Form A was just one small part of the entire system, but as a whole, the impact of the rules and regulations did appear successful. For example, swine fever had practically been eliminated, sheep-dipping had virtually abolished sheep scab and strict import regulations kept rabies at bay. I never did know of a horse which caught epizootic lymphangitis and the last outbreak of pleuropneumonia was in 1898. We knew, therefore, that a major outbreak of a serious and contagious animal disease was very unlikely, and it’s fair to say there were several false alarms, albeit with good intent. No chances were taken. Every suspicion was treated with the utmost care and attention.
In our county (the North Riding of Yorkshire), all police officers were appointed Inspectors under the Diseases of Animals Act; in some counties, only sergeants and those with higher rank carried this responsibility and in some city areas, there might be just one such designated inspector within a police force. In a large rural area, it made sense for all officers to have the powers thus conferred upon him or her and this meant that in addition to normal criminal law and police procedures, we had to be fully conversant with the statutes and procedures relating to this huge and at times complex subject.
In some areas, members of the Ministry of Agriculture’s staff carried out these duties and during my time at Aidensfield, there was a growing feeling that all such work should be carried out by civilian inspectors. The authorities felt that this aspect of police work should be gradually phased out. Both the police and the farmers greeted this possible change with mixed feelings. For the police, it gave them a marvellous insight into rural life and helped them perform their wide range of other duties, while the farmers welcomed a uniform presence rather than a plainclothes person wandering about their premises, especially in times of strife.
It was during these slow but relentless changes that the country suffered a huge and devastating outbreak of foot and mouth disease. The awful effects of it filtered down to Reg Lumley’s herd at West Gill Farm, Aidensfield.
I learned of the outbreak in October through the newspapers. A report said that foot and mouth disease had been confirmed at Oswestry in Shropshire, and that the police were faced with the task of tracing 2,500 animals which had been sold in the local market shortly before the disease had been discovered. It was a huge task; the cattle could be anywhere in the United Kingdom and every one of them could be carrying the virus. The problem was that the licensing system was not fool proof; bad writing on licences; missing ear-tag numbers which are so vital in the positive identification of a particular beast; and sheer carelessness in record keeping, meant that many cattle would never be traced. They could pass on the disease.
During an epidemic, a contact animal was often identified only when a new outbreak occurred many miles from the point of sale. Meanwhile, it had infected other animals, some of which had been moved away, and so the hunt continued. Foot and mouth disease spreads so rapidly that within five days of that original outbreak, fourteen English counties were declared Controlled Areas. Markets were prohibited and farmers guarded their farm entrances, allowing no one to enter unless their clothing and feet were disinfected.
This huge, fast spreading outbreak was one of the few occasions when members of the general public were inconvenienced. Its awful impact and consequences were such that it pricked the communal conscience of the public as never before. For probably the first time, the great British public knew something of the drama being played out on the farms of their countryside.
At Leeds and Bradford Airport, for example, passengers bound for Ireland had to walk over disinfected mats; the RAC Rally was cancelled; two hundred members of the Second Battalion of the Royal Anglian Regiment were drafted in to fight the outbreak near Shrewsbury; National Hunt racing was called off; the import of fruit, nuts and fresh meat was restricted on the Isle of Man; Christmas trees became scarce due to the restrictions imposed on movements to and from land, and farmers even had to get permission to vote in a by-election. All dogs within five miles of an infected place had to be confined and even poultry movements were restricted.
300 extra veterinary surgeons were drafted in, along with 2,500 ancillary workers; there were fourteen control centres in the country and everyone involved worked fifteen hours per day. All police leave was cancelled and the troops were called in to help with many of the heavy tasks. Burial of the slaughtered animals was one example where military hardware and skills proved most useful.
