I could see that he was genuinely distressed and as I was pondering the most suitable method of attempting a rescue, Steve Barton was already taking photographs of the scenario, including the swimming Alfred and his tin. After a short debate, it seemed the most simple solution would be to create a loop at the end of the rope, along with a knot which would permit the loop to be tightened. The loop could then be lowered into the water and if Alfred could be persuaded to swim through it so that it was around his shoulders and behind his front legs, we could haul rapidly upon it and drag him up the side of the pit. Relying on the knowledge of knots I had gained in the Boy Scouts, I fashioned a large loop, secured by a round turn and two half hitches, at the end of our rope. The round turn and two half hitches would enable the noose to be tightened when required. Reaching out as far as I dare over the reeking water, I lowered the loop as Claude tried to coax Alfred to swim into it but the rope floated on the top.
There was so much floating rubbish that the rope could not sink (it would probably have floated on the top anyway) and thus the dog could not swim through the loop. Alfred’s brisk front leg action simply swept the loop aside as he ploughed relentlessly onwards. We thought about lashing a brick to the loop so that it would sink sufficiently for the dog to swim through it, but decided the weight would cause the loop to close up. Try as we might, we could not sink the rope into the effluvium in a way that enabled Alfred to swim into our carefully crafted loop, so I came up with another idea.
“If I climb along one of those branches,” — I indicated the most sturdy of the hawthorns — “I could hold the rope in a huge loop, as wide as my arms. If we weighted it at the bottom to make two corners from it, they would sink into the water as deep as necessary and I’m sure we could persuade Alfred to swim into it. I could then tighten the rope around his body and all of us could haul him out.”
With a twig, I drew a picture in the dust on the ground and Claude saw my logic. “Are you sure that branch’ll bear your weight?” he expressed some concern at my plan. “Mebbe I should try it? It is my dog.”
“I’m younger than you, Claude,” I heard myself say. “More agile too, I’d guess. If I fasten myself to the rope, with one end tied to the back axle of the car, I could be hauled out myself, if I fall in. And I can swim!”
And so the plan was put into operation. Placing my uniform cap on the ground, I climbed over the fence rather gingerly and stood on the rim of the pit, testing the strength of the thick hawthorn branch with my foot.
It did not give; it seemed to be quite safe, and the tree’s large trunk emerged from the earth beneath the fence. That tree had been there for years; it was surely as safe as anything could be. We drew Blaketon’s car as close as possible to the fence and I lashed one end of the rope around the back axle, using a fisherman’s knot. Then, with the other end, I made a massive loop and found a couple of small stones which I lashed to the rope with bits of string from Claude’s pocket. If I lifted the rope with each of my hands spread to their full width, it formed a square with the stones at the bottom. This was my dog-saver; I tested the movement of the round turn and two half hitches and found it did slide quite freely. I hoped the dampness would not frustrate my sliding knot. Thus, if I went out on to the branch, lowered my square loop into the water as far as possible and persuaded Alfred to swim into it, I could pull on the rope and hopefully catch him. If things worked as I hoped, the noose would tighten and Alfred could be lifted out.
Like so many schemes of similar doubtful practicality, the only way this could be tested was to put it into action. If I fell into the water, the rope would be my salvation. I had forgotten about the cameraman clicking away as I tested the security of the ropes attachment to the car and ventured out on to the limb of the tree. I bounced up and down upon it once or twice, clutching the rope in case it snapped, but it was quite solid. Scratching my face with the spikes of the hawthorn,
I inched outwards, moving steadily further and further above the malodorous surface of the water as Alfred continued to swim beneath me, now watching me with some interest.
So far so good.
My confidence was now increasing as I found myself directly above Alfred’s circular marathon swimming route. I stood upright and prepared the rope, extending my arms so that my proposed loop would be as wide as my reach. I held a part in each hand, then lowered my large loop gradually into the water. The stones helped the rope to sink until it was about two feet below the surface, enough to accommodate Alfred’s paddling paws. Thus I had formed a rough kind of square, a frame of rope for Alfred to swim into. And he did. As his front paddling paws crossed the rope beneath the water, Claude slowed his progress with a call of his name, and at that instant, I hauled on the rope. I was delighted when it slipped behind his front legs and then the knot began to slide along the rope, tightening rapidly . . . Alfred began to struggle as he felt the rope beneath him, but he was too late to escape. The rope was in position around his belly and shoulders, neatly behind his front legs. I’d got him! He’d not be strangled as we hauled him from the pit.
With surprising ease, I found the rope tightened around his thin body but he began to thrash about in the water, sending up a suffocating pong as he stirred up yet more of that rancid surface. But he could not escape. We’d caught him so that he could be made free. He was still in the water, however; the next task would be to lift him out.
And that’s when the problems started. As I took his weight upon the rope, there was an ominous crack and the tip of the hawthorn branch suddenly sank; it had fractured close to the trunk of the tree. The extra weight of the wet dog had been enough to break it.
It did not snap completely off, but fractured sufficiently for the part upon which I was standing to dip towards the water. And I fell headlong off it, right into the mess below.
