Constable Across the Moors (13 page)

“Hey!” I shouted across at him, for I could see his ears now. “Hey, stop. Police.”

He looked across at me and I could see the pain and anguish of competition on his face.

“What is it?” he panted.

“That back light of yours. It’s not working. I’ve been trying to halt you … you ignored my orders …”

“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” and he continued to forge ahead. “I’m in a desperate hurry, officer, can’t you see? I’m breaking a record …”

“A record?”

“Doing a fifty,” he said in racing jargon. “I’ve only a mile to go … I daren’t stop …”

“You’re a danger to yourself!” I shouted, but my cycling days had also taught me the agony of attempting to better one’s own time, and the thrill of breaking other people’s records.

“I daren’t lose precious seconds fixing that light,” he pleaded, head down again. “Please bear with me, it’s not far now.”

“You could get killed,” I snapped, and then I realised I could help him.

“One more mile, officer, then I’ve done it … the fifty record will be mine, I’m ahead on time.”

“Right,” I decided. “Keep going. I’ll tuck in behind you, and my light will act as a warning. Keep going, and don’t flag …”

And I moved into his slip-stream. I followed him for that final mile, he breaking some record and me urging the old police bike to its utmost speed as I kept pace with the record breaker. Towards the end, I knew he was flagging; I most certainly was, but I think my presence immediately behind helped to keep him going. After all, it would look rather odd if a fully uniformed policeman on a police cycle crossed the line ahead of him, so I reckon I did him a service.

He achieved his record by knocking some 50 seconds off the local record and he thanked me for my help. He fixed his light – the bulb had worked loose and I did not report him. I doubt if I could have spoken the necessary words. It took an age to regain my breath and cool down.

I did wonder how that old bike would have performed over the full fifty miles, but decided against making the attempt.
After all, a quick sprint over one mile is exhilarating, even on a police cycle, but it would have been impossible to sustain that pace for much longer. He deserved his record.

If there was one sport in which I had no interest, it was Association Football. I had played at school but completely failed to understand the off-side rule. In my teens, I had never felt inclined to attend Saturday afternoon matches, either of the village variety or at Middlesbrough which was then a top-class First Division team. Consequently, upon my appointment as a constable I had never expressed the slightest interest in playing football for my Division, my Station or the village team. Even if this did promise time off on Saturday, less night duty and more beer swilling, the appeal of the sport in all its facets was lost on me.

Following my first cricket season, therefore, I was somewhat horrified when Sergeant Blaketon sidled up to me one
Wednesday
morning and asked,

“Rhea, are you busy on Saturday?”

In my mind, this was a loaded question. I was supposed to be on Rest Day, and I knew that Mary was hoping for an outing of some kind; if I said I was busy, he’d ask what it was, and if I said I wasn’t busy, he was likely to put me on night duty.

“Why, sergeant?” I replied with a question, a useful form of defence.

“I need help, Rhea,” I detected the tone of a plaintive cry in his voice.

“What sort of help, sergeant?” I was still being very guarded.

“I note you are on Rest Day, Rhea,” he said, his eyes swivelling towards the duty sheet which was pinned to the wall, “and I thought if you hadn’t anything special to do, you might come to my rescue. After all, I did allow you to play cricket.”

“If it is something serious, sergeant,” I heard myself saying, “I’ll be only too pleased to help.”

“It is very serious,” he informed me sternly. “You’ve heard of the Ashfordly Veterans Club Football Team?”

“No,” I said truthfully, not being a football fanatic.

“I thought you were a sportsman, Rhea?” he put to me. “All
this cricket and that cycling of yours.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a sportsman, sergeant,” I admitted. “What’s this got to do with the Veterans?”

He coughed. “I am playing for the Veterans this season,” he flushed ever so slightly. “In fact,” he smiled weakly, “I’m captain.”

“Congratulations.” I didn’t know what to say, or what I was expected to say.

“This Saturday is a very important game,” he went on. “We are playing in the final of the Ryedale Veterans League
Challenge
Cup, here at Ashfordly Sports Ground. It’s against the Brantsford side.”

