Before asking the purpose of my visit, the little fat lady busied herself with warming the tea-pot, then disappeared into the pantry, where she piled a plate full of cakes, buns and cheese. She set it all before me on the plain, scrubbed wooden table, one end of which she was utilizing for her baking. She produced some milk in a metal can and poured it into a mug. Only then did she pour the water onto the tea leaves, and as the tea brewed, she continued with her baking as she talked to me. She was in fact making a ‘tatie and onion pie, which she thrust into the oven. Then she settled beside me.
‘That’s for his dinner. Now then, what can I do for you?’ Her smile revealed those awful gaps in her teeth. ‘It’s nice to ’ave a visitor, Mr Rhea.’
‘Are you Mrs Potter?’ I asked.
‘Aye, that’s me. Our Albert’s out at work. Was it him you wanted?’
‘Not particularly,’ I answered, and then explained the purpose of my call, giving her a brief description of the missing Mr Milner. She listened, nodding from time to time.
‘Aye, a chap like yon did pop in last night. He was fit and well, and we sent him on his way. They do come wandering this way,’ she said slowly. ‘They see yon bridge over t’gill and think it’s part of t’main route. Some are that tired, they’re walking in their sleep and just need an hour or two’s rest. Ah’ve slept ’em in ’ere on bad nights, but yon middle-aged feller didn’t stay. We gave him a drink and off he went. Singing tiv himself, he was. ‘The Old Rugged Cross’, I reckon it was supposed to be. He was in good fettle, Mr Rhea, I’ll say that, and said he was heading for Ashfordly.’
‘Thanks. I can check further down the dale. But if he does come back, ask him to get in touch with his son or the police at Ashfordly. He’s overdue and we are just a bit worried about him.’
‘Some daft folks treat these moors as if they’re parks and gardens,’ she said. ‘They need respect, these moors, eh?’
‘They do,’ I agreed, and now she was pouring my mug of tea. She pushed the plate of cakes towards me.
I stayed longer than I should have, for she provided me with a fascinating account of her life at this remote place.
Her husband, Albert, had once farmed this patch of land, rearing sheep and Highland cattle, but as he was now nearing sixty-five, with no pension in sight, he had turned his hand to freelance gardening. This morning he was working for Sir William Ashdale and would be home for his dinner just after twelve. I decided to stay and meet him, for it was now almost twelve, and besides, that pie smelt wonderful …
Mrs Potter showed me around the little house, which they owned – they had paid £120 for it a few years earlier. The derelict portion had turf walls, parts of which were still standing, while its roof, once thatched with heather, had collapsed. There had been no attempt to repair it. That was where Albert had once kept his cattle or shorn his sheep. A cross passage separated that part from the living-accommodation, all of which was on the ground floor. There were two tiny bedrooms, each with a stone floor and beamed ceiling, but no bathroom or running water. They obtained their water from the gill; the toilet was a shed behind the cottage, and for electricity they had installed a generator which was petrol-driven – that was their only modern contraption.
By the time this tour ended, Albert had arrived. He used a pedal cycle of considerable size and vintage. His shovel, rake, hoe and gripe were tied to the crossbar. He placed his bike in a shed, then came towards me.
‘Now then,’ he said in the local manner of greeting.
‘Now then.’ I shook his hand. ‘I’m PC Rhea.’
‘Albert Potter,’ he introduced himself. ‘Thoo’ll be coming in for thi dinner then?’
‘No thanks. I had my ’lowance here not long since.’
‘But it’s dinner time now, and Ah shall be having mine, so you might as well join me.’
And so I did; I was not expected to refuse.
He was a tall and lanky fellow with arms and legs that seemed too long for his thin body. He wore a thick blue-and-white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but with no collar. The neck was open, and a collar stud occupied one of the buttonholes. Heavy brown boots and thick brown trousers with braces completed his outfit. Fit and bronzed, he looked remarkably strong for a man in his middle sixties, but he was a man of few words. He sat and ate in silence, and I did likewise, savouring the potato and onion pie, then the apple pie and custard that followed. Then, without speaking, he went to a cupboard and opened it to reveal shelves full of bottles without labels. They contained fluids – red, yellow, brown, dark brown, dark blue, orange and other variations. He selected one which was full of a purplish liquid, removed the cork with a corkscrew, then poured me a glass full.
