“No excuses, Claude. I’ll tot up the damage and send you a bill. Now, get that animal out so I can get my shop straight.”
“What’s going to happen to the pig?” asked one lady.
“She’s going for t’chop,” said Claude. “It’s pig-killing time. I think she knew, that’s why she ran for it.”
“You’re not going to kill that lovely animal, Mr Greengrass?” twittered Mrs Arkwright, another lady from the bus. “Surely not, especially after she’s made such a spirited bid for freedom!”
“Aye, well, us country folks can’t be sentimental about animals; this pig’s part of my income, you see, and pig-killing days mean money . . .”
“I’ll buy her off you!” decided Mrs Arkwright. “My son keeps pigs and sheep and things, for breeding, not for slaughtering. Now, I’ll give you a good price, full market value, in cash, immediately Mr Greengrass. I do not want that animal to be slaughtered, she’s such a delightfully spirited creature!”
Claude blinked at the assembled gathering and looked at me for guidance.
“It seems a good bargain to me, Claude,” was all I could say.
Mrs Arkwright was prepared to pay £32 10s. for Miss Nixon and in seconds had her purse open and the cash in her hand. But she smiled as she handed it to Joe Steel.
“I think Mr Steel might want some compensation out of this,” she said sweetly to Claude.
“But it’s my money, my pig money!” protested Claude, but Joe simply beamed in return.
“I’ll work out what the cost of the damage is, Claude, and let you have the change, if there is any. But remember you do owe me for that sack of potatoes you bought last week, and there’s your newspaper bill and I seem to remember you got some tins of beans and peaches the other day, before that pig of yours got at them . . . now, if you’d kindly move that animal away from my vegetable rack, I’ll get this place back to normal.”
“Aye, well, it’s not my pig anymore,” beamed Claude. “It’s hers.”
“My son will be outside with the pickup,” smiled Mrs Arkwright. “He always comes to meet me off the bus. I’ll get him to remove Claudia.”
“Claudia? Her name’s Miss Nixon,” spluttered Claude.
“Not anymore,” chuckled Mrs Arkwright. “I think Claudia is such a lovely name for a sow. She’ll remind me of you, Claude.”
Ten minutes later, the well-fed and now docile Claudia was persuaded to climb up a ramp into the rear of Alan Arkwright’s pickup and, to the cheers of the assembled crowd, the happy sow was transported away to a new life. Alfred barked his farewell. Now, I had to walk back to the Greengrass ranch to collect my minivan and Claude accompanied me.
“I’ve got nowt out of all that, Constable, nowt but a load of trouble. And I haven’t even got a pig to kill!”
“You weren’t going to kill Miss Nixon, were you?” I asked.
He blinked furiously and said, “Aye, well, not exactly, but a feller has to earn a living somehow, Mr Rhea, and pigs is good money earners.”
“Especially if you sell them alive,” I smiled.
Then he halted in his tracks.
“She’s taken that new clothes line of mine, has that woman!” he cried. “Now, there’s a rotten thing to do . . .”
“You don’t need it for another pig? You’re not thinking of buying another pig, Claude?” I laughed.
“I am not, I’ve had enough of pigs for one day. Mind, I was looking forward to a bacon breakfast tomorrow morning. I reckon I’ll have to make do with porridge instead.”
And Alfred barked. He liked his own bit of pig cheer after a pig-killing day, but would have to make do with Claude’s leftovers on this occasion.
* * *
On another occasion, Claude Jeremiah Greengrass decided to take half a dozen ewes to Ashfordly Cattle Mart. The animals would be entered for sale that Friday and Claude hoped his sturdy animals would attract a buyer. At that time, sheep were commanding good prices, with black-faced moorland ewes being particularly sought after. Claude was confident of a profitable visit to mart.
