“Who are you talking about?”
“He calls himself Farmer Frederick and he writes that Farmer Frederick’s Forecast every week in the Ashfordly Gazette, he’s just been going a month or two. I reckon nowt to him, Nick, I don’t think he’s ever got a forecast right.”
He went across to a magazine rack beside a Windsor chair near the fireplace and eased out this week’s copy of the Gazette, turning to the page in question. Tucked into the bottom right-hand corner was a short piece bearing the title “Farmer Frederick’s Forecast”, followed by the worthy fellow’s account of the weather which could be expected.
In this case, it said that because the weather during the first week in October last had been mild and dry with sunshine and clear skies, then the same could be expected in the first week of March this year.
“And was the first week in October like that?” I asked.
“Nay, Mr Rhea, how should I know? I don’t keep them sort of records.”
“Have you written to complain about the forecasts?” was my next question.
“Nay, I wouldn’t do that. I mean, if it says so in the paper, you expect it to be right, don’t you? I wondered if the paper had printed the wrong week’s forecast or summat.”
“Well, my suggestion is that you ignore Farmer Frederick. Listen to the radio or watch the television instead. Or better still, trust your own judgement.”
But Jack wasn’t the only farmer to complain. A week or two later, I was visiting Angus Stirling at his smallholding near Elsinby and he happened to comment as he checked his stock of pigs, “Yon Farmer Frederick’s got it wrong again,” he said. “He wrote that I had to sow my peas on the feast of St Chad, and I’ve lost ’em all and the other week he said that pale moonlight meant rain, and there wasn’t a drop. Then he wrote summat about St Eulalie’s Day being good for apples, that was in February, and, well, yon saint’s French, nowt to do with Yorkshire farmers. Why would he mention a French saint?”
“Perhaps he has no idea that Eulalie is French,” I suggested. “Now, this forecaster, is it Farmer Frederick from the Ashfordly Gazette?” I put to him.
“Who else? I dunno where they found that chap, but if there’s one thing he can’t do, it’s forecast the weather.”
In the weeks that followed, I discovered other forecasting disasters by the famous Frederick because I started to read his column, chiefly out of curiosity to discover just how often he was right or wrong. Almost invariably, he was wrong, although the law of averages did mean he was right from time to time. When April came, for example, he forecast showers, heavy at times, with bright intervals — that was inevitable in April, but in another case he added that If the birch leaf is the size of a farthing on the Feast of Our Lady of Kazan, you will have corn in the barn. He did not add that Our Lady of Kazan was a Russian version of the Blessed Virgin Mary — and that that forecast was for Russian, not Yorkshire, farmers.
I read another of Farmer Frederick’s forecasts in which he stated, in April, that the weather on the night of the feast day of St Peter shows what weather we shall have during the forthcoming forty days. It was a version of the St Swithin’s Day legend, but the snag was that there were several St Peters, all with different feast days. The best known was St Peter, the famous apostle who became the first pope, his feast day being shared with St Paul on June 29, but Farmer Frederick was writing about the weather in April. I consulted one of my dictionaries of saints’ days — it confirmed that St Peter the Apostle’s feast day was June 29, but St Peter Arbues has a feast day on September 17, St Peter Chrysologus has his on December 4, St Peter Exorcista’s is held on December 9 with St Peter of Verona’s feast day being on April 29. There is also a St Petronius who has a feast day on October 4 but I did not think that the weather on the feast day of St Peter of Verona, which is an Italian town, would have any bearing on the weather on Yorkshire farms, even if his feast day was in April. Somebody, Farmer Frederick in other words, had got his forecasting facts wrong.
It never occurred to me that Farmer Frederick was the pseudonym of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass until Claude arrived at Aidensfield police house one Wednesday morning around half past ten. There was a look of anger and anxiety on his face as I opened the door.
“Morning, Claude,” I tried to appear cheerful. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I’ve come to report a larceny,” he announced.
