Constable Among the Heather (3 page)

Quite suddenly, the dale was transformed. From my vantage-point on the car-park, I could see the procession of oncoming buses and cars. It stretched way out of sight. The constable at the first junction was feeding them across to PC Parry, who in turn was dividing the buses and cars. The cars were being sent towards me; some disgorged their passengers and went on to park higher in the dale. Others completed a circular tour before returning later for their passengers.

By two o’clock the dale was filled with moving vehicles, but I began to realize that their progress was slowing. Quite suddenly, things went wrong. Within minutes traffic in the dale was grinding to a halt. The queue of buses waiting to disgorge passengers was growing, and then, as I looked across
the dale to the junction at the far side, I could see that the traffic was stationary for a long way back. Nothing was moving. No cars were passing my point. They were backed for miles down the far side … and there was a queue from both the upper and lower dale … outgoing cars had been brought to a halt and so had incoming vehicles. The entire dale, miles and miles of it, was at a standstill and the air was was beginning to fill with the ghastly music of the great British motoring public – they were tooting their car horns. It sounded like the centre of Paris …

The blockage could only be at PC Parry’s point. Sergeant Bairstow was up the dale, so I decided to investigate. After all, Parry’s point was only a few yards from mine, although beyond my line of vision. When I arrived, I found mayhem. Cars and buses were jammed at his point; a bus was stuck across the road, there was a tractor and trailer trying to manœuvre past them, and cars were queuing patiently to get past them all. Some drivers were out of their cars, arguing, others were blowing their horns, and some bus passengers had disembarked to march steadfastly towards the daffodils. And in the middle of the road there was PC Parry.

He was on his knees. His hands were covering his head, which was bare. His cap was lying a few yards away, and he held his head close to the surface of the road. I could see by the movements of his body that he was in great distress and appeared to be weeping. I ran to help him, assisting him to his feet and placing him momentarily in a house doorway as uncontrollable tears flowed down his face. Then, with the aid of two bus-drivers, I organized some shunting of buses and cars, a telling-off for the tractor-driver, and after some ten minutes and a lot of shouting, we got things moving again. Eventually the cars filtered towards the higher dale, and the buses went to their parking spaces. The horn-honking faded away as the traffic began to move.

But I had David Parry to deal with. I asked one level-headed motorist to give PC Parry a lift to the village hall, and as he did so, I radioed for Sergeant Bairstow to come and look at his ailing constable.

‘I think he needs treatment, Sarge,’ I said into my radio. ‘But I’m not sure what his problem is.’

‘I’ll see to him, Nick,’ came the response.

I stood on the busy road, guiding buses and cars to their correct destinations, and then an ambulance arrived. It manœuvred itself through the throng of incoming traffic and eventually rushed off to Brantsford Cottage Hospital with PC Parry inside.

That Daffodil Duty became a very busy one, and as we ended our duty at six o’clock that evening, Sergeant Bairstow thanked us all. It had been a record turn-out, so he thought – but tomorrow was still to come.

‘Same again tomorrow, lads,’ he smiled. ‘Same points. Easter Monday will be busy – the weather forecast says it’ll be fine and sunny, like today.’

‘What about PC Parry, Sarge?’ I asked. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s fine now, thanks, Nick,’ smiled Bairstow. ‘They’ve sent him home. But we’re replacing him for tomorrow’s duties. We shan’t be using him again for Daffodil Duty.’

‘Are our country drivers too much for him?’ asked one of the constables.

‘No, it’s the daffodils,’ laughed Bairstow. ‘It seems he’s allergic to them. The pollen got to him … he sneezed himself silly

‘That’s flower power,’ chuckled some wag as we prepared to leave.

It requires the knowledge of a local person to make full use of the interconnecting network of minor roads which pattern the heights and dales of the North York Moors. Businessfolk and visitors tend to use the A-or B-class routes, even though only one A-class road runs north to south across the moors. That is the A169 from Whitby to Pickering. The A171 crosses the northern moors from west to east as it runs from Guisborough to Scarborough; it visits Whitby, then hugs the picturesque coastline as it turns towards the Queen of Watering Places. Another main road, the A174, touches the very northernmost part of the moors between Staithes and Whitby, while the A172/173 lie over to the west. There are no other A-class roads, although the B1257, with its panoramic views, runs down Bilsdale from Stokesley to Helmsley. This is the only B-class road completely to traverse the heights.

