CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors

by Nicholas Rhea

  Such a farmer was Don Yardley of Howeside Farm at Gelderslack. Situated not far from the renowned Surprise View at Gelderslack, the farm occupied a magnificent situation on the slopes of a valley.

  The land behind the farm rose to become a heather-covered patch of moorland to the north while that below the farm house dipped into a lush and very fertile dale complete with a rippling stream and some beautiful woodland. In fact, some of the farm’s land formed the panorama from Surprise View which meant that Don’s cattle and his land often featured in tourists’ photographs of the region.

  Don could boast acres of moorland with a huge flock of sheep, but also herds of dairy cattle, arable fields and even a thriving poultry section. His family had farmed this patch of the moors for generations and he could trace the history of the farm to 1632 when it was owned by one of his ancestors. Like his ancestors, he was very successful without any sign of snobbery. Now in his late forties, he was a sturdy individual who radiated an aura of strength and reliability. With a round and cheerful face topped by thinning blond hair, he had a penchant for brogue shoes, heavy duty overcoats and colourful waistcoats. He was a well-liked and respected businessman who found himself sitting on all kinds of committees and panels.

  Like most of the farms in this region, I had to call there regularly to examine the stock registers and it was on such an occasion that he invited me to stay for morning coffee because, as he put it, “There’s summat I’d like to talk to you about, Nick.”

  Savouring the hot scone smothered with butter and strawberry jam, produced by his wife, Valerie, I invited him to explain his problem.

  “Mebbe it’s nowt to do with you fellers,” he began, “but you know that old schoolroom at the crossroads down the dale?”

  “I do,” I assured him. I knew the building well. It was a long, low, stone building covered with the blue slate tiles of the moorland region; it had a small paved playground behind it and stood at the crossroads which led variously to Brantsford, Ashfordly, Gelderslack and Rannockdale. The former schoolroom had not been used for years, except during a brief resurrection as the village hall for some eight or nine months while the actual hall in Gelderslack was undergoing some major repairs. From time to time, vandals targeted the building, throwing stones through its windows or endeavouring to enter the building for reasons best known to themselves. Due to that kind of unwelcome attention, the windows had been boarded up, the door reinforced and chained gates placed across the entrance to frustrate vehicle access to the former playground. Now, therefore, it was a sad and neglected building, even if it was sturdy and handsome.

  “Who do you think owns yon schoolroom?” Don asked.

  “I don’t know,” I had to admit. “I expect it will be the Education Department at County Hall — the county council in other words — unless it was leased to them under some arrangement. Finding the owner might be difficult, Don, it’s been closed for years. Why? Is there a problem with it? Vandals again?”

  “Nay, them window shutters keep such-like out of the place and it’s not in bad fettle. No, it’s just that I was thinking of buying it, you see. It does border my land — that bottom field of mine goes right up to the playground wall, Mr Rhea, and seeing the spot’s never been used for years, and never likely to be used now that our local kids go to Ashfordly primary, well, I thought I might put an offer in.”

  “I’m not sure how the system works, Don, but I think the county council has to put such places on the open market, rather than do deals with individuals.”

  “Well, if it came to an auction or having to submit tenders or owt like that, I reckon I could outbid anybody else! What I’m thinking is that I could convert it into holiday cottages, you see. It would make a bit of income for the farm and we could sell the visitors eggs and things. But nobody round here seems to know who it belongs to. It’s been shut for years and I was told by a bloke in the pub that the education people have said they want nowt to do with it any more. That’s what they told me when I checked. Mebbe, way back, somebody bought it off the education people but the new owners have never got round to doing anything with it, so I just wondered how I went about finding out who it belongs to.”

  “When did it close, Don? Have you any idea?”

  “Well, I started school in 1925 and it was shut then. In those days, all of us from round here went to Rannockdale village school, then after the war, Rannockdale was closed and all the bairns were taken to Ashfordly primary.”

  “So it must have been closed around the time of the First World War?”

  “I think my grandfather went to school there, very handy really, being at the bottom of our fields, but I think my dad went to Rannockdale like me. So that old school might have closed about the turn of the century, Nick, sometime before the 1914-18 Great War. Closed as a school that is. It’s been used for other things since then, a reading room for example, for voting at elections, a temporary village hall like I mentioned and so on, but all very casual. Nowt permanent.”

  “Who’s the key holder?” was my next question.

  “Well, we have a key for it at our house,” he said. “We’ve had one for as long as I can remember. Folks would come to the house for it whenever they had to get in for any reason.”

  “And you’ve still got a key?”

  “Aye, we have, hanging in our kitchen cupboard. I’ve never known it not be there, Nick.”

  “Possession is ninth tenths of the law!” I laughed, adding, “But don’t quote me on that! Have you contacted County Hall about it recently?”