‘Sup that,’ he said. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’
‘What is it?’ I asked, tentatively sniffing at the potion.
‘Bilberry wine, good stuff. Eight years old if it’s a day. Our Dot makes it,’ and he drank deeply.
Wary of the fact that I was on duty and that I had to drive back, I took a sip. It was lethal. I had but a thimbleful and even with that tiny amount could sense its power – but it was really beautiful, smooth and full, rich with the flavour of the moors. But for all its beauty and delectability, it was powerful stuff.
‘Good year for bilberries that year,’ he said. ‘Have some more, lad. See whether you can tell me whether them berries came from Sutton Bank Top or Bransdale or Fryup Dale.’
‘You mean they all taste different?’
‘They do that! Once you know ’em, they’re as easy to tell apart as French grapes.’
I tried a little more, hoping for some indication of its source …
Weakening, I tried still more, encouraged by this sombre character.
‘I think it’s Bransdale,’ I said, but in truth I had no idea.
‘No, this ’un’s Bransdale,’ and he produced another bottle from somewhere. ‘Now, just you see t’difference.’
‘I shouldn’t,’ I said. ‘I mean, I am on duty …’
‘Rubbish, it’s good for your arteries, cleans ’em out, gets rid o’ clots … here.’
He poured a huge helping and, in order to satisfy myself that there was a difference between Sutton Bank bilberries and Bransdale bilberries, I took a sip. Then I took a little more, just to make sure I was receiving the full flavour.
As I was doing my best to identify any distinctions, Dorothy came in.
‘There’s a couple of hikers at the door,’ she said to her husband. ‘They’re asking for two bottles of Rievaulx rhubarb, two Ashfordly elderberry, two Egton Bridge gooseberry, two Rannockdale raspberry and a couple of Bransdale bramble.’
‘There’s enough, I reckon,’ said Albert.
And as I became aware that I was slightly fuddled by the strong liquor, he poured me another helping, saying this was Fryup bilberries and maybe I’d like to compare it with the Fryup brambles or perhaps the Hollin Wood sloes. I was vaguely aware of Mrs Potter returning to put some money in a tin and of her husband saying, ‘Think on and fetch a few bottles up from t’cellar. Dot …’
‘Er,’ – I sensed that my brain was no longer operating my voice in an efficient constabulary manner, but hoped I did not sound too stupid. ‘Er, Albert, when that man called last night, the hiker we’re looking for, er, well, did he sample your wine?’
‘Aye,’ said Albert. ‘He said he never drank alcohol, so Ah said this wasn’t alcohol. Ah told him it was home-made wine, full o’ fruit and flavour. So he had a few, and that made him happier, so he bought a few bottles before he set off. Six, I think; all he could fit in his rucksack. He reckoned our Bilsdale bramble was like nectar and couldn’t get enough of the Hambleton haw wine.’
‘I’d better go for a walk,’ I said, rising somewhat uncertainly from the chair.
‘It’s worst when you’ve had nowt to eat,’ said Albert. ‘But give it an hour and you’ll be as right as rain.’
I thanked them, and they presented me with a bottle of B
yland potato and Ashfordly redcurrant, which I placed in the van. The radio was burbling but I could not decipher the words – it wouldn’t be a message for me. With legs feeling distinctly wobbly, I set off towards that little stone bridge; I could see two or three little stone bridges, so I aimed for the middle one, doused my head in the cool waters of that gill and then walked briskly in the fresh air. I walked for a long time, blissfully unaware of the hours that passed, but I did find a barn.
Quite suddenly, as Albert had indicated, I felt fine. It was almost as if a miracle had happened: the fuzziness cleared like a fog lifting, and I was sure I was no longer under the influence of Potter wine. I realized that the barn offered sanctuary for hikers – or constables who were sweating profusely and perhaps, if the truth was admitted, still just a little unsteady on their feet. And there, in the cool of the afternoon, I found the missing Mr Simon Milner. He was sitting on a bale of hay, singing softly to himself, with two empty bottles at his side.