One paper summed it up like this: “Two brothers came home to find a cow frothing at the mouth. They shut themselves and their families inside the house. Men from the Ministry came to slaughter and bury; the farm was quarantined and red and white ‘Keep Out’ notices were erected around the boundaries. Policemen arrived and moved into a hut near the farm gate to stop visitors; the local market was cancelled and a pin was stuck in a map at the Foot and Mouth Control Headquarters.”
The fear generated by this outbreak can scarcely be imagined; the far-reaching consequences of the disease caused every farmer to barricade himself in his farm and to take every possible precaution to safeguard his own herd. And it was during this atmosphere that I got a call from Reg Lumley.
“Can thoo come, Mr Rhea?” he sounded almost in tears.
“What’s up, Reg?” I felt that I needn’t have asked.
“Yan o’ my coos is frothing,” he said.
“Oh my God!”
My heart sank; it looked as if we had foot and mouth in this area, in Aidensfield. I could not comprehend the consequences.
“I’ll call the Ministry,” I told him. “I won’t come down to the farm, I might pick up the disease on my feet. Can you arrange a system of disinfectant at the gate, Reg? A bath or summat will do for folks to walk through. Make folks paddle through it going in and out.”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “Ah’ve been preparing, just in case. Ah’ve got a load of disinfectant and some waterproofs . . . Ah’ll see to t’ gate; Ah’ll chain it up to keep traffic out.”
Over the past weeks, as the disease had spread across the nation, I had been issued with some red and white ‘Keep Out’ posters and so, for the first time during my duties at Aidensfield, I found myself typing out Form A. It had Reg Lumley’s name and address on it, and where it asked for the name of the suspected premises, I typed ‘The whole of the premises of West Gill Farm, Aidensfield.’
As force procedure demanded, I compiled a telegram for transmission to the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food (Animal Health Division) at Tolworth, Surbiton, Surrey. It said, in the jargon of the time, ‘Important. Anhealth, Surbiton, Telex. Suspected foot and mouth disease. Reginald Lumley, West Gill Farm, Aidensfield, near York. N.R. Police, Aidensfield.’
Having dispatched this, I next telephoned the local office of that organisation and asked for the Divisional Veterinary Inspector. The Ministry now had vets working all over the county but I asked them to send one to Reg’s farm; I then called the County Medical Officer’s department and notified them, after which I rang my own Force Headquarters and finally Sergeant Blaketon at Ashfordly.
He asked me what I’d done and I told him; I assured him I’d done everything necessary and that Reg was already providing disinfectant at his farm entrance. I explained that I was on my way to the farm within the next few minutes with my ‘Keep Out’ notices and to serve Form A upon poor old Reg to isolate his premises. I knew he would have quarantined his own farm, but the official wheels must turn.
I then put on my rubber leggings, a long waterproof mackintosh and Wellington boots. Dressed like this, I decided to walk the half-mile or so, for in this type of urgency we were no longer thinking in terms of minutes or seconds. Everything had come to a standstill and would remain so until the Ministry’s vets had examined the suspect cow or cows. With my notices under my arm, and Reg’s Form A in a buff envelope, I made my harrowing journey along the lane.
By the time I arrived at West Gill Farm, Reg was already in position at his gate. Dressed in oilskins and
Wellington boots, he was standing guard with a shotgun in his hand. A large zinc bath full of pale yellow fluid stood just inside the gate. A yard brush lay beside it and a tractor and trailer were parked nearby.
“Now, Reg,” I said.
“Noo then, Mr Rhea. Got all t’ papers, hast tha?” His face was sad and drawn, and I knew I must be careful how I spoke to him. I must not be flippant at all, for farmers treat their cows like old friends. I knew he was on the verge of breaking into tears as he nodded towards the roll of notices under my arm.
“‘Keep Out’” signs,” I told him. “I’ll stick ’em up for you, on all your entrances. This makes all entrances forbidden areas, Reg. This is the only one that leads down to the house and buildings, isn’t it?”
“Aye, t’others are just gates into my fields.”