I wondered if he wanted me to write up an account of the match for the local paper, or to act as linesman maybe?

“You’re playing too?” I smiled.

“I’m in goal,” he said proudly. “My old position. When I was a young man, Rhea, I was a crack goalkeeper. My height was useful and I kept for the Force on twenty occasions; indeed I was short-listed for the British Police Football Team, as
goalkeeper
.”

“Then your team will have no trouble winning,” I beamed at him. I had no idea that he’d been so skilled and he must have been outstanding to have been short-listed for the British team.

“We’re a man short,” he said quickly. “Full back. I
wondered
if you would play for us?”

“Me?” I laughed. “Sergeant, I’ve never played football since I was at school. I hardly know one end of a pitch from the other.”

“I can’t find anyone. We’re short as a general rule, but this weekend it’s desperate. Two of our members have gone down with rheumatism, and one’s got flu. We can’t play unless we turn out a full team.”

“But I’m not a veteran!” I protested. “I’m only twenty-six.”

“Anyone over twenty-five qualifies,” he beamed. “That’s a rule, I checked before asking you.”

To put it mildly, I was talked into playing for Sergeant Blaketon’s creaking team. Mary laughed and said she would attend the game, for she could do with a good laugh. The thought of me running around a football pitch, however
amateurish the game, was more than a giggle – it was hilarious.

That Saturday afternoon, therefore, I reported to Ashfordly Sports Ground and found Sergeant Blaketon prancing up and down in a dark blue jumper and white shorts. My kit was in the changing room, and it was the same colour. As I changed, I felt awful; the men around me, most of whom were in their forties and very fit, were clearly addicts of the game and I hoped Oscar Blaketon had acquainted them with my total lack of know-how. If youth was on my side, experience was not.

I remember where full-backs were supposed to play, having dredged that fact deep from my school memories and I swotted up something of the game in one of my reference books. I also learned that Blaketon’s team had conquered all competitors prior to this game. This was the final. The thought that the fate of the League Challenge Cup lay at my feet was horrifying. I had agonised for hours before the game, worrying myself sick as to why he had selected me and what I’d done wrong to find myself in this awful position. The duty sheet told me – the three best footballers of the Section were all on duty, and Oscar could hardly change their duties to play when he’d been so critical of the cricketers and their time off. Local police politics were very much in evidence on this occasion. None of the civilians in town were interested in the game – they were too busy watching professional matches or doing their own Saturday things. Such a lot depended upon me.

In the changing rooms, he rallied his team and welcomed me to the game, never mentioning my amateurism. He punched a few pieces of advice at them, and spent time telling them about his favourite moves, his tactics, the weaknesses in the opposition and the strengths of their forward line. He did a good job, I felt, for he managed to demoralise me totally. I stood with the others, goose-pimples on my legs and a lump in my throat, as the clock’s pointers ticked irrevocably towards two-thirty.

Then we were running on to the pitch. I kicked a spare ball around, and leapt up and down like the others. I tried to head one or two practice shots, but missed the lot and before I knew what was happening, we were lining up for the kick-off.

I was nicely out of the way in my full-back position, but the opposing team looked ominous and threatening. Brantsford
Veterans had the reputation of being a formidable side, and as we lined up, they galloped noisily around the pitch in their bright red strip, threatening us with total annihilation. Sergeant Blaketon won the toss and elected to play into the wind, hoping they would tire themselves out by the time they had to do likewise. Then he made his way between the clean white goalposts, there to defend the reputation of Ashfordly
Veterans
.

I noticed that everyone was trotting on the spot so I did the same, then the whistle blew. It shrilled loudly, and I started to run about knowing that in the very near future, I would have to attempt to stop the onward rush of the opposition. I was the last line of defence before the goal, and Oscar Blaketon was in goal, I couldn’t let him down. I daren’t let him down.

The first half went rapidly. I kicked the ball several times which made me feel moderately useful, and I didn’t appear to do anything that caused groans and contempt from the others. In fact, one of my shots landed right at the feet of our centre forward and he raced towards the goal, being narrowly defeated on his run. I was congratulated because I had almost made a goal, and I felt proud. I could see Mary on the touch-line, mingling with the handful of spectators, and she applauded that piece of skill. Suddenly I felt confidence flowing through my veins.