“You’d better come in then,” and I invited him into my office. Mary was brewing a coffee and when she noticed Claude’s presence, she brought him one.
“Now this is what I call service.” His face relaxed a little as he settled in the chair beside my desk. “You’d never get old Blaketon giving me coffee at Ashfordly nick.”
“So, Claude,” I asked. “A larceny, you said. What’s been stolen?”
“A book.”
“Yours?”
“Aye, of course. I can read you know.”
“It’s a funny thing to steal, Claude, was there a break-in at your house? Are we talking about a housebreaking or a burglary or something similar?”
“No, I’d left it in that telephone kiosk at the end of my lane, last night. By mistake. It was gone this morning. You can’t trust anybody these days, can you?”
“What’s the title?”
“Weather Wisdom; it’s a hardback written by a chap called Walter Halliday in 1802.”
“Maybe somebody’s handed it in as found property?” I suggested. “It’s hardly the sort of thing anybody would pinch. Nobody’s handed it in to me, but I’ll check with Ashfordly if you wait a moment.”
I rang Ashfordly Police Station to request PC Alf Ventress to check the Found Property register, but the line was engaged. I took the opportunity to quiz Claude a little more as we sipped our coffees.
“So how did you come to leave that book in an isolated telephone kiosk?” I asked.
He blinked furiously across the top of his mug and squirmed in his seat.
“You fellers do operate a confidential service, don’t you?” he asked quietly.
“Of course, Claude.”
“Aye, well, I got that book a week or two back, from that second-hand book stall at the fair, you know. Full of information, it is, about the weather. So I rang the Gazette and offered my services, doing weather forecasts, from that book. Dead easy it is, you just turn up the right day and it’s all there.”
“Really, as easy as that, eh?”
“Aye, and did you know that a snowstorm in May is worth a wagon load of hay, or that when the wind’s in the west, the weather’s at its best?”
“All fascinating stuff, Claude, but you’re no journalist! You’re not a writer!”
“Aye, well, I didn’t actually write the stuff.” He was blinking even more furiously now. “The paper rings me, on a Tuesday night; I haven’t a phone, so I go to that kiosk near my road end and they ring me there. I pick the right bit of weather from that book, and they take it all down. They call me Farmer Frederick, that’s ’cos they think I’m a farmer. I get two guineas for every forecast, not bad money eh?”
“So you went to the kiosk last night to do your stuff, and forgot to take the book home?”
“Aye, and when I went back this morning, it had gone. It’s important I get it back, Mr Rhea, I mean, how can I make my forecasts without that book, eh?”
“You could always hang a bit of seaweed outside or watch the smoke rising from the chimneys in Aidensfield,” I laughed.
“That’s all amateurish stuff, Mr Rhea,” he grinned. “You’re talking to a professional, you know, a published forecaster.”
When the line was free, I rang Alf Ventress at Ashfordly Police Station. He checked his records but there was no record of the book being handed in. He said he would make a note, just in case anyone did return it later. The next problem was whether or not to record this as a crime.
After discussing it with Claude, I felt it best to regard it as Lost Property, the reasoning being that if the book had ap
parently been abandoned in a telephone kiosk, the taker could hardly be charged with stealing it. Claude was happy to know that if the book was found, it would be restored to him. “So what can I do about my forecasting?” he asked.
“Claude,” I put to him, “you’re a countryman, you probably know far more about the weather than is contained in that book. Use your own knowledge for the forecasts.”
As the weeks went by, Farmer Frederick’s forecasts did become more accurate and most definitely had more application to our locality or the moors in general. Claude’s lost book never turned up, but no one else knew that Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was the Farmer Frederick, the famous and fabulous forecaster. Several weeks later, I asked how he obtained the information for his now fairly accurate forecasts.
“I listen to the farming programme on the radio,” he said. “They do a weather forecast every week. Pretty accurate, they are, an’ all.”
And he blinked wickedly.
