Constable Across the Moors (11 page)

I rang the section office at Ashfordly and Sergeant Oscar Blaketon answered.

“Sergeant,” I said, “It’s P.C. Rhea. Can I use the section car today?”

“You’ve a motor bike, Rhea. Has it broken down or are you just feeling idle?”

“No, Sergeant,” I reasoned with him. “It’s needed to carry two burglars. I want to go up Rannockdale to arrest them.”

“Rannockdale? Who bothers to get burgled up
Rannockdale
?” he asked aghast. “There’s nothing up there to be burgled.”

“They’re being held in a farm house,” I informed him. “That old man who’s known as the Recluse of Rannockdale has got them,” and I explained the curious circumstances.

“Oh, well, in that case you can use the car.” There was a hint of reluctance in his voice, “but I’ll come with you. It’s not often we arrest burglars out here, Rhea, so you’ll need support. You’re coming down to the office now, are you?”

“I am, Sergeant.”

Ten minutes later, I eased my Francis Barnett into the police station yard at Ashfordly and parked it against the wall. I took my crash helmet inside and hung it on a peg, replacing it with the flat cap from my pannier.

“You drive, Rhea,” said Sergeant Blaketon, standing
majestically
before me in his superbly fitted uniform. He was ready to go, eager to be moving into action, but knowing him as I did, I made a careful check of the essentials. I checked the oil, water, battery and tyre pressures of the car, I made sure the lights worked, and the horn, and the windscreen wipers, and then I checked all the doors, the bonnet and the boot to ensure they closed properly. Sergeant Blaketon was a stickler for rules and routine, and I dare not omit anything. Having made a rigid check of this drill before moving out, I drove sedately across the moors in strict accordance with the driving system taught at police motoring schools.

On the way, I explained about the Recluse. I told Sergeant Blaketon how I’d learned a good deal about his life style, and he
listened carefully, sometimes chuckling at the antics of Charlie Chapman, and sometimes tut-tutting at Charlie’s law-breaking enterprises. Blaketon had heard about him, of course; most of the local people had read of his exploits and the police, in one form or another, often caught the brunt of his anti-social behaviour.

“So what’s the arrangement, Rhea? If this madman shoots everybody who puts a foot on his drive, how are we going to get the burglars out?”

“It’s all arranged,” I assured him. “We must arrive at his front door at twelve noon precisely, and he will pass them out to us.”

“Twelve noon?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” I confirmed.

“You’ve obviously established some sort of rapport with this character, Rhea,” and before I could tell him the truth about the note in the dog kennel, he said, “You know, this will make the Superintendent very happy. He’s been nagging about our lack of arrests, Rhea. When compared with other sections, we are not in the same league – no arrests for crime, no public order troubles or travelling thieves. But this is a good one – two burglars at one go, Rhea. Yes. It’s good, and it will improve our figures.”

It was very clear that I was in his good books, and for this I was grateful. To be on the right side of Oscar Blaketon was considered an honour, however short-lived it might be, and for a few minutes I basked in this unaccustomed glory. In his benevolence, Blaketon rambled on about the value of making arrests, of the effect they had on local villains who quaked in their shoes in anticipation of police swoops, and the need to show the public that we were, after all, a law-enforcement agency and not a charitable institution.

At one minute to midday precisely, we arrived at the entrance to the Recluse’s farm. I opened the gate as Sergeant Blaketon sat stolidly in the passenger seat, then I drove through, closed the gate and climbed in beside him for the final trip. I could sense that Charlie was watching our approach, and at least he could not complain about the timing. We were accurate to the second so I had no reason to fear his shotgun.

I did realise the car was unmarked as indeed all police cars were in this region. All were a highly polished black colour with uniformed men inside, and it was this distinctive hue which identified them to the local folk. I trusted Charlie was
sufficiently
au
fait
with our systems to recognise our car. Happily, he did.

As we pulled up, I saw that the front door was standing wide open and two very sorry individuals in rough clothes waited just inside, with their hands on their heads. They looked awful; they looked tired, hungry and dirty as they waited in the large entrance hall of Charlie’s farm. They also looked terrified because the wild and bewhiskered Charlie was standing right behind them with his shotgun at the ready.