  “Yes I did, a few weeks ago. I thought I’d start things moving so I rang County Hall and got put through to the education people. Well, what a going on I had trying to find anybody that would talk to me; they kept putting me through to different departments and other offices and different folks and when I did get through to the right spot, there was nobody there knew owt about what I wanted. Anyway, I got talking to a chap and said all I wanted to know was who owned the old school in Gelderslack, so he said he’d check it out for me. He rang me back about two days later and said it wasn’t shown in any of their records. He said he couldn’t really help because all the old records had been removed but he reckoned the Education Department wasn’t responsible for it. It didn’t show up on any of their lists.”

  “So when it was used as a temporary village hall, who authorised that to happen?”

  “Nobody, so far as I can remember. It was a few years ago, Nick, but I seem to think somebody rang the education people to ask for permission and a chap there said he had no objection so the parish council came to see me and because I knew no reason to stop ’em, I let ’em in.”

  “Well, the Education Department wouldn’t object if they didn’t own it! That’s the easy way to solve a problem — it would save that clerk having to check back in the files. You provided the key?”

  “Aye, just like we’ve allus done. The same thing happened after it was vandalised. The parish council said summat should be done, the education lot said it was nowt to do with them, our rural district council wouldn’t accept responsibility so Willie Bennison from Dale End had some bits of spare wood and he made them shutters that’s still there, for nowt. A gift, he said. Nobody paid for them shutters or for that chain across the playground entrance, they were put there because it made sense to put ’em there. We’ve allus kept a key for the place so folks could get in and do bits of maintenance, and we’ve never raised objections to sensible things happening there.”

  “So ever since it was closed all those years ago, it seems nobody has really taken responsibility for that old school, but you’ve let people in from time to time, so they could use it? Without paying anyone a fee of any kind?”

  “Right, Nick. There’s never been any charges since it stopped being a school. But if I started to convert it into cottages, you can bet your bottom dollar the owners would turn up and make a fuss.”

  “That’s a fair assumption!” I laughed.

  “Well, it
seems to me that so long as other folks take a bit of interest in looking after the spot, the owners are happy to keep their heads down and let ’em get on with it. It saves them money, doesn’t it? Getting jobs done for nowt. Not a bad system if you can get away with it. But you’d think they would want to do something with the old spot.”

  “It seems to me that you’ve done everything possible to trace the owners, but you can’t just take it over, Don. Somewhere, there will be an owner or owners, especially if County Hall say it’s not their responsibility. I think you should try the Registry of Deeds first, they keep records of sales of property and land, and if that fails, the County Archivist might have something on file.”

  “Those places are like foreign countries to me, Nick. It’s easier learning to speak Chinese than finding somebody sensible in those places. I wondered if you knew anybody who works there? A name for me to contact. You did work over there for a while, didn’t you?”

  “I worked in the offices of police headquarters,” I told him. “They’re next door to County Hall, in Racecourse Lane. But yes, a former colleague of mine works in the Registry of Deeds. A retired inspector. I could have a word with him, if you like.”

  “I’d be very grateful,” he said. “All I want is a starting point, some name to contact with my offer.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I promised.

  “Not a word to anyone else, though, please. I wouldn’t want other folks getting the same idea as me and nipping in before me with a better bid . . .”

  “Scout’s honour!” I laughed, giving him the Boy Scout salute.

  The former inspector of my acquaintance was called Bob Hollowood; he’d been a senior constable on the beat at Strensford when I was stationed there, and had subsequently been promoted to sergeant and then into a headquarters’ post as inspector. Soon afterwards, he’d retired with ill-health — a heart problem — but had taken a modest clerical job in the Registry of Deeds as a means of providing an interest in his declining years. I rang him from home.

  I gave him precise details of the old school building in Gelderslack, along with a map reference and an account of its history as explained to me by Don Yardley and he promised he would check his records. As it might take some time to locate the relevant files, he said he would contact me later, probably within a couple of days or so.

  He rang me late one Friday afternoon. I was at home, enjoying a day off as a prelude to a long weekend — a Friday/Saturday/Sunday weekend off came around once every month or so, consequently they were cherished, but I was happy to take this call. After all, it was not really a police matter.

  “Bob Hollowood,” the voice said. “I’ve traced that old school, Nick. It meant going back to 1907, but it’s all here on paper.”

  “Great!” I was delighted.

  “It stopped being a school in 1907,” he told me. “There were insufficient children to justify it, so it closed and the children went to Rannockdale instead. The old school at Gelderslack had been opened in 1807, a century earlier, and the original building was thatched with heather. It was erected by voluntary subscription from the local people on land given by a local farmer and there were no title deeds in those days, although we have correspondence relating to the founding of that school. In those early days, the parents paid for the education of their children, but by the time it closed, the school came under the auspices of the county council.”