It is difficult to recall precisely what happened next but I did have the presence of mind to hang on to the rope; suddenly, I was thrashing about among a foul-smelling mess with Alfred doing likewise near my head to the shouts of alarm and encouragement from the audience at the rim of the pit. Happily, the rope was secured to the back axle of Blaketon’s car and instinctively, I knew that if I could hang on I could clamber up the rope to safety. At this stage, I had no idea whether or not the dog was still within the loop I had so carefully prepared for him, but after I allowed myself to calm down and spit out the foul-tasting and evil-smelling brew which had gone into my mouth, I began to haul on the rope. I found myself moving through the mess towards the wall of the pit, hauling myself forward hand over hand; the broken branch of the hawthorn was above me and I was able to seize it with my other hand. Still anchored to the tree but moving at my touch, I managed to utilise the branch to drag myself close to the wall. In spite of the slipperiness of the moss and grime which covered the stones, there were small crevices which formed toeholds.
And so, hauling on the rope now with both hands and using my feet in what toeholds I could find, I slowly climbed up until Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, Steve and Jane helped me over the rim, panting, exhausted and reeking of unimaginably bad smells.
As I lay for a few moments to gather my breath and to breathe in the beautiful fresh moorland air, I heard sounds below, whimpering and whining, and realised that Alfred was now being dragged from the depths by Claude. The rope was hurting him, but he could not free himself as he was hauled to the surface. And all of this was being photographed by Steve Barton and reported by Jane Cooper. As the dog was brought to the rim, I got to my feet, with gallons of foul water pouring out of my uniform. I was thoroughly soaked and completely smothered in the most evil-smelling effluvium — and so was Alfred.
“Mr Rhea,” — there were tears in Claude’s eyes — “I don’t know how to thank you, honest I don’t . . . I mean, that took courage . . .”
“Forget it, Claude,” I said. “I know you’d do the same for me. Now, let’s get home, I want to get cleaned up!”
“And I might give Alfred a bath, he doe
s stink, doesn’t he?”
“He does, rather,” and I uttered the understatement of the year.
At this stage, Alfred shook himself vigorously so that a fine spray of the gunge enveloped us all, most of it landing on my cap which I had thoughtfully discarded.
“That was wonderful, Nick,” beamed Jane. “Really, we couldn’t have asked for anything better. Steve’s got some wonderful pictures.”
“Smashing,” chuckled the photographer. “You and that dog down there . . . brilliant.”
“Well, if you can bear with me while I go home and get changed, we can continue,” I advised them.
“There’s no need, not on our behalf,” said Jane. “I’ve got enough here for a wonderful feature. Steve and I will leave you now; we can get to work on the feature and you’ll need to get cleaned and put your feet up . . .”
I didn’t say that my day’s duty was not yet over. It was only 3.30 and I had a further two and a half hours of patrolling to complete before ending my shift, but I realised I could not hope to provide them with another story like this one. Jane got a quote from Claude, praising the constabulary for saving his best friend from a smelly death, and they left in Steve’s Mini car, saying they’d collect Jane’s Triumph Herald from Ashfordly Police Station en route.
As they left, Claude shouted, “Come on, Constable, my dog’s starting to shiver after that cold bath,” and he hurried over to Blaketon’s car. Before I could stop him, he’d opened the passenger door, calling to Alfred, “In you get, son!”
Alfred leapt on to the passenger seat, dripping filth all over, then leapt into the rear, shook himself again and lay down; there was putrescent smelling muck and water everywhere and when I joined them, I added to the general abomination which was now Sergeant Blaketon’s car. Claude Jeremiah was the cleanest and purest-scented living thing in that car at that moment, something I suspect Sergeant Blaketon would never believe. But I had no choice about the use of the car — it was the only way to get home for my bath.
Then as I started to drive away from the pit shaft, Sergeant Blaketon arrived in my Minivan, smart and proud, anxious to see what I had been doing and wondering how I was coping with the Press. He pulled up just inside the field.
“All finished, is it?” he asked, climbing out. “I saw them going down the lane. Nice girl, that editor.”
“Trust you to get here when it’s all over!” grinned Claude Jeremiah Greengrass from the passenger seat. “That’s not the way to get your name in the papers. Sergeant Blaketon.”
“What are you doing here, Greengrass? Has he been arrested, Rhea? If not, why not?”
I got out of the car to address him but before I could explain things, he cried, “My God, Rhea, what’s this? You’re soaked . . . and that foul smell . . . Greengrass! Is it your socks? Or is it just you! I’d recognise that smell anywhere! Rhea, what in the name of the great god Beelzebub has been going on? Is that Greengrass’s dog, in my car? Messing up my clean leather. God, the stench is dreadful . . .”
“Well, Sergeant, it’s like this . . .”
“And just look at that mess!” He went closer to peer into his once-pristine vehicle, then held his nose as his eyes began to water. “God Almighty, Rhea! Have you been carrying manure in my car? It’s like a muck cart in there. You’ll clean that leather until it shines, Rhea, you understand? Shines, without any trace of a smell. And I never thought I would see the day when Greengrass and his dog, and a pit shaft full of excrement and farmyard manure, were in my car, all at the same time . . . that’s all I need . . .”
