have been a strange sight.
“Bonfire,” he said eventually. “I can smell it now. Bonfire, Rhea.”
“No, Sergeant,” I argued. “It is not a bonfire!” and then I saw the faintest wisp of grey smoke drifting past the illuminated windows of the telephone kiosk. “There!” I pointed. “It’s floating past the kiosk.”
“Bonfire,” he affirmed.
I decided to explore. I was very unhappy about this for it was most certainly a strange smell, not the scent of burning garden rubbish. By peering into the night sky against the reflection of the town’s few remaining lights I hoped to catch sight of more drifting smoke. And I did. I saw a considerable plume rising from an area tucked in the middle of a cluster of ancient buildings, just behind the main street.
“There!” I pointed out the grey pall to Sergeant Blaketon.
I galloped towards it. That part of Eltering is a maze of narrow passages and tiny alleys where dozens of small houses are literally clustered on top of one another. Their age and construction means they are tinder dry, their old wooden roofs and beamed ceilings being perfect fuel for a major blaze. And I knew there were no gardens in that part of town. This was no bonfire.
Blaketon followed my urgent dash and I could hear him panting through the dark passages. We didn’t know where we were going for each passage had others leading from it, and in those narrow confines I could not see the smoke against the night sky. I was guided by my sense of smell and the smell was intensifying. Now I heard the crackling of flames.
Round the very next bend I found it. It was a narrow cottage tucked into the corner of an alley and it was half-timbered. Through its ancient mullioned window I could see the glow of a fierce blaze. The entire room was burning brightly and the upper storey window was missing, casting a thickening blanket of smoke across the nearby roofs. Sergeant Blaketon arrived seconds later and we stood for a moment, awestruck at the sight of this tiny cottage as its interior glowed a fierce and menacing red.
“Fire Brigade!” he gasped. “Police — ring for them too, Malton.”
I galloped back to the kiosk and dialled three nines for the Fire Brigade before panting out my story. I was out of breath and had difficulty gasping out the address but soon convinced the recipient of the urgency of my call. I told the police at Malton and asked for assistance; rapid help was assured.
I ran back to the scene and found Sergeant Blaketon, his face glistening with perspiration in the red glow, knocking on doors and attempting to rouse the sleeping occupants of adjoining premises. He was running up and down, thumping doors and shouting, “Fire, fire . . .”
I did likewise.
In the light provided by the blaze I could see more of the burning cottage. It was tucked into a corner of a small, cobbled square deep in the heart of old Eltering. All around were lots of similar buildings, all with tiny windows, old doors and low ceilings, ancient and tinder dry. If this fire spread . . . It reminded me of the Great Fire of London . . . the potential inferno didn’t bear thinking about.
“It’s a warehouse,” Sergeant Blaketon yelled above the roar of flames. “Full of toys and games. Nobody inside, thank God . . .”
Although we knocked on neighbouring doors nobody responded. Not one person answered. The Fire Brigade arrived very quickly and soon had their thick hoses snaking through the passages. Men in dark uniforms and shining helmets arrived and the place became a hive of organised activity. Firemen with breathing apparatus and powerful lights battered their way into the blazing building to search for casualties as I continued to knock on doors.
As we worked a senior fire officer halted us. “You’ll have to evacuate these houses,” he ordered. “If this blaze gets away from us the whole lot’ll go up. People an’ all. I hope we can contain it but . . .” and his voice tailed away.
We tried again. I counted the cottages in question. There were only six. I had been to every one several times and so had Oscar Blaketon. We were beginning to think they were all empty, perhaps kept as holiday cottages and then I heard the swish of curtains being drawn open. I looked up and a man’s face appeared at a bedroom window. He glowed orange in the bright light.
“Out!” I shouted above the noise and saw the horror on his face as he stared at the blazing inferno only yards away. “Out — anybody else in there?”
The face vanished, and I hammered on more doors. By now there was a tremendous amount of noise at the scene — firemen were working and shouting, water was hissing, fire crackling, timbers falling, slates crashing
and Sergeant Blaketon hammering on doors with his truncheon. How anyone could sleep through this din I do not know. If it took our combined efforts to rouse the orange-faced individual, there could be more people in bed, so I concentrated on the house which had produced the face.
As I hammered, a frightened feminine face appeared, wearing long blonde hair. “Out!” I cried at the top of my voice, cupping my mouth with my hands. “Hurry up, for God’s sake . . .”
She vanished, but still no one emerged.
Anxious firemen were rattling doors, banging dustbins and generally creating as much noise as possible. At last it had some effect. More curtains opened, more glowing faces appeared, and more people began to move about inside those threatened houses.
“Take ’em away, out into the main street, for safety,” Sergeant Blaketon ordered. “Get their names, ask how many folks were inside. Everyone must be accounted for.”
The senior fire officer was dutifully organising his men and other nearby residents who had arrived to watch as I moved away from the immediate vicinity. I stood aside, and my little group of bewildered people began to grow as the startled sleepers emerged from their six tiny houses. All wore casual clothes — sweaters and light trousers — and as they assembled in a huddle near me, I asked, “Anyone left inside?”
No one spoke. They were all too shocked.
I called to Sergeant Blaketon. “Sergeant,” I cried. “Can we check inside every cottage, one by one? I think they’re all here now.”
A fireman answered. “Aye,” he said and promptly vanished inside the nearest. As he did this a couple emerged from another and soon, I had six shivering couples standing around me. We waited as the fireman bobbed in and out of the houses and eventually declared every one empty.
Meanwhile three fire appliances had parked in the street and their long, snaking hoses were pumping gallons of water into the blazing building. The firemen were doing a good job, their chief mission being to prevent the spread of flames. I felt they were gaining the upper hand.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 34