5. Greengrass on the Hoof
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
WALTER DE LA MARE, 1873–1956
My earlier Constable books recount some of the adventures, or perhaps the word should be misadventures, of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass when he tried to breed or deal with animals. Inevitably, things went wrong with Claude’s enterprises but people like him never learn from their mistakes. Indeed, it was a typical Greengrass “mistake” that led to another of his doubtful cash-generating schemes. Even now, I am not sure whether he deliberately set out to trick gullible people, amongst whom I counted myself, or whether he did make a genuine error.
It began like this: land-owning people who lived upon the moors acted as keepers of seaside donkeys during the winter; after a hectic summer season of carrying fare-paying passengers along the beaches in a boring, never-ending trek, these tired, patient old mokes were sent away to good homes to recuperate. The seaside donkey owners paid a small fee to their temporary keepers, and country children loved to have these delightful animals living near their homes, if only during the late autumn and winter months. Donkeys are such lovely, patient creatures and there is no doubt they won the hearts of youngsters in Aidensfield.
Perhaps the keeper of the largest number of seaside donkeys was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.
He had some rough pastureland on the edge of the moor, alongside some old but storm-proof buildings, and so he could accommodate about two dozen donkeys. The fees they generated provided a useful income for the scruffy old character and he did allow the village children to visit the donkeys, feed them and even ride them from time to time. Lots of village children spent hours looking after their new friends upon the Greengrass ranch. It is fair to add that Claude did look after them very well indeed, taking care over their feeding and stabling arrangements, and ensuring they were carefully groomed with due attention to their hooves. There is no doubt the donkeys were happy and contented with Greengrass.
I ought to add at this stage that there is a long-standing belief in both the North York Moors and elsewhere, that no one has seen a dead donkey. I have referred to this legend on previous occasions but it bears repeating — ask any of your friends or relations if they have ever seen a dead donkey, and the answer will almost certainly be “no”. There will be exceptions of course, but while dead horses, cattle, dogs, cats, deer, foxes and rabbits are not at all unusual, a dead donkey is indeed a rarity. In fact, it is such a rarity that people would, at one time, travel long distances in the hope of seeing one, believing it brought good fortune to those who set their eyes upon it. In some parts of England, any person seeing a dead donkey had to leap three times over the carcass if they desired the very best of good fortune.
There is on record the case of a donkey’s carcass being brought into a knacker’s yard whereupon every employee leapt three times over the carcass in the firm belief that it would enable them to win the football pools.
The account does not state whether or not they did win any money, but the point remains that, even in modern times, the sight of a dead donkey is believed to be the herald of fortune.
It is not the only good-luck charm involving donkeys. There used to be a scheme known as “up goes the donkey” which was a stunt performed at many fairgrounds. Fairground entertainers would shout to the crowds that as soon as enough money had been gathered, the donkey which was fastened to the foot of a tall pole or a long ladder, would be made to ascend the pole or ladder and balance on the top. Always, two more pennies were required — there was never quite enough money to persuade the donkey to perform that trick. Those who witnessed the sight of the balancing donkey would be blessed with everlasting good fortune — the snag was that no one ever saw it happen.
Knowing of all these quaint beliefs and customs, I discovered, quite by chance, that one of the donkeys cared for by Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was quite aged. Paler in colour than his companions, he was a lovely old stallion called Rodney and he was spared the rigours of entertaining children who came to the Greengrass ranch. He could be fed with carrots and he could be fussed over and groomed by caring youngsters, but he was not for riding. He was far too old for that, Claude insisted.
Claude showed Rodney to me during one of my periodic visits and explained that the old chap really was getting too old for the rigours of seaside rides.
“Poor old Rodney should be put out to grass,” Claude suggested.
“You’ll see to that?” I put to him.