By half-time, I was feeling even better. My patrol duties and my cricket during the summer had kept me fit and the exercise was not too strenuous. Age was on my side and I found I could outrun most of the Brantsford team members, although I must admit their skills were infinitely greater than mine. But I enjoyed the first half and walked off the field feeling very pleased. I waved to Mary as I entered the changing room for a drink of orange and a towelling.

The score was nil-nil at this stage, and everything depended upon the second half. We were now playing with the wind, an undoubted asset and I could sense Sergeant Blaketon’s
confidence
as we took to the field for the second half.

We were certainly the fitter team. In that second half, we ran rings around their men, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I raced up field with the ball and kicked it to our own men time
and time again, our efforts being thwarted only by the
anticipation
and good luck of their goalkeeper. Time and time again he saved powerful shots, and then one of their men fouled our centre forward.

It was a dirty foul, the action of a desperate man, and our player fell to the ground in agony as his shin took the force of a well-aimed kick. My team exploded with anger because our man had been racing towards the goal as the goalie had come forward to vacate his position. We couldn’t fail to score – then we were fouled. The referee awarded a free kick, not a penalty and I didn’t know enough about the game to worry about the difference, but it angered our lads. Shouts and cat-calls filled the air and Sergeant Blaketon had a difficult job calming them down. The tension was intolerable.

But Blaketon succeeded. As our centre forward hobbled off the pitch with his leg bleeding nastily, we were compelled to continue with ten men. There were no substitutes. We had about thirty-five minutes to play before full time, and while our earlier efforts should have produced results, it was now
doubtful
whether we could maintain that pressure. The centre
forward
, a butcher called Andy Storr, was a gallant and skilled team member and he would be missed. Their viciousness had hit us where it hurt most.

When all the fuss had died away, the game resumed and quite suddenly, I had the ball. I have no idea how it arrived at my feet, for I was still angry about the foul, but I thought of Sergeant Blaketon and the honour that could be his. Forgetting I was a full-back, I side-stepped a player who tackled me and tore down the right wing with the ball bouncing at my feet. I felt the thrill of the chase as players milled around and tackled me; I saw Mary on the touch-line, her hands waving and her voice calling to me, and I flew across the grass. Nothing could stop me now; I was on wings of happiness and success.

Someone attempted to intercept me, and I did a quick body-swerve to deposit him on the ground as I continued my racing run. Never before had I experienced such a thrill and I could hear the cheers of the spectators as I raced towards the goal. I beat all comers; I was in a haze as I switched into skills I never knew I possessed. I thought of Sergeant Blaketon and the
cup, my eyes filled with tears of happiness as I raced those final yards to the goal. I was unstoppable. Then a hush descended. The ground bore an air of expectancy and I knew it all depended on me.

I was before the goal-keeper; he crouched between the posts and my misty eyes could distinguish his dark figure with arms outstretched as I took my careful aim.

I have never kicked a football with such power and accuracy. It flew from my right foot and the goalkeeper didn’t stand a chance. He dived across the goalmouth in a desperate bid to beat my shot, but the driving ball crashed into the net with a resounding thud of leather against netting.

I wiped my eyes. I had done it. And me a full-back too!

“What the bloody hell are you doing, Rhea?” cried Sergeant Blaketon as he picked the ball from the back of the net. “This is
our
goal!”

He didn’t ask me to play again, for his team lost by that solitary goal, and I daren’t ask him for time off to play cricket the following year.

He retired from football after that game, and I must admit I felt sorry for him.

I hope he didn’t think I’d done it on purpose.

As I settled in my office to compile the quarterly return of farms visited and inspections of stock registers, I discovered I had omitted one busy establishment. According to the record maintained in my office, my predecessor had called there at least once a quarter and I had been lax in not continuing the practice.