This dearth of main roads is compensated by a bewildering network of unclassified routes. They run down the dales or snake across the moors to link dale with dale or village with village. In addition, there are hundreds of miles of ancient tracks, green lanes, disused roads and bridleways, and these do tend to be well used by the moorfolk, especially when the main roads are busy with summer traffic.

A large-scale map will help identify these, but in general terms they are beyond the sights of the casual visitor. However,
one moorland road is centuries older than any of these, and it has been discovered by the tourists.

It is the Roman road which crosses Wheeldale Moor near Goathland. Alternatively known as ‘T'Aud Wife's Trod' or ‘Wade's Causeway', ancient legend said it was built by the giant Wade and his wife Bell who had to cross the moors between Mulgrave Castle and Pickering Castle. More professional examination proved it to be of great historical importance and antiquity, because it was found to be a genuine Roman road and not the work of a legendary giant. It is the only Roman road known to have entered this part of North Yorkshire and is the finest example of its type in Britain. Six hundred feet above sea-level, the uncovered portion extends about a mile and a quarter, and it is a remarkable feat of construction. Sixteen feet wide and made up of flat stones on a bed of gravel, it is raised in the centre to facilitate drainage and even has side gutters and culverts.

It is even more remarkable when we realize that some of our own roads were little more than mud tracks even into this century. It required a man like John MacAdam (1756–1836) to emulate this style many centuries later. The Roman road has survived almost twenty centuries on this bleak and windswept moorland, and it is sad to record that some of it has been ploughed up, and some stones have been plundered for house-building, while others have been utilized in the construction of the present road from Stape to Egton Bridge. Fortunately, this fine stretch has survived.

In my routine patrols as the village constable of Aidensfield, I had little cause to visit the Roman road, but my wife and I had taken the children to see it during one of my days off duty. It was not on my patch, although it did lie on the boundaries of the division in which I was stationed. For this reason, it was perfectly feasible that sooner or later I should have to deal with an incident up there. It happened one miserable, wet and foggy day in June and was to prove a most interesting and curious day's work.

Even the initial inquiry contained a certain air of mystery. I was instructed to visit Ravenstone Farm on the edge of Wheeldale Moor, and there examine a tractor being used by
the tenant farmer, a Mr Stanley Bayley. As the farm was very remote, I was provided with a map reference and was told that it overlooked Wheeldale Gill and that the road to it was rather rough.

‘Understood,' I responded. ‘But what is the purpose of this vehicle-examination?'

‘We have received an anonymous call,' Control informed me. ‘It suggests we examine the tractor being used at that address. No further details were given. The caller rang off. Over.'

‘Ten four.' I gave the formal acknowledgement of the message and set about my task. This meant a rough drive along forest tracks, and it would be around noon when I reached the edge of Wheeldale Moor.

By now, the entire landscape was obliterated by a thick moorland fog, a ‘roak' as it was locally known. Damp, wet and clinging, it deadened all the sounds of the moors as it eerily enveloped my little van. With headlights blazing, I chugged and bounced along the track. It was slow progress, for the road was rutted with deep holes and puddles; huge, bare stones protruded at intervals and threatened to tear off my exhaust system, and at times I had to drive onto the turf to circumnavigate a particularly rough stretch. I passed the southern tip of the Roman road and began to wonder if I was approaching the right place but a check on the map proved I was right. By 12.15, therefore, in clinging fog, I turned along a farm track, crossed a cattle grid and found myself in a farmyard which appeared to be full of brown hens, broken-down farm waggons and derelict implements.

There was no sign of human habitation.