The snag was that he had no vehicle in which to carry the sheep. His pickup truck was open at the back which meant that the silly ewes would surely leap out because he had no means of securing them, such as a net or a removable hard cover. He could not afford a larger enclosed van or a cattle truck although he did possess a small motor car. It was a Ford Anglia of doubtful vintage and uncertain reliability; he used it from time to time when he wished to carry human passengers, as opposed to his pickup which he regarded as business transport. The pickup usually carried inactive commodities like logs or bags of potatoes, although Alfred, his lurcher, could be relied upon not to leap out when the vehicle was in progress.
Faced with an urgent need to transport his ewes to market, Claude decided to pack them into his Ford Anglia. Living sheep are not noted for their intelligence and it is fair to say that Claude had some difficulty persuading six of them to climb into the rear seat, and into the front passenger seat, of his Ford Anglia. Claude did not consider using the car boot because it was full of antique furniture which he hoped to sell at some future stage. His use of the phrase “antique furniture” was a euphemism for rubbishy old junk.
Happily, black-faced ewes do have horns which serve as handles on occasions and these animals were also particularly well endowed with heavy wool, thus making it comparatively easy for the powerful Claude to seize each animal, manhandle it into a suitable position and then thrust it into the car before slamming the door to enclose it. After a period of some effort, during which he was encouraged by Alfred’s barking, he had all six ewes safely inside the car. I do not know of any official record for the number of ewes that can be squeezed into a Ford Anglia, but it is fair to say that his car was quite full of wool.
One of the ewes, however, had managed to find its way on to the driving seat. This added to the problem of where Alfred was going to be carried — Claude could probably nurse Alfred, but it was doubtful whether he could nurse both Alfred and a fully grown sheep. He solved the problem by shouting at the animal as he clambered in beside it, then heaving the sheep across to the passenger side where another one already sat in bewilderment. Claude did manage to gain most of the driver’s seat, whereupon he called Alfred who leapt on to his knee.
There is no doubt that Claude had difficulty seeing the road ahead due to Alfred’s size and position, and furthermore he had trouble locating and operating the controls, particularly the gear lever and the steering wheel. The position and protesting movements of the two ewes which occupied the front passenger seat didn’t help either. Regardless of the risks, Claude set off to drive to Ashfordly Mart; his car had assumed the appearance of a living sheepskin rug on wheels.
Unfortunately, he did not get very far. As he was struggling to guide his car down Slape Stone Bank, it transpired that Sergeant Blaketon was motoring up the self-same bank en route to pay me an official visit. Later, Blaketon described to me what then happened; he did so in the form of a written statement because he had witnessed a traffic accident.
He wrote:
I could not believe my eyes. Heading towards me down Slape Stone Bank on the outskirts of Aidensfield was a scruffy car which appeared to be driven by a dog. My first thought was that the car had been parked and the driver had left it without setting the handbrake, and that it had run away down the slope. The dog was in the driving seat and the car was full of sheep. There were sheep in the front passenger seat, another sitting between the two front seats and a further accumulation of sheep upon the rear seat. There appeared to be no human being in control of the vehicle because it was weaving about the road as if the steering was faulty, and so I drove on to the verge to avoid a collision. As it approached the point where I waited, the car swerved violently to its left and ran off the road, on to the open moor. It continued a few yards across the moor until it came to a steep-sided ditch; it ran into the ditch and overturned. I ran to the scene and found that there was a driver. It was
Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and when I arrived, he was wedged into the driving seat of the overturned car by the weight of several sheep and one dog. I managed to lift out the dog, known as Alfred, and then dragged out Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, leaving all the sheep inside. One of them had a cut to the head, I noted, but it was a minor injury and no veterinary treatment was required. I was able to tip the car back on to its wheels because it was very finely balanced. As it was safe to leave the sheep in the car, I conveyed Mr Greengrass and his dog to his home at Aidensfield. Because a sheep was injured in the incident, it is reportable as a road traffic accident. I therefore made an official record of the event. The car and the sheep were later recovered from the scene and returned to the home of Mr Greengrass, the car being slightly damaged on the nearside where it had come to rest. None of the other sheep was hurt. When I asked Mr Greengrass why the car was full of sheep and a dog, he said, “I was going to take them all for a walk on the moor. Them sheep are pets, you know.”
