I saw Lord and Lady Crampton enter their pew as the coffin arrived at its position before the altar. I stayed at the back of the church.
At eleven o’clock prompt, the service began.
Even though I had never known Emily, I found both the service and the interment to be very moving. I gained the impression that the Estate and its workers were like a large and happy family; a true community which was being eradicated through the progress of time. Had Emily been buried by her few relatives, the church would not have been so full, nor would her funeral have been such an important event for the village. As things were, she was given a fitting farewell by those who knew and respected her. Following the interment, there was the traditional funeral lunch of ham in the Tenants’ Room at the Hall. Everyone was invited, including myself.
There, I was privately thanked by Alan Ridley for the small part I had played, and I learned that the six bearers were three brothers and their three cousins. They all worked on the Estate as carpenters, stone masons, electricians and plumbers. Acting as bearers during Estate funerals was one of their regular additional commitments.
As I motorcycled home afterwards, I realised why this village did not feature greatly in any of my crime returns or in the Divisional Offence Report Register. It was due, I felt, to the family atmosphere of Crampton and the close relationship between everyone who lived and worked here. That closeness affected both their working and private lives.
I had no doubt that if a small crime did occur, a theft for example, it would be dealt with locally and I would never know about it. Perhaps the threat of dismissal from employment by the Estate caused everyone to be law-abiding, and I did know that the Estate dealt with any local disputes between neighbours. There were no domestic disputes in Crampton of the kind that officially concerned me, but I knew that this feudal type of existence was drawing to a close. And with its decline would come social problems and community strife.
As the deserted cottages were sold and occupied by outsiders, so this enduring family atmosphere would be diluted and the problems and difficulties of the outside world would afflict the village. The Estate would lose its paternal control for better or for worse, and I wondered if this would happen during my period as the village constable. After all, we were in the second half of the twentieth century, but it was pleasing to know that this kind of contented and untroubled life did continue in part of the English countryside.
But there was one occasion when I had to deal with a small outbreak of trouble in Crampton. Curiously, it arose as an indirect result of Emily Finley’s death. Perhaps, to be more precise, it arose because of her empty cottage, but it did mean that I had to take out my notebook and begin the steps necessary to institute criminal proceedings.
To set the scene, it became the policy of Crampton Estate to sell off those empty cottages for which they had no foreseeable use. This applied especially to those which required a lot of renovation and modernization. As cottages became vacant, in the way that Emily’s did, the Estate had to decide whether they were required for new workers, married staff, larger or smaller families or retiring employees. The work force was contracting; it was happening everywhere in the countryside and fewer cottages were needed. Nonetheless, Crampton Estate did occasionally take on new workers from outside.
Some of them required a house, and Emily’s cottage had become vacant at the very time the Estate was considering the appointment of a trained accountant. Its increasingly complicated book-keeping now required those kinds of skills and so Emily’s little house was earmarked as a possible home for this new member of staff. Over the weeks following her death, I noticed that the house had been renovated. Scaffolding appeared outside and pointing of the stonework was undertaken. New tiles were fitted to the roof and piles of stones, bricks and cement appeared in the garden as internal structural changes were made. A new bath was fitted and the kitchen was brought up to the standards of the period; the house was re-wired too and a partial damp-course installed.
Around this time, one day in May, I had to visit the Estate Office about some cattle movement licences and was offered a coffee by Alan Ridley.
“I see Mrs Finley’s cottage is nearly finished,” I said after we had concluded our official business.
“Give it another week,” he said. “It looks nice now. I wish she could have seen it, the work was long overdue. But we can’t do that kind of job with folks living in them. Besides, old folks don’t like upheaval or changes to their homes.”
“You’ve appointed an accountant, I hear?” I put to him.
“Yes, a woman. A Miss Rogers. Jean Rogers. She starts a week on Monday.”
“And she’ll occupy that little house?” I was updating my local knowledge of the village.
Alan laughed. “In theory, yes. In practice, no. You know,” he added almost as an afterthought, “I think you ought to be in Crampton a week on Monday, say from eight o’clock in the morning.”
“Really, why?” I asked, slightly puzzled.
“That’s the day we hand over the keys to Mrs Finley’s cottage,” he said, and I detected a distinct twinkle in his eye. “But we give them to the Maintenance Foreman; he arranges the housing moves. Might I suggest you are outside Mrs Finley’s house just before eight?”
“You won’t be expecting trouble, will you?” I asked, wondering what lay behind his suggestion.
“No,” he said, “but I think you’ll find it an interesting experience.”
So I arranged my duties to accommodate this unusual suggestion and on that Monday morning, I decided to perform one of my rare foot patrols around Crampton. I began at seven-thirty and enjoyed the morning stroll; the village was full of rich blossom and in places, the clean, crisp air was heavy with varied scents. Birds were singing and the morning was dewy and bright, with the sun gaining in strength as it rose in the sky. It was a moment from a corner of heaven.
Just before eight o’clock, I made my way around to Middle Street, towards Mrs Finley’s cottage, as everyone called it. Few people referred to it as Holly Cottage. I was surprised to see that a small crowd had gathered. It comprised men, women and children and I must admit that this baffled me. The sight made me wonder what was about to happen and why I was really here.
