I drove Claude to his reunion with Oscar who was still battering the gates with his head, and the animal’s concentration on the job in hand was so intense that it enabled Claude to creep towards him in the light of my vehicle’s headlamps and grab the loose end of the rope before the goat realised he’d been caught. Claude tugged it and shouted, “Come on home, you daft bugger . . .”
The goat responded immediately. It was abundantly clear that Oscar did not wish to be interrupted during his courting ritual, and he turned towards Claude with his head down and his hooves hammering the tarmac of Mrs Roe’s drive. It looked like the prelude to a bull fight. Claude ran. Somehow, he managed to retain a grip on the end of the rope and I saw him galloping along the street, weaving from side to side as he tried to dodge those terrible horns as the goat sought to wreak its revenge on Claude’s ample rear portions. Within a few yards, however, Claude found the security of a lamp post and, dodging around it to keep the angry goat at a safe distance, he quickly wrapped his end of the rope around it while avoiding Oscar’s head butts. In a few seconds, the goat was secured.
“You can’t leave him there!” I shouted as I pulled up, still not leaving the safety of my van.
“Where else can I put him?” beseeched the panting Claude.
“In your compound . . . if you run up the village, he’ll follow you like a little dog; he’ll not let you get away with this,” I laughed, and prepared to drive on as Claude dealt with his problem.
“He won’t come quietly. He’ll knock hell out of me . . . look at those horns and that gleam in his eyes. He’s mighty angry, Constable, can’t you stay and help me?” he begged.
“Do you want to buy any more raffle tickets?” I asked.
“You can’t expect me to fork out for raffle tickets every time I see you . . .”
“Good night, Claude,” I said, engaging first gear.
“All right, then. You win. Another book. Half-a-crown’s worth.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll reverse the van towards that tree with the rear doors open. I’ll get as close as I can, then I’ll stop. You undo your end of the rope and get into the back of my van as fast as you can, keeping hold of the rope. Then shut the doors quick before Oscar has chance to leap in after you. That’ll keep him outside at the end of the rope, won’t it? With the closed doors between you and him.”
“I’m not letting him inside with me!” spluttered Claude.
“Right, but remember the doors won’t shut properly because the rope will be in the way, so you’ll have to hang onto the doors as well as the rope, and so long as you don’t let go, you’ll be safe inside and Oscar will be outside. Then I’ll drive back to your place at walking speed — you keep hold of the rope and draw Oscar behind you. We’ll have him back home in no time.”
And so the plan was put into operation and within minutes, we were back at the Greengrass ranch where Claude’s only job was to get the goat inside a building of some kind.
He had plenty of spare outbuildings and persuading Oscar to enter one of them proved no problem because the animal was now docile. It seemed as if his amorous urges had evaporated and I watched with some relief as the door closed behind him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow about the raffle tickets,” I said, grinning at Claude. “Keep an eye on that goat of yours; keep him locked up otherwise you might have to buy more raffle tickets!”
During the next couple of weeks, Oscar managed to escape several more times. I have no idea of the actual number of explorations he achieved, but he made a return trip to visit Mrs Roe’s nannies, he ate an entire cabbage patch in one garden, demolished the contents of a greenhouse in another, invaded the village shop, chewed some washing on a clothes line, and butted several ladies in the high street. Happily, they all complained to Claude, not me.
Then one Saturday night, I paid my usual duty visit to the pub and saw Claude at the bar with his cronies.
“Ah, Constable,” he hailed me. “I’ve got some good news for you. That goat of mine, Oscar, I’ve got rid of him. He was too much of a handful, so he’s gone. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am, so your scheme for breeding goats has ended, has it?”
“I think I’ll stick to hens,” he chuckled. “But old Arthur Robinson reckons he can deal with Oscar.”
“Arthur at Lower Keld?”
“That’s him. He’s got plenty of space and he knows a thing or two about billy goats. I got two pounds for him, an’ all. A bargain, I reckon — but I’m glad he’s gone. He was getting to be a bit of a handful, you know.”
“So peace will reign in Aidensfield, Claude?”
“It will,” he smiled with some relief. It was shortly after receiving Claude’s welcome news that the raffle for the Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund was drawn at the annual police Christmas dinner-dance in the Spa Ballroom at Strensford. There had been a good response with lots of tickets being sold and lots of useful prizes being donated. Mary and I went along to the dance, having secured the services of Mrs Quarry as babysitter for our four youngsters, and during the orchestra’s meal break, we listened as the prize-winners were announced.
Other than the main prize, a week’s holiday in Scarborough, it had been decided to pull the name of the other prizes out of a hat too. This was due to the large number of donations, many of similar value, and so as the name of each winner was announced, the master of ceremonies dipped his hand into a hat and extracted a card which identified the appropriate prize. Mary and I did not win anything, although a couple of people to whom I had sold tickets did win prizes — one got a bottle of whisky and another a meal for two at a Strensford restaurant. But the shock of the evening came when I heard the master of ceremonies announce, “Claude Jeremiah Greengrass of Aidensfield. Ticket number 466. Is he here?”