Even as we stopped and emerged from the little car, the two men were thrust forward with the barrels of that dangerous weapon, and Blaketon said, “Cuffs, Rhea. Handcuffs, quickly man!”

I dragged my handcuffs from my pocket – we always carried handcuffs in our left trouser pocket and the truncheon in our right – and I waited as the bearded recluse ushered them completely from his home. Sergeant Blaketon held open the driver’s door and pushed the seat forward, to give them entry to the rear of the Ford. Our cars were two-door saloons for this very purpose – it was a sound idea by our Purchasing
Department
to buy such cars, except that it was with great difficulty that we could encourage drunks and quarrelsome folks to clamber into the confined space.

However, these two characters were in no mood for arguing. Meekly, they shuffled out of the house, prodded forward by the twin barrels of Charlie’s gun. With his nose twitching in disgust at the smell that accompanied them, Sergeant Blaketon stood back as they climbed with evident relief into our rear seat.

They sat down and Charlie slammed the door of his house.

“Mr Chapman?” Sergeant Blaketon called through the closed door. “I need to talk to you.”

No reply. Blaketon shouted several more times, but the Recluse had returned to his lair. I knew why the sergeant wished to talk to him – we needed a statement from him, a written account of the events which preceded this arrest. Without it, there was no evidence to put before a court and we
might not be able to substantiate a charge of burglary, which was then a very serious crime.

“Clear off!” came the voice after Sergeant Blaketon’s
repeated
knocking had made his knuckles sore. “Clear off, and take those ratbags with you.”

Sergeant Blaketon, straight as a ramrod and immaculate in his appearance, had no alternative. He turned away from the door, whirling around like a sergeant-major on parade, and made for the waiting car. I got in to the driving seat as he headed for the passenger side. The stench from our prisoners was appalling, more so in the confined space of the little vehicle.

“My God!” cried Blaketon, winding down his window. “What’s happened to you two?”

The one with short, grizzly hair answered. “He wouldn’t let us go to the toilet, sergeant. He kept us in that bloody room without any food, heat or toilet … the man’s a bloody nut-case …”

“You’re nut-cases to think of burgling the old fool’s house,” snapped Blaketon, holding a handkerchief to his nose. “
Anyway
, you’re both under arrest for burglary.”

“We can’t deny this one,” the other said. “I’m only relieved to be out of that spot, I can tell you.”

With the stinking burglars continuing to fill the car with pungent fumes, we drove through the pure countryside air with our windows wide open. To cut a long story short, they were placed in our cells and we found clean sets of clothing for them. They readily admitted housebreaking, a lesser crime than burglary, and made voluntary statements to that effect. They told how Charlie had caught them and detained them, but we got no supporting statement from him. The Detective
Inspector
felt the courts would accept the men’s own voluntary admissions as valid evidence.

These young burglars from Middlesbrough were each given a three-month Borstal sentence due to their age and previous record, and it was a good crime to be written off against our sectional record. For several weeks Sergeant Blaketon re-lived the moment of that arrest, telling all his pals and superiors about it, and there is no doubt it was the highlight of his month.

Then there came a note from Force Headquarters. It was to
remind us that the firearm certificate held by Mr Charles Alexander Chapman of Rannockdale was due for renewal. It asked that an officer visit Mr Chapman to inspect the .22 firearm in question, that he supervise the completion of the relevant forms and obtain the requisite fee.

“Rhea,” said Sergeant Blaketon, “I think the time has come for us to visit this man. I know his past record, and of his obsession with keeping people out of his premises, but this is a matter of law and we are officers of the law. I intend to visit Mr Chapman to discuss the renewal of his firearm certificate. I am sure he will look favourably upon us due to our recent part in the arrest of his burglars.”