“It’s up to his owner, not me,” Claude said, before adding. “It wouldn’t surprise me if poor old Rodney called it a day very soon. He spends a lot of time asleep; I think his days are numbered. I’ve had the vet out to see him; he says it’s just old age and reckons Rodney will just fade away. He thinks it won’t be long before he goes to that happy grazing ground in the sky.”
Then the unthinkable actually happened: Rodney died. His end came while there was a traction engine rally in Aidensfield. As the crowds were milling around a field which adjoined Claude’s property, Rodney fell asleep in one of Claude’s spacious outbuildings. He passed away very peacefully on a bed of dry hay. The important thing from Claude’s point of view was that the carcass now reclined on his premises.
Knowing the legend of the dead donkey, and the good fortune such a sight would bring to those who witnessed it, Claude did not intend to miss the opportunity presented to him. It was especially timely because there was a ready-made audience in the adjoining field. Acting with commendable speed, he erected a sign on the gate between his premises and the traction engine rally. In bold lettering, it announced, Dead Donkey. A rare sight that brings good luck. Entrance 2s.6d. First party of visitors — 4 p.m.
He then went around ringing a big brass hand-bell to draw attention to his offer and sure enough, a queue began to form at the gate.
“Passed away in his sleep during the night, he did,” Claude was telling his customers. “Poor old chap. Rodney was his name, a lovely animal, gentle with the kids . . . he loved kids, he really did. And now he’s gone. He didn’t suffer. There’ll never be another chance to see him. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a dead donkey. Good luck is waiting for you just round the corner, folks.”
I discovered this latest Greengrass enterprise as the patient queue numbered about fifteen. It was a few minutes to four and Claude was standing at the gate ringing his bell and shouting that the dead donkey tour was about to commence. The next opportunity to see a dead donkey would be in an hour’s time.
“Are you joining us, Mr Rhea?” Claude asked, with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You could do with a bit of luck, I’ll bet.”
On impulse, I decided I should see this incredible sight. After all, it might never happen again during my lifetime, so I paid my half-crown to Claude. He said I would never regret the investment. Then, after checking his watch, he announced it was time for the first party to depart. He altered his notice to say the next tour would be at 5 p.m., and off we set with Claude leading the way.
Outside a de
crepit old shed, he paused. “In here,” he whispered to the tourists. “Now, I’ve got some hens sitting in this shed: upstairs they are, and I don’t want ’em disturbed. A dozen or more birds on a dozen or more clutches, there’ll be a few good chicks to come out of that lot, so just follow me quietly. And be respectful in the presence of death, if you don’t mind.”
A deferential silence enveloped the party as Claude opened the battered wooden doors and led us inside. The interior was gloomy, there being no windows but the floor was covered with hay and straw and there was a cosy warmth within. It felt very snug and dry. Along the rear wall was a number of stalls, each separated from the next by a tall wooden partition known in the North York Moors as a skelbeast. Around the walls was a type of gallery which formed the first-floor landing perhaps six or eight feet wide. It was supported upon wooden poles which stood upon the floor, their bases lost among deep hay and straw. Access was via a ladder and I could see that a thick carpet of hay covered most of that landing floor.
“My hens are up there,” Claude whispered to us. “Sitting well, they are. Good dockers are hard to come by . . . Now, follow me, and keep quiet . . .”
He was edging around the interior of the wall, treading lightly and carefully in the hay as he led us in single file to the rear stalls. Exercising great care to avoid alarming Claude’s nesting hens, I could see that the man ahead of me was having a problem. At first, I was unsure of the cause of his distress, but he had pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and was wiping his watering eyes while endeavouring to stifle a severe fit of sneezing.
“Are you all right?” I manoeuvred myself alongside and whispered my concern.
“I’m allergic to hay dust,” he sniffed. “I didn’t realise it would be so thick in here. I thought the floor would be covered with straw, not hay. There’s a lot of hay here.”
“Hush, all of you!” hissed Claude. “I don’t want my hens upset, they’re at a critical stage of brooding . . .”
CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 6
