His business empire also included the manufacture of bricks and he was involved in several building booms over the years. In addition, the family were shareholders in a huge range of other companies and enterprises. On the female side, however, the family claimed descent from minor members of the nobility, although no one was quite sure of the precise details. Thus Young Lordy, as he was known, could claim some blue blood in his otherwise rich rust-red veins.
While creating their wealth, members of the family had begun to purchase local farms, inns and cottages when they became vacant and by the end of the Second World War, the Whemmelby Estate owned several pubs, more than fifty moorland farms spread across a huge area, a couple of complete hamlets (of which Whemmelby was one) and countless small cottages which were let either to tenants or to others who required them. In accumulating this wealth and, it has to be said, the power that went with it, the Knowscott-Hawkes did not endear themselves to the local population. The people claimed they lacked the breeding and style of the old aristocracy; they used bullying tactics and power and threats to achieve compliance from their subordinates, tenants and workforce alike. It seemed that as each new generation of Knowscott-Hawkes came along, so their lack of breeding, their bad manners and their sheer rudeness became more evident. The tiny quantity of blue blood which flowed in their veins was not able to counter the effects of a more common background. Lots of local people said that Young Lord Ralph behaved like an inner city lout rather than a sophisticated Yorkshire landowner.
When I was the constable at Aidensfield, I did encounter his relations and staff from time to time; lots of distant family members came to spend weekends or holidays at the hall. On occasions, Young Lordy tried to use my services for car parking at his social functions, asking his estate manager to make the necessary arrangements, but always I managed to avoid being hired as their lackey for the night. I explained that I was an officer of the Crown, and that I was not for hire as a servant of the local gentry. I undertook my duties seriously, however, and responded whenever the hall and its occupants required the professional services of the police which, happily, happened on very few occasions.
One lunchtime, though, I found myself caught in the middle of an embarrassing saga involving Young Lord Ralph and Jessie Skinner, the wife of a moorland farmer. Jessie was the no-nonsense wife and business partner of Jack Skinner who very successfully farmed Lingberry Farm on the moors above Whemmelby. In their mid-fifties, the couple were renowned for their black-faced sheep, their Border collie dogs and their Herefordshire bulls, winning prizes at shows all over the north of England and further afield.
Jessie was a very kind woman, the sort who would give food to the elderly and poorly without wanting anything in return. She’d drive into Ashfordly or Malton or York with a passenger who had a dental appointment or needed to visit the optician and who could not find a suitable bus or could not afford a taxi; she’d give money to the needy, she’d go shopping for the elderly, she supported all the local charities and gave Christmas presents for the annual school party.
But Jessie could not tolerate fools — she remonstrated with vague and unworldly tourists, swore at townsfolk who let their dogs loose on her land, remonstrated with caravanners and campers who left litter behind, wrote letters to the press about ramblers leaving gates open and damaging fences, criticised politicians in the press and lambasted local councillors who fell short of her vision of professional competence. And yet she could be utterly charming when necessary.
In other words, Jessie was a formidable opponent who could make use of her innate cunning and her feminine charm. A short, stout woman, she had a head of thick grey hair, a round and surprisingly jolly face with red cheeks and smiling, almost mischievous eyes and she wore horn-rimmed spectacles which gave her an owlish appearance. Without any formal education, she was a very intelligent woman, a voracious reader and regular speaker at local women’s clubs and organisations. She never wore any kind of make-up and always dressed in very simple country clothes, things which were practical rather than fashionable such as brown shoes with low heels, aprons which covered everything and woollen jumpers. In short, she looked like a typical plain and rather simple countrywoman — which most definitely she was not.
Whenever I called during my regular rounds to sign the stock register or renew a firearms certificate, she would produce the inevitable slab of fruit cake, piece of Wensleydale cheese and mug of hot coffee made with fresh full-cream milk from her dairy.