Sergeant Blaketon’s verbal account of the incident was slightly more colourful than his official version, suggesting that Greengrass was a lunatic and that such an idiot had no right to be on the road in charge of a motor vehicle.
“So, Rhea,” he said, when he had completed his written and verbal account for my benefit, “I suggest we prosecute Greengrass for careless driving!”
“I thought you said the dog was driving, Sergeant?” I joked.
“That sort of facetiousness is not funny, Rhea!” he grunted. “The fellow was driving carelessly at the least, I’d even say he was driving dangerously.”
“He could put forward the defence of automatism,” I said seriously.
“And what justification would he have for that, Rhea?”
“Well, if a motorist is stung by a wasp and swerves off the road as a result, it is possible to plead that it was an involuntary action, the result of the unexpected presence of the wasp. I would imagine that Claude might plead similarly — that the dog or the sheep had suddenly leapt on to his lap to obscure his view and prevent him having full control of the car. Automatism for one is automatism for another, Sergeant.”
“He shouldn’t have had the animals in his car, Rhea! A driver is always supposed to be in such a position that he or she has proper control of the vehicle, and furthermore, the load should be distributed or packed so that it does not cause danger to any other user of the road. And the number of passengers, or the manner in which they are carried, must not be likely to cause danger. I’m not sure whether a court would regard those sheep as a load or as passengers, but they were certainly not packed in a way that was suitable. I recommend prosecution, Rhea — for careless driving, failing to have proper control of a motor vehicle, driving with a dangerous load and being a driver who was not in a position to have proper control of his vehicle. Now, have you checked Greengrass’s insurance?”
I had, and it appeared to be valid and in order but a closer examination of his certificate of insurance said he could use his Ford Anglia only for social, domestic and pleasure purposes. In that car, he was not covered for business purposes.
“I think he was taking those animals to Ashfordly Mart, Rhea, it was market day and he was heading that way. That means he was using his car for business.”
“But you’ll never prove it, Sergeant. In his statement to you, he said he was taking them all for a walk on the moor. I mean, that’s not business, that’s pleasure.”
“If you believe that, Rhea, you’re dafter than I thought! Taking sheep for a walk!”
“It’s not what I believe that counts, Sergeant, it’s what we can prove before a court of law. And there is no proof Claude was using the car for business purposes.”
“The fact that it was full of sheep is enough, I’d say,” Blaketon was adamant. “Submit a report to that effect. Book him for not having his car insured for the carriage of livestock for business purposes.”
And so I had to book Claude Jeremiah for several motoring offences which arose from that incident and Sergeant Blaketon recommended prosecution. But after due consideration of the file, the superintendent declined to prosecute.
He said there was no evidence that Claude was using the car for business purposes — taking dogs and even pet sheep for walks on the moor was a domestic occurrence — and Sergeant Blaketon had not proved that Claude was driving at the time he saw the car on the road. According to Sergeant Blaketon’s statement, a dog was driving the car on the road and dogs could not be prosecuted. At the time Blaketon saw Greengrass in the driving seat, the car was off the road and thus no offence was committed.
“I’ll get that man before I retire, so help me!” vowed Sergeant Blaketon.
6. Greengrass on Tour
Our deeds still travel with us . . .
GEORGE ELIOT, 1819–80
When Claude Jeremiah Greengrass teamed up with Arnold Merryweather to run coach trips in one or other of Arnold’s pair of old buses, I must admit I experienced a fluttering of apprehension. I could envisage countless breaches of traffic law, to say nothing of danger to the public and problems with offences against the regulations governing drivers, conductors and passengers. I couldn’t imagine a level-headed businessman like Arnold accepting help or advice from Claude, even though there had been rumours of Claude’s admiration for Hannah Pybus. She was the giant conductress who ensured Arnold’s buses ran on time and made a profit.