Then Alan Ridley arrived on foot. He acknowledged my presence with a brief nod and stood before the front door of the cottage, awaiting eight o’clock. As the church clock struck the hour, the Maintenance Foreman, a dour Yorkshireman called Charlie Atkinson, came forward. He was dressed in his overalls and ready for work.
As the clock was striking, Alan handed over to him the two keys of Mrs Finley’s cottage, one for the back door and one for the front.
Charlie then called, “Sidney and Alice Brent!”
A man came forward and accepted the keys. At the same time, Sidney Brent handed some keys to Charlie who announced, “George and Ann Clifton.”
The Cliftons came forward, accepted the Brent keys, and then passed up some of their own.
“Alex Cooper,” and an elderly man emerged from the crowd to accept the Cliftons’ keys. He handed some back to Charlie, and so the process continued with about twelve families waiting to hand over their keys and accept others in return.
During this short ceremony, Alan Ridley moved to my side.
“Well?” he asked quizzically. “Have you got it worked out?”
“No,” I admitted. “What’s going on?”
“We’re re-housing,” he smiled. “Or, to be exact, our tenants are re-housing themselves.”
“All these?”
He nodded; already, those who had been first in the queue, were disappearing hurriedly towards their homes.
“All of them,” he said. “In a few minutes, all hell will break loose. The Brents will be coming here, to occupy Mrs Finley’s cottage, and they’ll want to be in right away. But that’s Charlie’s problem. Come along, let’s go.”
He began to walk along the village towards his own office in the Hall
and I fell into step at his side.
“So what’s going on?” I asked as we distanced ourselves from the gathering.
“It’s an old practice on this Estate,” he adopted a serious voice. “When we appoint someone to our staff, we offer to house them. It happens everywhere — tied cottages, you know. And so we select one of our empty houses and modernize it. We clean and decorate it, as we did with Mrs Finley’s.”
“But all those people handing in keys . . .” I began.
“Yes,” he said. “At some time in the past, long before my arrival here, this kind of thing caused an upset in the village. In appointing and housing newcomers in refurbished homes, we created the situation where workers of long standing were living in properties which were below the standard we offered to the newcomers. The newcomer’s home was always refurbished and modernized, in the way you’ve just seen. So the tenants decided that whenever a house became vacant and was modernized, the longest serving tenant should move in, if he or she wanted to.”
I realised how things worked.
“So they all move up a notch?” I put to him.
“Yes, the whole village waits for an empty house like this. On the day, they’re packed and ready, and so, in a few minutes, the Brents will move into Mrs Finley’s nice cottage, and then the Cliftons will move into the Brents’, old Alex Cooper will move into the Cliftons’ . . .”
“And your new accountant? Where does she fit into all this?” I asked.
“It’s not going to be easy, with her coming from outside the village. I’ll have to explain things to her. To be honest, some of our manual workers, especially those from here, are quite happy to accept a cottage which is, to be truthful, at the bottom of our heap. In the past, they did so because they desperately needed accommodation, and the rents we charged were affordable to the poorest. But low rents meant we hadn’t the funds to modernize the homes. For a peppercorn rent, those folks were happy to live in less-than-perfect accommodation. Their “carrot” was to wait for the kind of movement you’ve seen today. It enabled them to move up the scale and, let’s face it, the Estate benefits because it needs to modernize only one house every few years. It saves us money and keeps rent down. Eventually, everyone should get a chance to occupy such a place. But I fear our new lady worker will not tolerate a house which is the last of today’s line — it’s grotty, to say the least. We may sell it. She has hinted she might buy a house locally. If we appoint more people from outside, then our system of moving tenants is likely to die out, I feel.”
“A strange system,” I commented.
“Now, if you go back into the village, you’ll see that there is a flurry of activity, with well over a dozen families moving house. They’re all moving today and all before ten o’clock!”
“You impose a deadline?”
“We must. Officially, they’re not supposed to do it, but we close our eyes and go along with the idea, up to a point. That’s why Charlie handles all the keys — it keeps some sort of order, and it makes the tenants think it’s got our formal blessing. So we give them time off between eight and ten to make their moves.”
When I walked back through Crampton, an amazing sight met my eyes. The village seemed full of carts, cars, lorries and anything that would transport furniture. Already, many items were on board — three-piece suites, wardrobes, beds and tea-chests full of crockery. The gardens and grassy areas outside the cottages were covered with household belongings and people were rushing in and out with arms full of objects. Helpers were flinging things on to the vehicles and it seemed there was a race to be first into another home. It was an amazing sight, a community house removal of the like I’ve never seen before nor since.
As I strolled about to observe this peculiar occurrence, I came across an argument, a rare event in Crampton. From a distance, I knew some kind of dispute was raging and that it involved a pile of furniture on a horse-drawn cart. The air was full of ripe language while angry arms were waving between the protagonists. Then one of them spotted me.
“Here’s t’ bobby,” I heard. “Ask him!”
One of the men hailed me and I strode across.