“Good, well, I won’t come through the gate. I’ll do this job first — I’ve got some drawing-pins and string. I’ll fix ’em on all the roadside trees and gateposts.”
“Thanks. Ah’ve already had two daft townies trying to walk their dog down my road. Ah told ’em it was an infected spot, but they didn’t understand. They reckoned it was a public footpath down to t’ pond, so Ah said it was out o’ bounds now and anyrooad anybody coming in would have to paddle through that bath o’ stuff. They didn’t like that, nut wi’ their townie shoes on. That’s why Ah fetched my gun — folks don’t argue wi’ that, Mr Rhea. That lot sharp cleared off then an’ Ah told ’em foot and mouth was catching for humans, an’ all. It mebbe is, is it?”
“I’m not sure,” I had to admit. “I know anthrax can be caught by people.”
“Aye, well, it’s matterless now. You go and stick them signs up and Ah’ll stop folks tramping down my lane. You’ll ’ave called in t’ Ministry vets, have you?”
“I have, and they’ll be here as soon as possible. It might be a while, they’ve other suspected outbreaks.” I could see moisture in his eyes. His banter had concealed his genuine feelings, I felt, but now he would be alone once again with his thoughts. Before I left, I handed him his Form A, and then turned away to post the notices on his various entrances, eight in total. He was a sad and lonely figure as he waited with his gun in his hands, guarding his gate against ordinary people and a virulent disease. As I left, he opened my envelope, read the contents of the Form A and stuffed it into his pocket.
When I returned about forty minutes later, he was still there, pacing up and down as he looked out for the ominous approach of the vet’s car.
“You go down to the house, Reg, I’ll wait here,” I offered.
“Nay, lad,” he spoke softly. “Ah couldn’t. T’ wife and our lad are so upset . . . they’d only upset me. Ah’d allus be wanting to look in on me cows . . .”
“It’s not confirmed,” I tried to sound optimistic. “It could be a false alarm.”
He shook his head. “Nay, Ah doubt it. It’s all around is that disease; somehow, yan o’ my cows ’as picked it up . . . it’s t’ end, Mr Rhea . . . t’ end . . . twenty years work . . . all for nowt . . .”
“Don’t upset yourself,” I did not want to see this stalwart, tough farmer reduced to self-pity or tears, but he needed to talk to somebody. I happened to be that somebody; we were alone at the gate in our ungainly protective clothing, and we could look down the long straight track which led across his fields and into his compact clutch of farm buildings.
“Twenty years,” he repeated, almost to himself. I looked at him. A sturdy Yorkshireman, turned fifty I guessed; he had the round, weathered face of his profession, a face which had seen little else but long hours and hard work over those years. But that work had produced some pride, too, family pride I guessed.
“Twenty years, it’s takken me to build that herd. Pedigree Friesians, they are. Eighty milkers, Ah’ve got. Eighty and Ah started wi’ nowt.”
I glanced at the tall post which stood beside his main gate; it bore a small black and white sign which proclaimed that this was the home of the West Gill Farm Herd of Pedigree British Friesians.
“Ah did it for t’ lad, for our Ted. Ah needed summat to pass on, Mr Rhea. He’s grown up wi’ them Friesians and knows ’em like they was bairns, Mr Rhea. We all do, every one on ’em. Me an’ all, and t’ wife. Seen ’em come along from calves, most of ’em. Bought some and bred some; fussed over ’em, made sure they were just right. Bedded ’em down at night, seen to ’em when they were badly . . . best Friesians for miles, they are.”
He was staring into the distance as he talked, not looking at me and not looking down upon his farm in the shallow valley. He was gazing beyond all that, reminiscing and pouring out his heart in his own simple way.
“And now it’s all gone . . . they’ll be killed, all of ’em . . . put down like rats. Ah’ve been so careful, Mr Rhea, with foot and mouth about, taking care, watching where Ah bought things, where Ah went, disinfecting . . .”
“Don’t,” I said uselessly. “You’re only making things worse. It might be a false alarm . . .”