On that May morning, therefore, I decided to rectify matters. I began my journey on the little Francis Barnett with the fresh breezes of May stirring the blossomed trees and the growing grass along the lanes. May must be the most beautiful of the English months for the landscape is bursting with fresh life, with flowers, leaves, insects and birds, all enjoying the warmth that comes from the strengthening sun. To be paid for
patrolling
through such splendid environs is indeed a bonus, and I enjoyed my ride across the valley.

I was heading for Slape Wath Farm, a lonely homestead buried deep in the moors over by Whemmelby. I had to consult my Ordnance Survey map before leaving the house, but
established
that I had to descend the steep 1-in-3 hill into
Whemmelby
, drive out towards the summit of Gallow Heights and turn left about a mile before reaching the Heights. This took me along an unmade track which climbed across the heathery landscape before descending dramatically into a small valley. Deep in the valley lay the homestead called Slape Wath Farm, so named because the track crossed the mountain stream near
the farm, then wound its way across the moors, eventually leading to the main road from Eltering to Strensford. In our Yorkshire dialect, slape means slippery and a wath is
water-splash
or a ford, so the farm was aptly named. The crossing would be treacherous in winter.

I had to open several wooden gates, a tricky job with a motor cycle, but eventually found myself entering the yard of Slape Wath Farm. It was clean and nicely concreted, and I placed the machine against the wall of an outbuilding before walking across to the farm house. The time was shortly before eleven one Wednesday morning.

I halted before knocking on the door in order to check my records, and reminded myself of the occupants’ names. The owners of this remote spread were the Misses Kirby, Frances and Irene to be precise. There was no other explanatory note in my records and I had never heard anyone mention these ladies; their farm, I appreciated, was far too remote for casual callers and I doubted if the two ladies in question enjoyed much of a social life.

My memory refreshed, I knocked on the kitchen door.

“A minute!” called a voice, and I waited. Presently, the door was opened and a huge masculine woman stood before me. She wore a hessian apron, a long working dress buttoned up to the neck and a curious dust-cap on her head. She was nearly six feet tall, with a head of ginger hair peeping beneath her headgear; her face was red with the effects of the weather but her eyes were unusually bright blue and bored into me as I stood on the doorstep. She was hefty and muscular, and wore heavy Wellington boots which peeped beneath her long dress.

“Oh,” she said, eyeing me. “It’s t’policeman. Come in,” and she stepped back to permit me to enter. I noticed she had a large broom in her hands and she appeared to be in the middle of sweeping the sandstone floor of her kitchen.

“That’s a useful brush,” I said by way of making an inane introductory comment.

“Aye,” she said, looking at it with pride. “We’ve had it for thirty-five years, and all we’ve had for it is three new heads and two new shafts.”

I didn’t know whether I was supposed to laugh at this
statement as a joke or treat it as a piece of moorland feminine logic, but my embarrassment was avoided by the timely
appearance
of another lady. She was much smaller than the first but with the same ginger hair and masculine appearance. Her eyes were a paler blue and her face a trifle less colourful, but it was easy to deduce that the big lady was the man-about-the-farm, and her sister was the woman-about-the-house.

“I’m P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield,” I introduced myself. “The new policeman.”

“Oh,” said the big one. “Thoo’ll be calling about our registers, then?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “I’ve been rather busy …”

“Think nowt on it, young man,” the big one said. “Sit thyself down and Rene, fetch him a cuppa tea. Sugar?”

I shook my head and said, “No thanks. Milk, no sugar.”

“Mak it three, Rene,” ordered the big lady. “Thoo come as well.”

Rene never spoke as she drifted across to an oven at the far end of this large kitchen and busied herself with pots, pans and bottles of milk. I placed my helmet on the scrubbed kitchen table and sat on a bench. The big lady, who I reasoned was called Frances, sat on the bench opposite and peered steadily at me.

“It’ll be about them pigs, is it?” she put to me.

“You got some at Malton Mart last week,” I said. “I’ve got to check to see everything’s in order, and that you’ve entered them in your register.”

Without a word, she left her seat and went across to a cupboard hanging on the wall. She produced the register and flicked it open – an immaculate entry graced the pages and I said, “I’ll have to see the stock in question.”