  “So they did own it?” I put to him.

  “Not quite,” he laughed into the phone. “The farmer at the time managed to engineer an unusual deal — although the farmer had donated the land in the first place, he, being an astute Yorkshireman, had given it specifically so that a school could be built on the site. His condition was that if the building ever ceased to be a school, the land and any building upon it would revert to his ownership.”

  “So in 1907, that old agreement had to be honoured?”

  “Yes, even though there were no deeds for the original school, the conditions agreed in the letters were quite specific and legally binding. So the land and the old school building — all of it — reverted to the local farmer. By then, of course, the original farmer had died, but his family still owned the farm, and so he found himself with a school building quite free of charge.”

  “Yardley is the name,” I said. “Howeside Farm, Gelderslack.”

  “Yes, Leonard Yardley was the farmer in 1907.”

  “He was grandfather of the man who asked me to ring you — so I now have a farmer who owns a school and knows nothing about it! He thinks someone else owns it, he’s been trying to find out who it belonged to!”

  “It looks as though grandad never told anyone.”

  “Right, Bob. Anyway, so long as the school doesn’t belong to the county council . . .”

  “No, it doesn’t, and never really did! Not entirely — they had an interest in it because it was a school but the land was never theirs. According to this file, it reverted to the Yardleys of Howeside Farm and I’ve nothing to say it was ever transferred to anyone else.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” I thanked him.

  It was the following Monday morning when I resumed my duties after an enjoyable weekend off and I decided to visit Don Yardley before any other matters called for my attention. As before, he settled me in his kitchen with a mug of coffee and a slice of cake, this time a fruit cake made by Val.

  “So what have you discovered, Nick?” he asked, after I had explained the reason for this visit on a Monday morning.

  “Did you contact your solicitor about the old school?” I asked him, just to wind him up a little!

  “No, of course not, Nick. It’s not on our land, so he’s got no interest in it.”

  “It is on your land,” I said. “Your family gave the land for the school on condition that if it ever ceased to be a school, the land and the buildings on it would revert to your family. That’s what happened in 1907, Don. It’s been yours since then!”

  “Ours?”

  “I think it would be your grandfather, Leonard Yardley, who would have received back the land and school when it closed.”

  “Well, he wasn’t one for putting pen to paper, Nick, and my dad never said anything about it. Mebbe he never knew? But nobody told me the land had been ours . . .”

  “You’d better have words with your solicitor,” I suggested. “It should all be in your deeds, all the conditions attached in the first place, dates of transfer back to Howeside Farm, the lot.”

  “I don’t know that to say!” He looked slightly embarrassed. “I once heard it described as our family school, but thought it meant some of my ancestors had gone there. I think it meant more than that, eh?”

  “Well, it’s your family school now, Don. Just make sure everything’s in the deeds, though, before you start knocking it to pieces. And record it all for the future, of course, so your descendants will know all about it!”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “If I’d seen my solicitor in the first place . . .”

  “You’d have been making money from it instead of letting it lie fallow, eh?” I smiled.

  “I might have done just that. But fancy owning a school and not knowing about it! But there’s always security in stones and mortar, Nick. But I don’t know what to say, except thanks.”

  “That’ll do,” I said, draining my coffee and preparing to continue my rounds.

  * * *

  If Don Yardley was somewhat vague about the precise extent of his moorland empire, then the problems that befell a befuddled lady who rejoiced in the name of Tabitha Gumlock — Miss Tabitha Gumlock — made him appear to be in complete control of his life. Tabitha, of an indeterminate age somewhere in the 45-60-year bracket and with a moderate income that did not involve working, lived alone in a lovely old cottage on the main street of Aidensfield.

  Her house was always a picture because it was smothered by a variety of colourful climbing plants which bloomed throughout the year from spring until
autumn. At times, the front doorway seemed to disappear beneath a canopy of hanging vegetation and then Tabitha would go berserk with her cutting shears and clear the whole front of the house so that it looked obscenely bare.

  She always dressed in black — long, flowing black dresses or matching skirts and tops, often covered with shawls of deepest funereal black; she wore black shoes and a black scarf and black gloves, all complemented by gleaming black Whitby jet jewellery. She’d even appear like this during her time at home, but went off to her many social engagements in the same outfits.

  All this complemented her black hair, black eyes and rather white face, and there is little wonder the village children thought she was a witch.

  I never did know where her money came from, but she seemed to have a useful private income, and although she was not wealthy, she was by no means poor. She owned her house, she ran a Morris Minor car, her clothes always looked clean and neat and she enjoyed a drink of wine at home surrounded by her beautiful antique furniture. The general view was that some rich relation had died to leave her financially secure, although no one knew who that might have been.