“No.” I stood up and caught his attention by waving my hand. “No, Mr Greengrass is not here, but I am PC Rhea, the Aidensfield constable. I can make sure he gets the prize.”
“All right, PC Rhea,” said the MC. “Let’s see what he has won.”
He dipped his hand into the hat and pulled out a card bearing the name of the prize. “This is a late prize, donated by a Mr Arthur Robinson of Lower Keld. One billy goat in prime condition. You’ll inform Mr Greengrass, will you, PC Rhea? The goat will be delivered free of charge.”
“I’ll tell him to expect it very soon,” I said, thinking it might be best if Oscar was delivered while Claude was out. That would be a nice surprise for him . . . But I didn’t think he’d ever buy another raffle ticket from me.
Chapter 3
One Thursday morning, I popped into Aidensfield shop-cum-post office to buy a book of stamps and was in time to see the proprietor, Joe Steel, loading his small green van. He was stacking the rear section with boxes of groceries and seemed to be making hard work of the chore. He was slightly breathless and perspiring with the effort.
“Morning, Joe,” I greeted him. “Off on your rounds, are you?”
“My weekly delivery to outlying farms and houses, Nick,” he panted, pausing to straighten and ease the ache in his back.
“There’s not many village stores do that anymore,” I commented.
“No, but I think it’s important and I know it’s appreciated,” he smiled. “It’s a service started by my predecessor. I make nothing from it — in fact it costs me money to continue it — but it helps the old folks and those who can’t get into the village for various reasons. But it’s hard work, all this heavy lifting. It gets tougher by the week. I’ve got to the stage where I’m thinking of retiring. It’s days like this, with all those heavy boxes to load and then unload, that makes me think I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”
“Rubbish! You’ve years of good service left in you and besides, the place wouldn’t be the same without you,” I said. “But if this side of the job is too much, you could always give up these deliveries. They’re almost a luxury these days and stopping them would make things easier for you.”<
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“I know; it’s expensive and time consuming, and it means finding someone to look after the shop while I’m out, but some of my customers depend on it. I can’t overlook the fact that it wins me customers who might decide to shop somewhere else. I cover a very wide area, Nick, and the goodwill is important to me. I still do two deliveries a week — Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“It’s a question of finding the right balance, I suppose.” I could understand his dilemma. “Giving up something worthwhile is never an easy decision to make. I suppose you could consider a small charge for this service.”
“It’s a thought, but I wouldn’t want to stop my deliveries. They’re part of the service I provide, but humping these boxes around does give me twinges and back ache. Seriously, Nick, Betty and I are considering retirement. We’re approaching retirement age and our dream is to sell this place and move to the coast. In a few months’ time, I mean, not immediately. Strensford maybe, or even Filey.”
“Well, I must admit lifting heavy loads is something I wouldn’t want to do if I was nearing retirement. But I do know your efforts are appreciated, Joe, and you will be missed if you leave here.”
“I’ll be passing the word around any time now, Nick, so it’s no secret. If you know anyone who wants to buy a post office and thriving village store, well, tell them to get in touch. I’ll be happy to talk business.”
“It’s odd you should mention that,” I said. “Sergeant Blaketon was saying only recently that he fancied a post office when he retired.”
“You chaps retire early, don’t you?” Joe commented.
“Constables and sergeants have to retire when they reach fifty-five,” I explained. “Inspectors and those of higher rank can stay on until they’re sixty, although it is possible for some officers to be granted an extension of service, usually one year at a time. Whether or not that is approved usually depends on their health.”
“So, provided his health holds out, Sergeant Blaketon could battle on until he’s sixty?” smiled Joe. “I can’t see him wanting to take on something like a post office or shop at that age.”
“Not many of us want to stay on with an extended period of service,” I told him. “After plodding the beat for thirty years or so, we’re usually glad of a rest and a change. What most of our officers do is find a cosy little job of some kind, just to give them a reason for getting out of bed on a morning during their retirement. Nothing too demanding.”
“Well, I can’t say a shop and post office is very relaxing, but it’s not too difficult for a fit person, so if the post office idea appeals to Blaketon, tell him to get in touch. If he wants the place and is willing to give me a firm commitment, it’ll mean I don’t have to advertise it.”
Joe closed his doors and drove away to complete his deliveries while I went in and bought my book of stamps from Betty, his wife. The church clock was striking ten when I emerged and today was my day for patrolling the area around Crampton village. I had my flask of coffee and some sandwiches in the van and would spend a full day’s duty in and around that area.
I’d be checking some stock registers on local farms, arranging the renewal of firearms certificates on others and attending to various other duties. One of those duties was the never-ending crime prevention advice we provided, and I know many people took not the slightest bit of notice. In that respect, while visiting farms on my patch, I made a point of warning the householders about a current series of unsettling raids which were taking place in our area. They’d been prevalent over the past year or so, and comprised spasmodic raids on isolated farm-houses while the owners were out. The only common factor, apart from the fact the target premises were all farms, was that the attacks were always on a local market day. It had long been customary for a farmer and his wife to vacate their premises for a day to attend the local market, whether it was a livestock or fruit and vegetable market.