I tried to give him a little hope.
“Nay, Ah knows foot and mouth when Ah sees it. Yon awd cow ’as it, there’s nowt so sure . . .”
He went on to say how, as a young farmer, he had recognised the potential in a herd of Friesians; he’d seen them as ideal cattle for his plans, cattle which would produce first-class milk. They were useful beef animals too. So years ago, he decided to build himself a pedigree dairy herd, his own very special effort. And his idea was to introduce his only son, Ted, to the skills of dairy farming so that he, in turn, would continue with this herd. He wanted Ted to improve and expand it.
“Ah’d got all soorts of ideas in me head, Mr Rhea. Ah was gahin ti keep better records of ’em all, go for bigger milk yields an’ that . . .”
It was good to hear him talking and I allowed him to ramble on, sometimes asking what I thought was a sensible question. I learned a good deal about Friesians that afternoon, but it also taught me enough about foot and mouth disease to make me realise the end had come. I didn’t hold out much hope for his herd now, not after listening to his knowledgeable description of the disease and its drastic effects.
It would be over an hour later when a small car eased to a halt on the verge near the gate. A tall young man in a smart lovat-green suit climbed out and announced that he was Alan Porrit, a vet from the Ministry of Agriculture. After shaking hands and expressing his sorrow at the awful news, he announced his approval of our immediate actions and donned his own waterproofs.
After swilling himself in the disinfectant, he said, “Come along, Mr Lumley. Show me where to go.”
“Nay,” said Reg. “Ah can’t. Ah just can’t go down there. Not now . . . you go and get it ovvered with.”
Tears welled in his eyes and he rubbed them roughly with his fist.
“Ah’m being right daft and sentimental, but you go. Ah can’t . . .”
“I think you should, Reg,” I said. “You’ll be needed down there. I’ll stay here.”
After some gentle persuasion from us both, Reg joined the vet and I watched them walk into the distance. Their sorry figures seemed to diminish as they approached the farm, and then, as they reached the paths which divided one towards the byre and the other to the house, they halted.
From my vantage point on the lane, I could see them in deep conversation, then Reg began to shake his head. I saw him turn and walk towards his house. He left the vet standing alone. The vet turned on his heels and strode purposefully towards the byre which contained the suspect cattle.
As Reg approached the back door of his house, his hands were over his face. He was sobbing like a child. Someone inside opened the door; he went in and the door closed behind him.
That epidemic of foot and mouth disease cost the country over £200 million. No one knows how much it cost Reg Lumley.
Chapter 9
Is it, in heav’n, a crime to love too well?
ALEXANDER POPE, 1688—1744
In the great and pleasant ru
ral landscape which surrounded Aidensfield during my time there, serious crime was practically unknown. Certainly, there were many minor thefts, most of which were never officially reported, and I’m sure there were motoring offences which never came to my notice. Other breaches of the law, such as drinking late in the country pubs or petty acts of damage or vandalism were dealt with in the spirit of the law rather than by the letter of the law. A quiet word in the right ear usually prevented further trouble.
It would be wrong to claim that Aidensfield and district was totally free from crime. It was not; every so often, an outbreak of criminal activity would occur, usually of the kind described as petty damage, theft or the unauthorised borrowing of cars. There were some housebreakings, shop-breakings and poaching, and if we suffered three crimes in the district during a month, the local papers described it as a crime wave.
These waves were very tiny, therefore, more like ripples on a village pond than the kind of waves that swamp ocean liners. Nonetheless, they did cause distress to the victims and this in turn caused anxiety among the villagers. From my point of view, these crimes, minor though they were, did involve my colleagues and me with extra duties. There were observations, report writing and court appearances, but I did not mind. In fact, I enjoyed the experiences they provided, albeit with deep concern for the victims, for the investigation of crime is fascinating. To investigate and detect crime is probably one of the major reasons for anyone joining the police service.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 32