“Sorry, Sergeant, but it was like this . . .” I tried again.
“Did that reporter witness this fiasco?” was his next question.
I could see the frown of absolute dismay beginning to appear on his face.
“Yes, she did, and she got an interview with Claude.”
“And that photographer? Did he picture all this?”
I nodded.
“And did you say she interviewed Greengrass? She actually got close enough to that smelly heap of humanity to talk to him? Why would anyone want to interview him, Rhea? Tell me that!”
“This constable saved my dog’s life, I’ll have you know.” Claude was now out of the car and beaming at Blaketon. “He deserves a big pat on the back, a medal even, not a bollocking from you! You wait till you see the papers, Blaketon, and all them photographs, then you’ll know what it’s like to dive into a stinking pit of slime to rescue a dog as loving and faithful as my Alfred.”
“If you’d told me it was Greengrass’s dog you were going to rescue, I’d have told you not to bother . . . So what happened to you, Rhea?”
“I fell in,” I started to explain.
“Fell in? And who rescued you? Greengrass?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. He helped to get me out.”
“And you mean to tell me those journalists witnessed one of my constables being rescued by that man Greengrass, and they got pictures of that as well?”
“Well, I suppose so, Sergeant . . .”
“I can’t trust you to do a proper job, can I, Rhea?” I had the distinct impression he was not very pleased with the outcome of my actions. “I should have given this job to Ventress. Right, go home and get cleaned up, clean my car as best you can, then come down to my office in a fresh-smelling uniform. I want a full explanation and a written report about this fiasco, every bit of it!”
“Yes, Sergeant,” I said meekly.
* * *
Fortunately, the article, when it appeared a week later, was highly complimentary and made my efforts appear to be far more glamorous and daring than they really were.
The photograph of the rescue depicted me in the water clutching the rope with one hand and Alfred with the other, and the article did embrace the other aspects of my work. As a result, I got several letters of appreciation from animal charities, plus one from the chief constable and a crate of beer from Claude Jeremiah Greengrass.
Later, a typed order signed by Sergeant Blaketon was placed on the internal noticeboard. It said, “Under no circumstances will dirty dogs be allowed to travel in police vehicles based at Ashfordly Police Station.”
I refrained from making any comment about that.
* * *
There was another curious manifestation of the Press reportage in Ashfordly, one which caused the constables of that police station to chuckle to themselves at the expense of Sergeant Blaketon. It came in the form of a district correspondent’s supposedly secret adoration of our sergeant.
There is little doubt the lady in question had a gargantuan crush on our worthy leader, a crush that could be likened to a teenager’s hero worship. She was called Mildred Levington. Her husband was a retired solicitor and they lived in a neat bungalow on the edge of Ashfordly where Mr Levington’s retirement enabled him to spend more time growing prize chrysanthemums and organising flower shows.
Mildred, who had worked as a clerk for a timber yard, had also retired but she lacked her husband’s enthusiasm for flowers and flower shows. I suspect she felt that Hubert might spend more time with her in retirement, visiting places, eating out and exploring the countryside of Britain. But he didn’t; he neglected her in favour of his floral passions. Alone for much of the time and in her early sixties, Mildred was anxious to make her retirement years as useful and as interesting as possible; she wanted to fruitfully occupy her ample spare time while, ideally, meeting interesting people and getting involved with the life of the town.
The answer to her desires came in the form of an advertisement in the Ashfordly Gazette. It announced the paper was seeking a district correspondent and after studying the requirements of the job, Mildred considered it an excellent means of getting involved with community matters and at the same time earning a few pounds.
In simple terms, her role would be to look out for and then report very local news. It supplemented the work of the resident professional reporters and entailed coverage of events like Mr Levin
gton’s flower shows along with whist drives, funerals, parish council meetings, infant school sports days and a whole range of other local meetings, functions and occurrences.
Mildred applied for the post and was successful; she would be paid a few pence per line of published news and the deadline was 10 a.m. each Wednesday morning. In time, it seemed that most of Mildred’s work would consist of the accurate reproduction of elongated lists of names of people who had won boxes of chocolates, rosettes or bottles of sherry or cheap wine in raffles or at tombola, or who were mourners at funerals.
But she did get around the town, she did meet people and she did get invited to all kinds of functions, chiefly so that the organisers would get their names in the paper. As a consequence, she typed long lists of names of people who had won raffles or attended funerals and these were published in the weekly ‘local news’ columns. If this was hardly the stuff of national newspaper headlines, there was a serious and very sound financial purpose behind those never-ending lists of names. Apart from earning Mildred some lineage money, the fact that a person’s name appeared in the newspaper meant that person would rush out and buy a copy. It was an ideal way of increasing sales. This, therefore, was Mildred’s new job and there is no doubt that sales of the Gazette soared in Ashfordly thanks to her listing of many names.
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 5