‘Mr Milner?’ I managed to say.
‘After goodnoon, Oshiffer.’ He made a clumsy attempt at saluting me. ‘I say, you should neck this sampler … sample this nectar … er … dog of the drigs … drink of the gods … God is a funderful wellow, eh? Giving us the earths of the fruit … providing us with the greed … the … ingredients …’
By now, I was reasonably in command of my own senses. ‘Come along, Mr Milner, it’s time to go home.’
He started to sing ‘Time to go home’ in the manner of television’s Andy Pandy programme and waved his hand like that little puppet. I wished his son could see him now. With something of a struggle, I managed to get him back to the van and plonked him in the passenger seat.
I decided to tell Mr and Mrs Potter that I’d found him. As I went to their door, four more hikers were leaving with bottles of the potent Potter potion, and I now knew why we had so many very merry and excitable hikers in Ashfordly. They had no need of a pub with a supply of this kind available.
I thanked the Potters for their hospitality and left, driving Mr Milner down to the youth hostel in case his son had alerted them. As I drove away, I heard the radio calling me – and with horror I realized I had been off the air and out of contact for hours. The sergeant knew I was heading for the heights, and in all probability their inability to contact me since eleven that morning would mean I had been posted lost on the moors …
‘Echo Seven,’ called Control in a voice that rang with exasperation and worry. ‘Echo Seven, receiving? Over.’
‘Echo Seven receiving,’ I responded in what I hoped was a matter-of-fact, calm manner. My head was clear. I was horrified to see it was nearly 4.30!
There was a long silence, and then another voice said, ‘Echo Seven. Location please.’
‘Echo Seven, Thorngill Moor, near the Blackamoor Walk route. I have just located the missing man, Mr Simon Milner. He is with me in the vehicle; he is fit and well, no injuries. My intended destination is Ashfordly youth hostel. Over.’
I could explain my long absence by saying I had obtained several differing clues and conflicting sightings about the hiker’s whereabouts and, due to the uncertainty, it had taken me several hours to locate my quarry. The fact that I had found him would undoubtedly save me from a mammoth bollocking.
‘Echo Seven. Upon your return, report to the duty inspector. He wishes to give you advice. A search party has been organized to look for you – you never booked off the air and there has been great concern …
I groaned as Control gave me a well-deserved reprimand over the air. I knew I had been guilty of the self-same thoughtlessness as the many hikers and, like them, I had imbibed the powerful juices of the Potters. I did not try to excuse myself over the radio, but sighed as I turned for home.
Mr Milner sighed at my side, but he was asleep; he was now in his own world of bucolic and alcoholic bliss; a nice story for his chapel friends when he recovered. But I suppose he could be honest because, after all, even though he had strayed from his ways like a lost sheep, he had not entered a pub.
As I drove through acres of maturing heather, a very official thought occurred to me. If the Potters were selling intoxicating liquor, they would require a justices’ licence and an excise licence, and they would have to abide by the licensing hours. Or would they need an off-licence, seeing their customers did not drink inside the premises? If customers did enter to drink, the premises could be classified as public house, and in addition there were certain requirements applicable to the brewing of wines and spirits …
I groaned. It all threatened to become very complicated.
I felt that a word of warning about the laws of selling intoxicants would be my first task, rather than a heavy-handed prosecution which involved the Customs and Excise and the Liquor Licensing laws. But I did not know whether I dare return, because if I did, old Albert would probably ask me to test his Rannockdale turnip, Lairsbeck parsnip or Thackerston carrot. I wasn’t sure I would be able to resist.
I decided it might be best to overlook this particular episode, due to my own involuntary involvement and, to be precise, I had no direct proof of their sale to customers. Hints yes, but not proof.
But I could not shirk my duty. I decided that I must return to advise Dot and Albert on the illegality of selling their wine, if only to give Ashfordly and its people a break from merry ramblers.
I did learn afterwards that news of this establishment had reached the rambling clubs that passed this way and that most of their members made a point of calling for refreshment. Perhaps if the Potters opened a licensed restaurant, they would be able to make some money? I might put that idea to them.