“Thoo’s a keen ’un, eh?” she grumbled, heading for the door.

“Just doing my job,” I said softly, following behind.

“We’re off to t’sties, Rene!” she bellowed, her loud voice blasting my ear-drums. “Three minutes, no more.”

She led me in silence down to her pig sties and showed me the store pigs she’d bought. I leaned over the bottom half of the door, enjoying the sight of young pigs grunting in happiness as
they nosed among the straw and potato peelings which covered the floor of their pen.

“Nice pigs,” I commented, for they were lovely.

“The best,” she said with some force. “Me and our Rene nobbut buys t’best, thoo knaws. We show pigs and sheep, so we’ve got ti have t’best.”

“You show them?” I expressed interest in her remark. “Do you win prizes?”

“Win prizes?” she bellowed. “I’ll say we win prizes. Great Yorkshire, Stokesley, Egton, Danby, Castleton, the Royal, you name it, and we’ve won there. We’ve got the best pigs this side of the Pennines.”

“You don’t show these though?” I gestured towards those in the pig sty. “These are for fattening, aren’t they?”

“Aye, they are, young man. No, we breed our own show pigs.”

The kitchen door opened and the smaller edition said, “Tea, Cis.”

“Tea, constable,” said Cis striding towards the house with me almost trotting to keep pace. She led me inside. Rene had placed a green patterned oil cloth on the rough table, and there were three cups, some scones, jam, butter, three slabs of fruit cake and a pile of chocolate biscuits.

This was a typical ’lowance, as they called it here; tea break is the word elsewhere, or elevenses. To these folk, it’s ’lowance time, or allowance time.

“Thank you, ladies,” I settled down and signed the book with a flourish. “You keep a very nice tidy farm.”

“We’ve a man in,” said Cis. “Jack Holtby.”

“He’s employed full time, is he?”

“He lives in, Mr Rhea, gets fed and bedded here, all found. He looks after my pigs.”

“And my sheep,” said Rene quickly. “Jack looks after my sheep as well.”

“She breeds sheep. I do the pigs.”

“They win at all the shows, Mr Rhea,” said Rene, getting into top gear now her tongue had been loosened. “Good stock, is ours. You’ll have heard of t’Kirbys of Whemmelby?”

I didn’t know whether to acknowledge my ignorance by
shaking my head or to tell a white lie and pretend I knew all about their successes, but Frances saved the day by saying,

“Don’t be stupid, Rene. Of course Mr Rhea knows about our showing. I’ve told him, and he reads the papers. Kirby’s a famous name among showing folk; my pigs and your sheep are noted the country over.”

“I always get first with my blackfaces, Mr Rhea …”

“And me with my saddlebacks …”

I listened as the two sisters prattled on about their wins, each talking about her own speciality, and I began to realise I was witnessing a curious phenomenon. Once they left the subject of their pigs and sheep, their conversation followed a peculiar pattern. Each contributed to a sentence by apparently knowing what the other was going to say.

“They tell me you’re married, Mr Rhea …”

“With four children, eh? How nice, your wife …”

“Must be very busy, looking after them and cooking and cleaning. Big families are nice, but …”

“I couldn’t cope, not with four, not here. Animals are enough and …”

“They’re just like children, keeping us out of bed at night and wanting feeding when …”

“They’re little and in bed …”

“So we always work shifts, four hours on and four off, especially …”

“In the lambing season …”

And so it went on. I listened in amazement at this curious form of communication, and it appeared only to manifest itself when they were talking about subjects other than their pigs and sheep. It seemed that the pigs and sheep were individual matters, with Cis the big one looking after the pigs, and little Rene concentrating on the sheep. I left the premises feeling very amused and wondered which of them was the elder. I guessed it was Cis, the larger of the pair, for she was the dominant one and certainly had the appearance of a man. It was difficult to estimate their ages – they could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty, and I reckoned they were probably in their early forties.