In the clinging mist, the entire premises looked like a deserted homestead from a Gothic novel. A zinc bath full of water stood in the yard, with a goose on guard – it honked at my approach, but no one appeared; a rusting reaper stood abandoned in one corner, and several old ploughs and iron tractor wheels littered the yard. A thin, dirty cat peered at me from beneath a wooden trough, then scuttled away into an outbuilding, frightened when my foot kicked an empty tin. As I surveyed this desolate spot, I began to wonder if I was the victim of some kind of prank. Determined to find an answer, I
made for the door of the house. It needed a few coats of paint, and there was no lock; it was held shut with a piece of string. There was a hole where the knob should be.

I rapped as loudly as I could, and shouted, ‘Anybody there?'

With some surprise and relief, I did get a response. Inside the house, I heard a door open and soon a man opened the door. In his late thirties and about my height, he was dressed in work clothes and smelled of cows; he had not shaved for days, his fair hair was matted and dank, and his hands were ingrained with the filth of months.

‘Oh,' he said. ‘The law.'

‘Mr Bayley?'

‘Aye,' he said, not inviting me in.

‘Can I see your tractor?' I asked.

‘What for?' he put to me.

I laughed. ‘Look, I don't know. I've been instructed to examine it.' I hoped my own puzzlement would soften him. ‘Our office got an anonymous call …'

‘There's some nosey buggers about. It'll be some o' them hikers we get in. They get lost, they come here looking for help … Come on, then, follow me. It's in t'shed. It
is
taxed, thoo knows.'

He led me across the untidy yard into a dry building which was open on one side. The interior of the shed was even more untidy than the exterior, being filled with empty sacks and oil drums, but a small tractor was parked in one of the bays.

‘There she is,' he said, with a certain pride in his voice. ‘Grand little lass is yon.'

It was. It was a lovely little Fergie, as these tiny Ferguson tractors were called. Painted a pleasing grey, it was surprisingly clean and well maintained. I guessed it was of the 1950s era. It had an exhaust which rose from the engine like a chimney, which meant it could operate in deep water. Huge semicircular mudguards covered the giant rear wheels. I found the tax disc and noted it was up-to-date, so I still wondered why I was staring at this delightful machine. And then, as I walked to the rear of it, I knew.

The seat was wrong. I remembered these tractors having a metal seat which was shaped to accommodate the backside of an average farmworker; with holes for ventilation, each seat was mounted on a tough horseshoe-shaped spring of steel. This gave some comfort to the roughest ride. But this tractor had no such seat. Instead, it bore an enormous and totally strange contraption with coloured wires and plastic pipes. It took only seconds for me to recognize it as a pilot's ejector seat from a jet aircraft. As I stared at it, I recalled a crash on these moors several months ago. The pilot had been killed … wreckage had been strewn for miles.

‘This seat?' I asked him.

‘Aye, Ah kem across it ower t'moor,' he said. ‘Frev yon jet that crashed a while back … doon in t'gill, t'seat was, it had flown hundreds o' yards from t'plane. Them RAF fellers never found it, so Ah thought it would be grand for me.'

And so, with some skilful adaptations and a spot of home welding, he had secured it to his tractor.

When I took a closer look, I was horrified.

‘Good God, Mr Bayley!' I exclaimed as I scrutinized his very grand tractor seat. ‘This one is alive!'

‘Alive?' he looked puzzled.

‘It's an ejector seat,' I explained. ‘When a pilot is crashing, he pulls a lever which detonates an explosive charge under this seat. That shoots off the canopy and propels the seat from the plane – with the pilot in it. Then he's supposed to separate from it and parachute to safety. But this pilot didn't manage that, did he? He didn't eject. He was thrown out and killed, remember?'

‘Aye.'

‘So when the plane crashed, this seat must have been flung far enough … and it's still full of explosive! See … the firing pin's not been used. Now, whatever you do, don't touch it. I'll make it safe.'

‘Dis thoo mean ti say Ah've been sittin' on yon pack o' gunpowder and Ah could have been blown sky high?'

‘That's exactly what I'm saying, Mr Bayley.'

The expression on his face was a joy to behold. Fortunately, police officers are instructed on the safe methods of dealing
with ejector seats, and I knew exactly how to secure this one. I found the safety pin with its red label tucked into a side pocket and slipped it into position. Now the seat was safe; it would not explode. I found it amazing that it had survived intact like this.