Sometimes, we would chat about inconsequential things, with Jessie telling me about her latest battle with authority or a visiting fool and I would respond with matching tales from my own experience. On other occasions, she would reveal a remarkable knowledge of English literature, or a total understanding of the world situation or British politics which she’d gleaned from reading newspapers. We got on well, in spite of our age difference and the wide gaps in our professions.
Then, one hot September day, I found myself heading for Lingberry Farm just before lunchtime. I was running slightly later than intended due to having to deal with a reported theft of some garden gnomes in Elsinby, but I reckoned I could visit Lingberry Farm and complete my examination of the books before breaking for my own lunch. But by the time I arrived at Lingberry Farm, I was almost an hour behind schedule.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Mr Rhea?” she invited. Dinner was the name given to the midday meal in this part of Yorkshire. “It’s nearly ready; Jack will be in from the fields in ten minutes or so, so you might as well wait till he gets here and then eat with us. There’s more than enough for the three of us.”
This kind of spontaneous invitation was quite normal on moorland farms and so I accepted — it would have been churlish not to — and made a radio call from my van to Ashfordly Police Station, asking Alf Ventress to ring Mary to say I would not be home for lunch. Jessie’s husband, Jack, a big powerful man with a lovely sense of humour, arrived from his work in the fields as expected, removed his boots, changed out of his working clothes and washed his hands, then joined me.
We chatted as I signed the necessary books and then we adjourned to his spacious lounge as Jessie busied herself laying the table and serving the meal. As we talked, I heard a commotion outside. I looked out of the window and saw that several expensive cars and some Land Rovers had arrived. They had parked outside the front of the farmhouse, some of their vehicles blocking the view from the lounge window. There was a lot of raucous laughter followed by the slamming of car doors and then what appeared to be a small army of men in shooting tweeds heading for Jack’s kitchen door. I estimated there would be a dozen or so, all laughing and making loud and raucous remarks.
“Are you expecting company?” I asked, thinking that if he was, then I would be intruding. I would make an excuse and leave; I had no wish to be a gate-crasher at a farmhouse lunch.
“I am not,” he said with jutting jaw. “I’ve no idea who this lot is . . . come with me . . . I might need your uniform . . .”
As he rushed along the corridor to the kitchen, I followed almost at a trot and we arrived in the large, stone-floored kitchen just as Jessie was answering the door. As she opened it, a tall, thin man with a black moustache and very dark hair pushed his way rather brusquely past her and stood in the centre of the kitchen with his hands on his hips and his chin in the air. Although he was in his late twenties, his demeanour was that of a man who owned the farm. I recognised him — it was the Young Lord Ralph, but I said nothing at this stage. I was merely a guest.
“And who are you?” he asked Jessie, as his cronies crowded into the kitchen and stood around him, some grinning and some looking rather puzzled or even embarrassed. They were all about his age, all clad in shooting tweeds and all of the same or similar class as their spokesman.
“Jessie Skinner,” she said quietly. I could see she was speedily weighing up the rather baffling situation. “I’m Jack Skinner’s wife. This is my husband coming in now, with PC Rhea, the co
nstable from Aidensfield.”
“Of course, PC Rhea. A farm with the backing of the law . . .”
“And who are you?” she smiled. “And your friends?”
“You do not know?” He sounded mortified and displayed mock anguish at her lack of ability to recognise him.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said, without any show of anger or submissiveness. She was staging one of her charming acts.
“I am Ralph Knowscott-Hawke.” He displayed a mock smile. “Lord Knowscott-Hawke to be precise, the owner of Whemmelby Hall and estate. And these are my friends. Guests is perhaps the more accurate word, shooting guests to be even more precise.” And he chortled.
“And how can we help you, sir?” she smiled.
“We want you to provide us with lunch,” he said. “There are fourteen of us.”
“Lunch for fourteen?” She looked puzzled. Jack was about to say something but Jessie caught his eye and silenced him with a quick shake of her head. I noticed her reaction; the crowd of hooray-henrys did not.