With no more ado, Sergeant Blaketon instructed me to accompany him and we set off to enforce the law upon the impudent recluse. Sergeant Blaketon was at his bristling best, eager for the opportunity to come to terms with the eccentric man and he had the necessary forms in his briefcase. With the confidence of his kind, we could not fail. I enjoyed the trip across the forbidding moors, through avenues of pines and silver birches and across rippling streams. I had time to admire the outstanding views as we cruised into the remote valley which was the old man’s home.

We pulled up at the farm gate and parked the car on the spot I’d found the Income Tax man’s Ford Prefect all those weeks ago.

“You remain here, Rhea,” instructed Sergeant Blaketon. “This is a task for a mature officer. It needs the skill of someone with deep experience and an understanding of the human mind. If two officers walk to that door, it will unnerve the fellow, so I will approach alone. I will take the renewal forms with me, and I will politely ask him to complete them as prescribed by the Firearms Act, 1937. Observe my approach, Rhea, and learn by my manner.”

“Certainly, Sergeant,” and I watched with bated breath as he tried to open the gate, but it had been tied with rope after our recent visit. He had to climb over, not the most impressive of actions by a man of his calibre, but soon he was striding manfully and majestically along the track to the distant front door. I watched with fascination and anticipation. Men like
Sergeant Blaketon, with a wealth of experience beneath their belts, could certainly teach youngsters like me how to deal with the great British public. I had a lot to learn.

I observed him striding confidently towards the house, but as he approached, I noticed the familiar grey hair and beard emerge from an upstairs window. I did not shout a warning – I couldn’t, for I was in the car some distance away, but Charlie must have said something to the striding sergeant because he halted in his tracks and looked up at the bedroom window.

I saw the barrel of the shotgun appear across the window sill, and it was quite evident that Charlie was issuing threatening words towards my sergeant. It was equally clear that my sergeant thought he was joking.

As a multitude of past visitors had come to appreciate, the Recluse of Rannockdale never joked with people who
trespassed
on his land, even if they were clad in the resplendent uniform of a British police sergeant. Having given Sergeant Blaketon his marching orders, and having had those orders repudiated by a stubborn, rule-bound sergeant, Charlie
resorted
to the only means at his disposal. He pulled the trigger.

A barrage of lead shot spattered the ground alarmingly close to Sergeant Blaketon’s feet and it caused lots of little eruptions of earth. It was rapidly followed by a second barrel, at which more earth erupted about Sergeant Blaketon. Charlie shouted something at him and I saw Sergeant Blaketon change his mind about staying to talk. I saw him do something I’ve never seen him do before or since. He started to run.

To see a figure of the majesty of Oscar Blaketon in full flight with repeated barrages of lead pellets spurring him on his way, is indeed a rare sight. It was more so because he was holding his cap on with one hand and clutching the firearms certificate renewal forms in the other. He reached the car by leaping across the gate with a single bound, and he collapsed at my side as I moved into the driving seat. He was panting like a
broken-winded
horse, and perspiration was swilling down his cheeks and neck. I’ve never seen him in such a state of panic, and his breathing was tortuous as he signalled me to drive rapidly away. I drove off and saw the grey-haired old buzzard waving his gun in triumph.

“The man’s an idiot,” Sergeant Blaketon gasped when he regained some of his breath. “An absolute idiot. I’ll get him certified, Rhea, so I will.”

He lapsed into a long silence as I drove steadily back to Ashfordly where I knew his wife would have his lunch ready. He didn’t speak any more until I pulled into the police station car park.

“Rhea, if you mention this to anybody, I’ll have you
transferred
to Gunnerside.”

And with that parting remark, he walked away, not quite so erect and certainly more dishevelled than he had been at the start of this enterprise. I wondered what I had learned from his demonstration of human understanding, but I never told a soul about it.

It would be remiss of me to suggest that a rural policeman’s job is all work and no play. Certainly, in my time as a village constable the position demanded a twenty-four-hour
responsibility
even though our duty sheets showed that we worked eight-hour shifts. In truth, an eight-hour day was a rarity because people called or rang with problems, and it was
understood
that we attended to all matters that came our way, even though we were officially off duty or on leave.