Hannah, a spinster of the parish of Thackerston, was a most unattractive woman in her middle fifties. With hips so immense that she had to walk sideways down the aisles of a standard coach, she was well over six feet tall and was built like a gasometer. She walked with a sailor-like motion while her loose-fitting clothes concealed any semblance of a female shape. She had a freckled face with pale-brown eyes and a mop of sandy or rust-coloured hair held in place with tortoiseshell slides with a heavy red ribbon at the back.
Upon the death of her father, a successful sheep farmer, Hannah had required something to occupy her because, hitherto, she had spent her life caring for her old dad and helping him run the farm. Now that the farm, the equipment and all the livestock had been sold to provide her with a modest income, Hannah had moved into a small cottage but she was in need of an interest rather than a salary. When Arnold had advertised for a conductress on his service bus, she had seen it as a golden opportunity for travel and had applied for the job. Under her stern care, every passenger paid promptly, there was no trouble from boisterous children and Arnold’s old coaches were regularly cleaned and serviced. It was evident that Hannah was good for Arnold Merryweather’s business and that he had prospered due to her presence. It was that kind of success that prompted Arnold to think of expanding his enterprise, and so he bought another coach, a rather smart second-hand vehicle, thus bringing his fleet to three.
Having spent his capital on the additional coach, Arnold had to ensure that it was kept busy enough to earn its keep. Already, he ran a service bus around the villages in the Ashfordly-Aidensfield district, while his second coach was for hire on special occasions. Football-club outings, Women’s Institute functions, trips to Scarborough or to Blackpool to see the lights or to York to the theatre or a pantomime were the sort of work that kept his second bus on the road. Arnold usually drove that one, leaving the service runs to an employed driver, supervised by Hannah.
With a third coach to maintain and keep busy, Arnold was open to ideas and, only a couple of days after Arnold’s purchase graced his garage forecourt, it was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass who suggested he could be useful — he could drive the new bus on a mystery tour.
“Where to?” asked Arnold.
“How should I know?” blustered Claude. “It’s a mystery tour, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s a mystery to the passengers, not to the driver! He has to know where he’s going. You have to plan a route, Claude, with somewhere to stop for refreshments and toilets, and some object in mind like a stately home to visit or a zoo or the seaside or something enter
taining. You’ve got to keep your passengers interested and occupied during the trip while not staying away too long, it hasn’t to become a marathon. Half a day’s about right, especially when pensioners are on board.”
“You can’t create much of a mystery in half a day,” grumbled Claude.
“You can for folks who don’t get out a lot; they’re happy just to ride around looking at the moors or the sea and stopping at a nice café. So if you can come up with a suitable outing, I’ll consider it.”
“If I do come up with an idea, what’s in it for me?” was Claude’s next question.
“Well, I could share the profits on the day’s outing, fifty-fifty after expenses have been met. I’ve got to allow for fuel, a driver’s wages and so on, with a bit put by for the bus. A share always goes to the bus.”
“Right, you’re on!” beamed Claude. “A fifty-fifty profit-sharing job, then. Now, here’s the good news. I can save you a driver’s wages because I can drive the bus. I drove heavies in the army, you know, and military coaches. I have a licence.”
“You have?” This was news to Arnold. He was often on the lookout for qualified PSV drivers for work at short notice, and this offered some relief for him. He went on. “Right, well, I think we might do business, Claude. You find a route for a mystery tour, then come back to me and we’ll see about arranging something. And we can share the profits, eh? After deductions for expenses, of course.”
I learned of this conversation from Arnold and advised him to check Claude’s driving licence before allowing him to take control of a busload of passengers but it seemed that everything was in order. Claude returned a couple of days later with a plan which Arnold found acceptable. Arnold told me about it.
“He’s caught me by surprise,” Arnold laughed with good humour. “I’ve not even had time to put my own livery on the new bus. Mind you, it’s very smart and a good polish up’ll do the trick. I reckon I can manage without having to repaint it, especially if I’ve got work for it as soon as this!”
CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 8