“Yes?” I asked of anyone who might answer. There were eight or nine people standing around the loaded cart. It was one of the old so-called market carts, a tipper with two wheels and a tailboard which lowered to facilitate loading and unloading. Already, it looked precariously overloaded with a tall wardrobe standing upright and a chest of drawers hanging over the tailboard. Every spare piece of space was filled with domestic odds and ends.
“Mr Rhea,” the man holding the horse’s head addressed me. I knew him by sight but did not know his name. “Settle this for us, wilt thoo?”
They all began to shout at once, and I appealed for calm, then addressed the man with the horse.
“Ah ‘m t’ owner of this cart,” he said, “and Ah live out near t’ bridge, on t’ road to Brantsford. Hawkins is the name.”
“Go on,” I invited.
“This chap ’ere,” and he pointed to a young man close to the tail of the cart, “well, ’e asked me to help him shift this stuff today. Hired me ’orse and cart to ’im, Ah did. Half a crown an hour.”
“Is this right?” I asked the man lurking at the tail.
He nodded, with a sly grin on his face, as the cart-owner continued.
“Two jobs to do,” he said, “his mum and dad out of this house here, and into that ’un there,” and he pointed to a pair of houses almost opposite one another. “Then, after that, Ah was asked to shift him and his missus and kids out of his spot and into that ’n what was occupied by his mum and dad.”
“Yes,” I followed it so far. Mum and dad into a smaller house, and son and growing family into their old house, which was slightly larger. Very sensible.
“Well,” said the cart man, “him and his mates, all his brothers and what-have-you loaded me up with his dad and mum’s furniture for t’ first job and got me unloaded, all in seven minutes. Seven minutes to move house! When Ah got loaded up for t’ second trip, from his house to his mum’s spot, he said they’d do t’ same all over again, load and unload in another seven minutes.”
“So?” I had not yet discovered the cause of the dispute.
“Well, they’re saying that because Ah charges half a crown an hour, and it hasn’t taken an hour, then they don’t have to pay!”
“Did you tell them that the half-crown was the minimum charge for an hour or part of an hour?” I asked him.
“Nay, Ah didn’t! There’s no need for that sort of carry-on, Mr Rhea. Damn it, Ah thought two house jobs would take all morning, not fourteen minutes . . .”
This was not a police matter. It was what we called a business dispute, and so I told him that. I said it was nothing to do with the police; it was purely a business disagreement which must be sorted out between themselves.
“Then Ah shall keep this stuff on t’ cart until t’ hour’s up,” he said, “then Ah’ll be in my rights to ask for t’ money.”
“We’ll unload it,” said the young man to his brothers and family. “Howway, lads, get cracking. We can beat our last record for unloading, I reckon . . .”
But Hawkins had a different idea.
“Nay!” he shouted. “Thoo can’t touch this stuff! Not yet,” and he rapped the horse’s flanks with a rein. It moved off quickly, but everyone followed, trying to grab items and carry them indoors. Some of the smaller stuff was lifted off, but the larger items were impossible to move. As the horse broke into a trot, its intrepid owner ran alongside and then jumped on to the front edge of his cart where the shafts met the body, and he sat there, reins in hand, as he whipped the horse into a gallop.
The furniture bounced and jolted along the street as the horse and cart left the family behind and then Hawkins halted. In a flash, he jumped off his cart and loosened the primitive tipping mechanism. With a jangling of metal, the bolts fell free and he slapped the horse.
It moved a short distance and the
cart, now unbalanced, tipped backwards as all the furniture slid off the back and spread across the road. In a long, untidy line, furniture, clothes, pots and pans, clip rugs and a motley collection of things rolled into the street.
“If you’re not paying, then Ah ‘m not moving it,” said Hawkins, folding his arms to observe the mayhem. At the moment the family ran towards their scattered belongings, a service bus, followed by an oil tanker, turned into the street. And at that same moment, I knew I had before me a clear case of ‘Obstruction of the Highway’. The bus driver started to shout at Hawkins, but he only laughed as he managed to secure his cart to its chassis during the fuss. All this was happening as I approached the scene in the ponderous strides of the constabulary in action. Hawkins, however, was quickly mobile and trotted away his horse, chortling at his own astuteness.
“You’ll have to move this stuff!” I ordered the owners. “It’s obstructing the road.”
“Not us!” snapped the brothers. “Hawkins dumped it, Hawkins can shift it!”
“You’ll all get fined for obstructing this road,” I shouted above the din. “And it’ll be far more than the cost of hiring that cart!”
“Nope,” said the family. “It stays.”
Hawkins was already some distance away, and I would have to report him too; I knew where he lived.
The tanker driver leaned out of his cab. “Are they going to shift that rubbish or shall I drive over it?” he shouted above the noise.
A stout, middle-aged woman wielding a broom came running to the scene, crying and saying, “Our Harry, you stupid oaf! Get it shifted, now,” and she started to belabour him with the broom handle. Confronted by such positive persuasion, Harry and the other men of the family soon cleared a road through for the bus and the tanker, and then, as the heat of the moment evaporated, they began to manhandle their stuff to the side of the road. It took much longer than seven minutes.
CONSTABLE ALONG THE LANE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 10