Only for special tasks were we instructed to work more than eight hours. The public didn’t know this – they simply arrived at the door to complain of being raped or robbed and we had to attend. To win time off in lieu, however, was most difficult. Supervisory checks were made of our daily tally of hours worked and woe betide us if we were shown to have worked less than an eight-hour day. The bits we worked over the eight were lost to us; we donated them to the uncaring public.

Even so, we were allocated days off duty. On the duty sheets, they were shown as RD which means Rest Day, and they moved forward two at a time, being Monday/Tuesday one week, Wednesday/Thursday the next, Friday/Saturday after that, with Sunday/Monday to follow,
ad
infinitum.
As this ritual progressed, it became a great achievement to secure a Saturday/Sunday weekend off duty. On this kind of rota system,
Saturday
/Sunday weekends came around very infrequently, and were consequently cherished as a gift from the gods, or perhaps from Sergeant Blaketon. In practice, however, something
always 
happened to cause our Saturday/Sunday weekends to be altered. Some incident would occur through which it became necessary to work on those sacred days, and this served only to galvanise us into positive action designed to secure that
cherished
time off.

Sergeant Blaketon was noted for his ability to find excuses to cancel our weekends off. He had a thing about policemen working when no one else did, such as Sunday evenings, Monday mornings very early, Good Fridays and a host of other occasions which he dredged from his years of compiling police duty sheets. He appeared to think it was good for us. After a while, we learned to tolerate his quirks and we came around to the notion of never expecting a proper weekend off. When one did arrive, it was a bonus rather than a right, and we all know how pleasant it is to receive the occasional bonus.

Through working almost every Saturday/Sunday, however, the discerning constable begins to yearn for a weekend off and contemplates the best ways of getting his weekends free. One of those ways was, and still is, to participate in police sport. Basing my logic on the understanding that if you can’t beat
’
em, join ’em, I renewed my acquaintanceship with the sporting section of my local constabulary.

Being a Yorkshireman, this meant playing cricket. All
Yorkshiremen
are supposed to play cricket and any who fail to reach a passable stage in this most remarkable of rural games are not considered genuine Yorkshiremen. I had reasoned that if I wanted a Saturday off duty now and again, to be with my growing family, the easiest guarantee was to join the Divisional Cricket Team. If I did this, I would be sent to play at selected rural pitches within our Division, and I could take along my wife and four tiny supporters. We’d all get an airing.

With this devious plan at the back of my mind, I singled out the cricket captain of our Division. I had to wait several weeks in the spring, but one fine April evening, I came across him in Eltering Police Station. I had popped in to record someone’s production of an insurance certificate and driving licence. Sergeant Alex Benwell was there, checking some Court Sheets. He was my passport to free weekends.

“Evening, Sergeant,” I removed my cap and hung it on a peg
near the back entrance, trusting my greeting was affable and warm.

“Now, lad,” he grunted while fingering down a long list of defendants due to appear at next week’s Eltering Magistrates’ Court.

I felt it unwise to disturb him for he was clearly engaged upon a matter of grave importance, but he broke the ice by saying, “Put the kettle on, will you?”

“Yes, sergeant,” I acquiesced for the sake of free Saturdays. In no time, the leaky station kettle was singing and I had found some stained mugs and a tin containing tea leaves. I produced a useful brew in an earthenware teapot with a cracked spout, and waited for him to leave his Court Sheets. Soon he came into the tiny rest room, smiled and sat on a rickety chair.

“Now, lad,” he said for the second time. “Good brew, is it?”

“Like my mother makes,” I said, realising he had no idea what sort of tea my mother makes. I poured a generous mugful which he inspected carefully before sipping noisily.

“Not bad,” he said. “Aye, not bad at all. Your mother sounds as though she knows summat about making tea.”

“She likes a strong pot,” I agreed. “The sort that a spoon can stand up in.”

He laughed loudly, “Aye, we used to call it tonsil varnish when I was in the Army. It was powerful stuff.”

He sipped again, and then eyed me carefully. “Rhea, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sergeant. I’m at Aidensfield, the new man there.”

“You sound like a Yorkshireman?” he said, his heavy face studying me.