I knew she was about to teach these men a quiet lesson in good manners.
“Yes, fourteen. A slap-up Yorkshire lunch please. How long would you say it will take to prepare it? It is ten minutes to twelve by my reckoning . . .”
“It takes at least an hour to prepare a lunch of that kind — and that would be rushing things. It would be a hasty meal, but I have the experience to cope with such demands at short notice,” she smiled at them. “I have already prepared lunch for my husband and PC Rhea, so while they are enjoying their meal, perhaps you could wait in our lounge. I do not have any good quality sherry in the house, I’m sorry, but you are welcome to what drinks we do have.”
“We have our own pre-lunch drinks in the cars. We know that working farms are not acquainted with the best drinks or fine wines. We have our own sherry, wine, malt whisky, champagne . . . do you mind if we bring it in? I know that farmers do not go in for this kind of liquid hospitality, but their meals are renowned . . . My friends and I will bring in our own aperitifs, so would you be so kind as to call us when you are ready?”
“Please use our lounge for your drinks,” she said sweetly. “Now, I shall show you the way, there are sufficient chairs for all and you can use the front door to reach your vehicles.”
Beaming like a welcoming hostess, Jessie led the way along the corridor and they followed like a herd of noisy young bullocks, chortling and laughing as they headed for the lounge. I heard Lordy say, “There you are, it’s as simple as that . . . these people know their place . . .”
When she had directed them to the room, Jessie unlocked the front door and allowed it to stand open so they could fetch and carry their own drinks with the minimum of trouble. Then she closed the interior doors and returned to the kitchen.
“What’s all that about?” Jack asked when she smiled at him.
“They expect me to provide lunch,” she said.
“I can see that, but why?” He spread his hands in a gesture of bafflement. “Why you? And why such short notice? You weren’t told in advance, were you?”
“No, but Young Lordy obviously thinks this farm belongs to Knowscott-Hawke’s Whemmelby Estate,” she smiled. “He thinks we are his tenants.”
“And you’re not?” I smiled.
“No, we are not. I own this place, lock, stock and barrel,” said Jack. “I owe His Lordship nothing and he doesn’t own me.”
“So I thought it was time to teach Lordy a modest lesson in front of his guests,” said Jessie. “That is what I am doing. You’ll note that I did not say I would prepare a lunch for them.”
Jack grinned at this response, but I must admit I did not know what was going on. Jack recognised my ignorance of local customs and decided to enlighten me as he pointed to a chair at the table. “Sit down, Nick, and I’ll tell you.”
He told me that it was a condition of the tenancy of all Whemmelby Estate’s moorland farms that, should the estate owner so decide, the tenant farmer and his wife should prepare, quite free of charge, a meal for him and his guests provided the farmer’s wife in question was given reasonable notice.
The definition of ‘reasonable’ was open to question, but invariably when such a lunch was required, those guests were members of a shooting party out on the moors for a whole day’s sport when a trek back to the mansion for lunch might take hours. To cope with such eventualities, the organiser of the shooting party selected a convenient farm on the moors and demanded lunch from the tenant’s wife.
Jessie then said, “Judging by their dress and vehicles, these people are a shooting party out on the moors for a day’s sport, and Young Lordy has decided to impress his friends by showing how he can dictate to us while expecting hospitality from the farmers of the North York Moors. I’ll bet he’s been boasting of the power he exerts over the rustic natives.”
“So you’re not going to prepare lunch for them?” I asked.
“No, of course not,” she smiled. “I’m going to let them wait in there for an hour while we have our lunch, and at one o’clock, I shall break the bad news to him.”
“Will you need police protection?” I smiled.
“I doubt it. But by then, of course, it will be too late to go anywhere else . . .”
“But there will be some unfortunate tenant farmer’s wife somewhere nearby, won’t there?” I suggested. “Won’t he go and bully the wife into doing lunch, even if it won’t be ready until the middle of the afternoon?”