‘What would really 'ave 'appened if yon thing 'ad gone off wi' me sitting on it?' he asked, still brooding over my initial comments.

‘I meant what I said,' I told him. ‘It would have sent you hundreds of feet into the sky.' I had to laugh now. ‘But with no parachute, you'd have come down with one hell of a bump – and the chances are you would have broken your back on landing, or maybe your neck in the process of being launched. In short, you could have been killed, Mr Bayley. Pilots are trained to use those seats – tractor-drivers aren't.'

‘But thoo'll not be arresting me for pinching it?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I've received no complaint about a theft. Besides, it was lost. But I think I'd better call the RAF to come and remove the explosive charges, to make it safe. They might let you keep the seat.'

‘Thanks,' he said with feeling, that feeling being one of relief.

‘It's thanks to the anonymous caller,' I reminded him. ‘Mebbe hikers aren't such a nuisance?'

‘Mebbe not,' he grinned suddenly. ‘Ah might let 'em sleep in my barn from now on. Now, is thoo coming in for a drink, then?'

‘Aye,' I said.

I first called the office on my radio and explained the problem. The duty sergeant said he would request the RAF to deal with the seat. I was then accompanied into the house and, in the custom of the moors, was invited to sit down for dinner, as lunch is called hereabouts. In spite of the state of the exterior, the kitchen was a model of cleanliness, thanks to the busy Mrs Bayley, and the meal was superb.

I left the farm an hour later, having sampled a tiny drop of the Bayley's home-made beer. As I drove, I did wonder what on earth would have happened it that seat had launched Mr Bayley from his little Fergie. If nothing else, it would have
surprised the grouse population, and I did wonder if Mr Bayley had ever flown …

But my day's duty was not over. As I was returning along the pot-holed track beyond the farm, a middle-aged man hailed me. Clad in overalls and sporting a flat cap, he appeared out of the mist, which was now thinning but still of considerable density, and he waved me to a halt.

‘Ah saw you go up Ravenstone way,' he said as I climbed out. ‘Ah thought Ah'd better wait and catch you on t'way back.'

‘Summat wrong?' I asked.

‘Aye,' he said. He explained that his name was Ernie Smallwood and that he was the warden for the Roman road, employed by the Ministry of Works. His job was to maintain the ancient road and keep it safe from modern predators. Then he told me, ‘There's a chap sitting in my 'ut. Ah can't get a word o' sense out of 'im.'

‘Who is he?' I asked. ‘One of your workmen?'

‘Nay, lad, there's only me works this road. Ah think 'e's a 'iker got lost. Ah reckon 'e doesn't know where 'e is. 'E sounds a bit daft to me.'

‘Is he injured?' I was contemplating the need for an ambulance and could call one via the radio before venturing along this ancient highway.

‘No, 'e doesn't seem 'urt, just dazed.'

‘Right, I'll come and have a look at him.'

Ernie led me along the uneven surface of this amazing road; perhaps it had once been smooth enough for chariots, but the ravages of centuries had rendered it rough and undulating. Nonetheless, the craftsmanship in its construction was evident, and I was very conscious that I was walking along a road built for the use of Roman soldiers about a century after Christ. The sense of history was almost overwhelming.

Ernie took me to his hut, which was a small wooden building like a garden shed. Perched on the moor beside the Roman road and overlooking one of the streams which trickled into Wheeldale Beck, it was painted dark green to blend with the moors. Behind it was a partition which contained a basic toilet, but the hut had no electricity or water, although it did provide a modicum of shelter and rest during Ernie's lonely working
hours. His bike was propped against the outside, and inside was a pair of old armchairs, a Calor-gas ring, kettle and tea-making equipment, along with a few other comforts such as paperbacks, magazines and tins of sweets. I also noticed some little carved stone animals. I was to learn that Ernie whiled away his time by sculpting animals from pieces of moorland stone – but he never used any from the road in his care! I spotted a realistic badger and squirrel among them.