Although this was part of their work, when many of them bought and sold their produce, it was also regarded as a relaxing day out but it meant that the premises were left unattended for most of the day. Many farmers never locked their doors which meant that thieves could take almost anything they wished, whether it was something from the outbuildings like tools and equipment, or something from the house like a grandfather clock, antique chair, valuable piece of pottery or even jewellery and consumer items like television sets and radios. As a consequence of the market-day raids, as they became known, it was our continuing policy to warn farmers about them, advising them to lock their doors, safeguard their valuables and report any suspicious people or vehicles wandering around their land. Ideally, someone should remain on the premises throughout the day.
Our criminal intelligence network had identified two suspects — a couple of brothers called Starling, Derek and Kevin, who were in their thirties and who lived together on a smallholding on the outskirts of Galtreford. We had never been able to secure any positive proof of their activities, certainly not enough to present to a court of law to ensure their conviction. The brothers had been interviewed countless times and always denied any involvement with the market-day raids and in spite of repeated searches of their premises, not one piece of identifiable stolen property had been found in their possession. They were very clever thieves and appeared either to have fast outlets for the stuff they stole, or a secure place of storage well away from their home. We suspected they had a lock-up of some kind which they used to accommodate their stolen items, one which did not appear to be associated with them. There were lots of likely places in the area — disused barns, lock-up garages for rent, deserted buildings, abandoned hangars on former airfields but we had never traced any of them to the brothers’ possession. The brothers knew we were interested in their activities and if we had placed a tail on any of their vehicles, they had always managed to dodge it.
Today, I would maintain my usual observations for the Starling brothers because it was Eltering market day — and Crampton was within easy driving distance of that market town. Apart from that ongoing problem, the only other outstanding matter was a statement which I had to obtain from a lady in Crampton village — she’d witnessed a hit-and-run traffic accident while shopping in Leeds and had left her name and address with the victim.
Leeds City Police had asked me to interview her. It promised to be a quiet and very routine day’s duty.
It was early that same Thursday afternoon, around 2.30, that the radio in my van burbled into life with my call sign and I responded.
“Delta Alpha Two Six receiving,” I acknowledged.
“Delta Alpha Two Six, location please,” said the unmistakeable voice of Sergeant Blaketon from Ashfordly Police Station.
“Crampton village,” I responded. “Stationary outside the primary school.”
“Delta Alpha Two Six,” continued Blaketon. “I have received a call from Mrs Steel at Aidensfield post office. It seems her husband has not returned from delivering groceries to his customers; he was expected back around half-past twelve and she has had no word. Two of the farms on his round are near Crampton; she’s rung them but got no reply. I’ve rung too, but got no response, they might be out at market or working down the fields. As you are in the area, could you check? She’s worried because he always rings her if he’s going to be late home and in any case she thought he wasn’t feeling too well this morning. He was complaining of back ache. I know this isn’t within the normal scope of our duties, Rhea, but I’m sure we can accommodate this modest request.”
“Two Six to Control. No problem, will do,” I acknowledged, wondering if poor old Joe had suffered a heart attack or crashed his van or worse. “Which are the farms?”
“Throstle Nest, the Bartrams’ place, and Aspen Hall, Appleby’s place.”
“I know them,” I confirmed, then finished the transmission with, “Delta Alpha Two Six out.”
I had not visited either of these premises today and as Throstle Nest was the closer of the two, I drove there first. The well-surfaced lane
leading to the farm rose steeply from the riverside road about a mile out of Crampton when travelling towards Lower Keld. It crossed a couple of rising fields, none of which had anyone working in them, before dipping into the hollow in which the beautiful mellow stone farmhouse was situated. This farm was clean and well maintained, specialising in wheat and barley rather than dairy produce and livestock, and as I drove into the yard, I could see the place was deserted. There was no immediate sign of Joe’s van either. It seemed that Alan and Ruth Bartram were out, but I parked on their forecourt and walked around the deserted buildings, calling their names and looking for any sign of Joe Steel. I searched for his van, wondering if he had parked it behind the house to unload his box of groceries directly into a lobby or outbuilding but he was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, however, I did find a box of groceries tucked under a seat in the porch which graced the back door. Clearly, Joe had been and gone while the family were out and I was satisfied he was not still here.
The second farm, Aspen Hall, lay some distance away. It involved a drive of about twenty minutes and, in spite of its rather grand name, this was an average sized working farm with a double-fronted stone house almost hidden among cattle sheds and barns. Lots of local farms were called Hall.
Aspen Hall stood high on the moors above Crampton in a somewhat exposed position so far as the weather was concerned although the buildings themselves were concealed from the approach road by a dense barrier of Scots pines and spruces. The road to the farm was a long, twisting and rather narrow lane, neatly tarmacked but weaving between drystone walls for almost a mile before it emerged into the farmyard. This farm, which belonged to Dick and Grace Appleby, was more traditional than Throstle Nest for it had a range of livestock including some Highland Cattle, Aberdeen Angus beasts and dairy Friesians as well as sheep, pigs and poultry. Although I could see the farm buildings behind the curtain of trees, they were indistinct from this distance and I lost sight of them several times as I traversed the dipping and rising track into Aspen Hall.
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 5