“He’s new to this idea, Nick. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if this was his first attempt to follow in these particular footsteps of his ancestors. His father didn’t often demand this kind of service from his tenants — if he wanted a lunch for his shooting parties, he would contact a farmer’s wife well in advance — a week or more — and he would pay for the meals as well. He was a nice old man — even though the tenancy agreements said he could have a free meal, he never abused the privilege. Anyway, the farmers’ wives hereabouts are well aware of the lack of consideration by Young Lordy — even when he was in his teens he would take his pals out for a day on the moors and try to get a free meal.”
“The agreement extended to all the family then, not just the Lord of the Manor?” I said.
“Yes, but the ladies of the moorland farms around here are not stupid, Nick. We all get together you know, from time to time, and I can tell you that when Young Lordy has guests for a day’s shooting, the ladies get to know about it in advance and all of them contrive to be out of the house over the lunch period. Now he’s the lord, though, it seems he’s going to continue the custom and there’s no doubt he thinks he has scored today . . .”
“You’d think he would learn a lesson if he’s been greeted by lots of empty houses!” I said.
“His sort never learn, Nick. But today, he will go hungry. Now, you enjoy your meal before the fun begins!”
We did enjoy our lunch and although it began shortly after twelve, it was almost one o’clock, by the time we finished. Jack said he had to get back to his work in the fields, I said I had to resume my patrol and Jessie said she had to deal with the fourteen shooting men in her lounge.
Even as the grandfather clock in her hall was striking one, she marched along to the lounge and opened the door to be greeted by a huge cheer from the assembled men. Jack and I waited in the kitchen; we could hear everything that was said and the braying voice of Lordy sounded above the babble of chatter.
“Ah, Mrs Skinner. How nice to see you. Lunch is served, is it?”
“No,” she said. “Lunch is not served, Your Lordship. And it will not be served in this house. Not to you or your party. You will recall that I did not promise to make lunch for you.”
Her strong voice carried above the incessant chatter and everyone became silent as the full import of her words penetrated their minds. There was, quite literally, a stunned silence as the audacity of this woman made its impact upon them; they all looked at Lord Ralph in anticipation of his
reaction.
“This is intolerable, Mrs Skinner!” he shouted. “You know as well as I that it is a condition of your tenancy that you shall provide lunch to me and my guests given reasonable notice . . .”
“I am very aware of that condition, sir, but it does not apply to me.”
“And why are you exempt, might I ask?”
“Because I am not one of your tenants, Lord Knowscott-Hawke. This farm belongs to me and my husband, it is our property: it is not part of your estate.”
Behind him, someone chuckled, but Ralph spluttered, “But . . . but . . . you allowed us in to have our aperitifs and led us to believe we were to have lunch . . .”
“You thought you were going to have lunch. I did not make any such offer but I am very happy to have guests in my house, even if they are uninvited and rude at times. Your friends were not to know of your mistake, Lord Ralph, and I have no wish to be rude to them. So yes, you were welcome to drink your aperitifs in the comfort of my home. But you cannot and should not demand a meal from me.”
“You silly buffer!” Someone from the crowd turned on their host. “Ralph, you’ve done it again . . . God, when will you get things right! Come along, gentlemen, it looks as if we shall have to go hungry today.”
They filed out of the Lingberry Farmhouse, now all silent; they had not had too much to drink because it would have spoiled their aim, and one of them halted in front of Jessie.
“I am sorry about this, Mrs Skinner. Ralph can be such a bloody fool at times . . . thank you for dealing with him in such an effective way.”
“I hope he won’t go around demanding meals from his tenants,” she responded. “Most of them are much more hard-working than him, and he’s got more money than they have. He needs to be taught a lesson.”
“We’ll make sure he learns from this experience,” said the fellow. “But, sadly, he’s not the sort who learns easily!”
CONSTABLE IN THE FARMYARD a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 16