During that visit, I did not see their man. Jack Holtby was
nowhere to be seen, but evidence of his skills, or of their supervisory capacity, was everywhere. The farm was
beautifully
maintained; its woodwork was gleaming, its glasswork polished, the yards swept clean and the loose pieces of hay and straw tucked firmly into place. It was a picture of professionalism.

It would be about five weeks later when the name of these curious sisters cropped up in a casual conversation. I was in Aidensfield chattering to Joe Steel in his grocer’s shop, and he asked, “You’ll have come across the Kirby twins, have you?”

“Twins?” I puzzled, and then remembered that Rene and Cis were called Kirby. “You mean those ladies out at Slape Wath?”

“Aye, that’s them. Twins. Rum lasses.”

I told him of my first visit to their establishment and of my fascination with their mode of speech. He laughed.

“They’ve always been like that, Mr Rhea. Get ’em talking about their own animals, and they’ll be normal, but get off that subject and they both talk like one person. You should hear ’em in here, ordering groceries … one says, ‘bread’ and t’other says, ‘butter’, and they go on like that, right through a shopping list.”

“Do they ever go their own ways? They’re not identical twins, are they?”

“No, they’re not. They could be, if they were t’same size, but little Rene’s the quiet one and she often goes off alone, showing her sheep.”

“I get the impression they’re hard working,” I commented. “Salt of the earth and all that.”

“They’ve no need to work, Mr Rhea. That father of theirs left ’em thousands. Did you get into their living-room?”

I shook my head.

“You’re not an artist, are you?” he appeared to change the subject and I shook my head again.

“But you’ll have heard of Reynolds, have you?”

“The portrait painter?” I asked. “Sir Joshua Reynolds?”

“Aye, that’s him. Well, they’ve five or six Reynolds paintings in that house, and antique furniture too, silver, jewellery …”

“Up there?” I cried. “In that old farmhouse?”

He nodded solemnly. “They’re loaded, Mr Rhea. They’ve no
need to work, but they stick it out there in the hills, working themselves hard day and night.”

He prattled on about their inherited wealth and their total ignorance of its capacity to give them an easy life, and then said, “I reckon they ought to have burglar alarms fitted, Mr Rhea. That’s why I thought I’d mention it. If somebody broke in and took those pictures alone, they’d lose thousands …”

“I’ll pop in and see them next week,” I promised.

“And look out for their latest man,” he waved a finger at me.

“Latest man?” I asked, smiling at him.

A broad grin flitted across his face and he ran his hand across his bald head. “Aye,” he laughed. “They’ve had a succession of men working for them, year in and year out.”

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Tending sheep or pigs, and general labouring,” he told me. “Heavy work, mainly, but some skilled fellers have been through their hands. They never stay long.”

“Don’t they? Why?” I asked in all innocence.

“They fall in love with the fellow,” he laughed. “Cis and Rene each fall in love with the poor devil at the same time. It always happens – within five or six months of the new bloke being there, they both start falling for him. Then there’s jealousy, and Rene has a go at Cis’s pigs and Cis has a go at Rene’s sheep, and if it coincides with a show date somewhere, there’s hell on …”

“And?”

“The poor chap is driven out. I’ve lost count of their fellers,” he laughed. “Every poor sod finds himself fighting their battles and protecting their animals against the other’s vicious attacks … then they both blame him for falling in love with the other and for sticking up for the other’s animals.”

“Does it ever reach my official ears?” I asked, visualising domestic turmoil out at Slape Wath Farm.

“No, it rarely gets out – they seldom go anywhere, and the fellers come and go quietly.”

But I did get involved with them and their current love affair with Jack Holtby. I saw him for the first time when I went along to discuss the treasures in their house. He was having his
’lowance and I was invited to join them at the kitchen table, where I tucked into a meal large enough for the average man’s lunch.

He was a dark-haired man in his fifties, with a heavily scarred face which was apparently the result of being trapped in a tank during the war. A small man, he was wiry and sparsely built, but had a ready smile for me as I joined him at the table. He was dressed neatly, albeit in working clothes, and appeared to be slightly on the shy side. As I talked to the ladies, he made an excuse and left, saying he was just popping up to his room before returning to work.