“I am,” I confirmed with deep pride. “Born and bred in Eskdale, I’m as Yorkshire as anyone can be.”

“Then you’ll play cricket,” he said by way of a statement rather than a question.

He’d introduced the subject! Him, not me. I recognised my golden opportunity to get into the team.

“Yes,” I said confidently. “I was captain of our village lads’ team, and used to play in the second team as an adult.”

I daren’t admit I’d never scored more than fifteen, and wasn’t a very good fielder or bowler …

“If you’re a Yorkshireman,” he was saying, “you’ll do for us. Next Saturday? What are you doing next Saturday?”

“Has the season started?” I asked.

“Week after,” he slurped his tea and smacked his lips. “By, you make a sound brew, young man. Next week, we’re
practising
. Down at Eltering nets here, on the town playing fields. Saturday afternoon.”

“I’m on late turn,” I told him. “That rules me out.”

“Who allocated that shift to a cricketer?” he bellowed. “No cricketer gets a late turn on a Saturday. I’ll have words with old Blaketon. From now on, you don’t work late on Saturdays. So be at the nets at two o’clock.”

“Yes, sergeant, but suppose Sergeant Blaketon won’t change my duties?”

“He will,” was all he said, draining the dregs with his customary noise. “Thanks for the tea, lad. What’s your first name?”

“Nick,” I said.

“Nick,” he repeated, getting up from his chair. He was a massive man with a huge girth and legs like tree trunks. He almost waddled from the tea room, but his jovial face revealed a soft, gentle nature beneath his hard exterior. He seldom visited our stations, for he was the town sergeant over at Staddleton, a market town just inside our Divisional boundaries. Only
infrequently
did he venture into our Section, and I’d been fortunate enough to meet him.

I found myself wondering how he could run and field, for men of this size were notably ungainly, and he seemed to move with ponderous lethargy across the office. But he was a contact worth cultivating and I chattered away to him, discussing the job and his views on how rural bobbies should operate. He talked a lot of sense and I liked him from the start.

Later that evening, I met Sergeant Blaketon at a point in Thackerston, and told him all was quiet. I must be brave and broach the subject of cricket …

“Oh,” I said, hoping my expression would excuse the nature of my forthcoming request. “Oh, Sergeant, I met Sergeant Benwell at Eltering earlier this evening.”

He eyed me with considerable suspicion.

“And?” He gazed at me through those dark eyes and fierce eyebrows, his face not revealing one iota of his thoughts.

“He wants me to play cricket for the Divisional team,” I rushed out the words, “and says he wants me to attend practice at Eltering nets next Saturday afternoon.”

“Did he now?”

He lapsed into an unhealthy silence, and I didn’t know how to continue. Was I supposed to press home my point?

I waited for what seemed an eternity and decided I must make the next move. “He asked if you would change my duties,” I said weakly.

“Rhea, you ought to know better than listen to Alex Benwell. You know what he’s like …”

“Like?” I asked, innocently.

“Yes, like. You’ve seen him? The size of him?”

I nodded.

“Beer. That’s the result of years of drinking gallons of beer, and all at cricket matches. Cricket’s not a sport for him, Rhea, it’s an excuse to go boozing on a Saturday night. That’s how he gets out of Saturday night duties, Rhea; puts it all down to sport. Just because the Superintendent’s a member of the Yorkshire Cricket Club … you didn’t approach him, then? You didn’t seek him out to fix this for you?”

“No, sergeant.”

“Not like some I know,” he said without halting for breath. “Some less honourable members of this section always wheedle their way into the cricket team to avoid Saturday duties, Rhea It means the rest of us, me included, have to do their duties for them, week in and week out …”

“He asked if I could attend the nets, Sergeant. I suppose he wants to see me play.”

“All right, if that’s all. Nets it is. Next Saturday – you don’t play football, do you?”

“Not really, sergeant,” I had to admit.