Because they were not at that time licensed, it did mean that Mr Milner had not disgraced himself by frequenting a pub. But right now I had to get Mr Milner home and prepare myself for a telling-off by the inspector.
‘Come on, Mr Milner,’ I said to the inert figure in my passenger seat. ‘It’s time to go home …’
‘Time to go home, time to go home.’ In his fuddled state, he started to sing and wave ta-ta.
4 April Fool!
A joke’s a very serious thing.
Charles Churchill (1731–64)
When our eldest child, Elizabeth, started at the village school, we felt sure she would quickly learn all that was necessary to equip her for the future. Each afternoon, we would ask what she had learned that day, and it seemed that she was progressing very satisfactorily. Then one day she announced she had learned about April Fool jokes. I could not ascertain whether this gem of wisdom had come from the teachers or her classmates, but with the solemnity that only a 5-year-old can muster, she did say that the jokes must end at noon on 1 April and that nobody must be hurt by the pranks. This suggested a sense of responsibility.
Because this fruitful portion of learning had come to my notice in mid-March, I had forgotten about it by 1 April. Like almost everyone else, though, I was aware of April Fool jokes – indeed, police officers throughout the country play jokes upon each other or their bosses, taking care never to harm or disrupt the public peace in so doing. I have recounted several of these in earlier Constable books (see Constable through the Meadow).
For example, one mild joke involved an alteration of a list of telephone numbers in the police station – the superintendent’s private number was listed as the ‘new’ number for the speaking clock. When an unsuspecting constable checked the time at 3 a.m., his enquiry was not well received.
Another constable had his private car number placed on the stolen vehicle index and as a result got stopped countless times by officers of other forces while on his way to a fishing match. Some constables have been told to check mortuaries for security, only to see ‘corpses’ sit up in the darkness. Another was confronted by a road-sweeper who was cleaning the town’s street at 3 a.m. This rookie constable, having been told to stop and interview all suspicious people seen around at night, spoke to this character. The sweeper said he liked cleaning the streets at this time of day b
ecause it was quiet and they didn’t get messed up again before he finished. In fact, the heavily disguised road-sweeper was one of his colleagues whom, as he was new to the town, the rookie did not recognize.
I have been guilty of some jokes too, several of which have appeared in print, such as the reported discovery of a gold mine in the grounds of Coultersdale Abbey, a North Yorkshire ruin, the appearance of the legendary boves in England from which we get the saying ‘Heaven’s a bove’, and the location of a colony of miniature blind sabre-toothed tigers in an ancient Yorkshire caving system.
In addition to these pranks, there have been offers of lead-free pencils, UFO sightings, cars with self-repairing punctures, and the stone-by-stone removal of Whitby Abbey to a new site.
I liked John Blashford-Snell’s account of a tribe of natives who carried their heads under their arms, and Richard Dimbleby’s famous television documentary about the spaghetti harvest. And there are many others that have appealed to my sense of humour.
But I did not like 5-year-old Elizabeth’s April Fool joke.
It began one Saturday morning, when she was off school. She was out of bed rather early, and I should have expected something of a mischievous nature from the knowing grin on her face. But, like a lamb going to slaughter, the significance of the date had temporarily escaped me as I concentrated on lots of paperwork which I had to complete before going on duty. I ignored the danger signs exhibited by Elizabeth, one of which involved her hanging around my office while looking distinctly pleased with herself.
I was working mornings, which was especially pleasing on a Saturday, and I now had a four-hour route to perform. This had been pre-determined by the sergeant. I had to begin at 9 a.m., patrol to Elsinby for a 10 a.m. point at the telephone kiosk, followed by points at Crampton kiosk at 11 a.m., Briggsby at noon and then back home to book off duty precisely at 1 p.m. ‘Point’ was the name we used to indicate the time and place we had to be for a possible rendezvous with the sergeant or other senior officer. During this patrol, I would visit a few outlying farms to check some stock registers and discuss the renewal of one or two firearms certificates.
Constable among the Heather Page 6