“Now that’s my game, Rhea. Pure English football. I play football in the winter, you know. To keep fit. That’s a real game, a real sport, a real contest …”

He was making a note in his pocket book, reminding himself to change the duty sheets. “Don’t make this a habit, Rhea. I
know you are not a skiver who wants only to have each Saturday off …”

“No, sergeant, not at all. It’s just that Sergeant Benwell suggested it …”

“I don’t like that man,” said Sergeant Blaketon, closing his book. He drove away with a heavy and worried frown on his handsome face.

I enjoyed my session at the nets. There would be some fifteen off-duty policemen there, all testing their new boots, their freshly laundered whites and their muscles. I had a go at bowling and found my old skills returning, although my efforts with a bat weren’t particularly promising. I fielded one or two nice balls and spent a very enjoyable three hours. Mary had come with me, chiefly for the outing in our car with the family, and the three elder ones spent the afternoon running about while I kept half an eye on them. Mary and the baby popped into town to do some shopping.

It wasn’t a bad arrangement, but Mary was quite firm about accompanying me. She was determined to come with me upon every trip because it would give her a Saturday outing with me, and in some senses it would make our life resemble that of normal weekend people.

However, the outcome of my first practice was that I was selected for the Divisional Police team to play in the Ryedale League. Our opponents would be teams from the villages of the district. Because the police had no home ground, we begged and borrowed fields from other clubs and because Eltering was the most central, we were allowed to use it whenever Eltering had an away game. That became our Home ground, the Away grounds being remote villages and hamlets in the moors and dales.

It would be impossible to describe the sheer enjoyment we experienced at those villages, but our match against Brantgate First Eleven one Saturday in June typifies our experiences. This can be taken as the sort of match in which we engaged. It was an Away match for us, which meant we had to tolerate Brantgate’s unique pitch. I had never played there, but my colleagues assured me a treat was in store.

Sergeant Benwell collected several of us at Eltering Police
Station and I was surprised to find myself being transported in a battered old ambulance. This was his cricket coach, the vehicle he used to ferry himself and his pals to distant matches. Mary had decided not to come because Elizabeth was feeling off colour, so I decided to travel with the others and give her the use of our car, should she need it.

The retired ambulance rumbled and rolled across the
countryside
and we climbed steeply into the depths of the moors. Half an hour later, we were trundling merrily across the heights with staggering views spread below our lofty route. We could look down upon a multitude of deep valleys and admired the sheer breathtaking splendour of it all. The glaciers of old had done a wonderful sculpture job on those hills.

“Down here,” announced Alex Benwell, as he turned into a narrow lane. His route dropped sharply from elevated moorland road, turned left down the sheer side of a valley, then twisted and wove between high drystone walls. We drove slowly down the 1-in-3 gradient, the old truck groaning in low gear towards the bottom. Down there nestled the hamlet of Brantgate, a sleepy moorland collection of farms and cottages.

Suddenly, we rounded a blind corner and there, right across the road, was a five-bar gate. Its purpose was to prevent the free-ranging moorland sheep from invading the village gardens, and as we approached it, Sergeant Benwell pressed his foot on the brake. Nothing. Nothing happened.

“Brakes have gone!” he shouted as we began to gather speed. The monster gate loomed closer and I saw him grip the steering wheel firmly between both hands. Then I felt the ancient vehicle rapidly accelerate. He’d put his foot on the accelerator and we roared towards the stout gate. The nose of the heavy vehicle rammed it amidships, and the gate flew open with a crash. The force of it sent the latch flying over one wall and while the gate stood wide open for a fraction of a second, we hurtled through. The gate, as if on springs, rebounded from the wall and slammed shut. But we were through and were now careering headlong down the continuing gradient. Benwell knew the road and he was a first-class driver; he had to be, to guide the brakeless old truck down this steep, winding lane. By the grace of God, nothing was coming up the hill; there was no
room to pass even a bike. By knowing his vehicle so well, and being such a fine steersman, he suddenly turned the wheel and we roared off the road into a long field. He allowed the low gears to control the forward rush and after about a hundred yards, the ambulance eased to a smooth halt. Seven cricketers emerged, some feeling sick and others marvelling at his motoring skills. But Benwell was unruffled.