This collection of country musicians, aided by a further two dozen assorted players, formed the Aidensfield String Orchestra, and there is no doubt they enjoyed their musicmaking. I did too; it was quite surprising how we changed from making a mess of lovely music to producing a passable piece of entertainment. It was all due to Rudolph’s patience and drive.
After several months of hard but productive practice, Rudolph called for silence at one of the sessions. I was there, off duty, and was pleased to have a rest dining the hard-working rehearsal.
As we paused with our instruments resting on our laps or on the floor, Rudolph wiped his brow. “In five minutes,” he spoke gravely, “the Colonel is going to speak to us.”
As one, we turned to look at the door behind us, but the Colonel had not arrived.
After our murmur of gentle surprise, Rudolph’s loud voice quelled the speculation as he said, “Now, I’ve no idea what he wants to say, but he did ask if he could address the entire orchestra tonight. He said it was a matter of importance and forthcoming pride for Aidensfield.”
More mutterings filled the room, and Rudolph halted them by emphasising some of our more noticeable weaknesses. However, he did express pleasure because our faults were fewer and our music stronger and said we were beginning to sound like a real orchestra and not something rushed together for a charity concert. We enjoyed an atmosphere of pride.
Then came the sound of the door crashing open followed by the tramp of heavy footsteps, all of which heralded the arrival of Colonel Partington and his Dalmatian. The Colonel’s Christian name was Oswald and his dog was called Napoleon for reasons we never understood. Man and dog advanced into the room, and at an almost inaudible command, Napoleon sat on the floor just inside, then lay down to watch the proceedings.
The Colonel was the epitome of a retired army officer in rural Britain; stoutish in build, he bristled with belief in his own efficiency and sported a moustache which was greying like his hair. He stalked everywhere rather than walked but no one seemed quite sure where or when he had been a colonel. We assumed his friends all knew because everyone called him simply “The Colonel”. He lived in a big house called Beckford Hall on the outskirts of Aidensfield and I suppose he occupied the unofficial position of squire to the community.
“Good evening, Colonel,” greeted Rudolph with a large smile and a loud voice.
“Good evening, Burley.” The Colonel called everyone by surname. “A nice turn-out, what?”
“We’ve maintained an excellent attendance record,” beamed Rudolph like an RSM on parade. “I’m proud of our members.”
“And their music, what? How’s that coming along?”
“First class. We’ve mastered Concerto Grosso and by the date of our concert, we’ll have studied and conquered enough music for a two-hour programme.”
“Good. Well, that’s why I’m here. To talk to them all, what? I believe in telling everyone, not keeping things hushed up, you know.”
We waited for his news.
“Burley, you said you had planned a concert for the spring?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Any chance of making it a firm date, what? Say Saturday the fifteenth of April?”
“Fifteenth April?” Rudolph looked at us all for guidance, but the date meant nothing to anyone. I carried a pocket diary and checked the date — I had no private engagements that day, but it was too far in advance to know whether I’d be committed on duty.
“I’m free, subject to the exigencies of the service,” I spoke in a formal manner.
“Thank you, Rhea,” beamed the Colonel. “What about you others, eh?”
There was some discussion among them, and it seemed that any date was suitable. There were no particular objections to a performance on Saturday 15 April, and we had time to rehearse fully before then.
“So can we make it a firm date, what?” he asked, addressing his proposal to Rudolph. I could see that Rudolph was somewhat reticent about committing himself to a date without knowing the reason, but the Colonel’s status in the community did carry a certain persuasion.
Because no one made a formal objection, Rudolph Burley agreed.
“That is marvellous,” beamed the Colonel. “Now I can confirm it with No. 10.”
At first, no one reacted to his reference to No. 10, and I must admit the phrase did not alert me in any way. In the moment’s silence that followed, Rudolph took the initiative.
“No. 10?” he asked the Colonel.
“Downing Street,” he smiled. “The Prime Minister is my house-guest that weekend, and I thought it would be nice to fetch him to the concert. Perhaps we should officially open the renovated hall the same evening? I’ll ask him to do the honours, what? And we can entertain him with a salad supper or something, and music from this orchestra. How about that?”
“The Prime Minister?” cried Rudolph.
In the excitement, Ralph spat twice in rapid succession and Rosamund’s red knickers flashed as she wondered what to do with her cello. I was aghast — for me, there would be no music that night. I’d be up to the neck with security worries, and there’d be the Chief Constable, the hierarchy from the County Council, Special Branch officers, C.I.D. and a veritable entourage of officials and social climbers to cater for. I wondered if Rudolph realised the work, worry and problems he’d created by his acceptance of the Colonel’s suggestion.
But he had agreed and that was that. The orchestra was so excited that everyone raised a cheer and the dog barked in happiness.
“Marvellous for the village, what?” beamed the Colonel. “We can put on a good show for him, can’t we?”
News that Aidensfield String Orchestra was going to play for the Prime Minister flashed around the village, and I thought I’d better tell Sergeant Blaketon about it. The very next day I motor-cycled into Ashfordly to discuss it with him.
I located him in his office where he was working hard on a report for the Superintendent. He bore my interruption with dignity.
“Yes, Rhea? What is it?”
“A visit by the Prime Minister to Aidensfield, Sergeant,” I said, hoping to surprise him.
“Ah, yes, he’s friendly with Colonel Partington. When’s he coming?”
I told him, and explained about the village hall and its modernisation scheme, following with the orchestra’s role in the occasion. Having satisfactorily explained all this, I then mentioned my part in the orchestra’s violins.
“No chance, Rhea. On that day, you’ll be officiating, on duty, in uniform, on behalf of the North Riding Constabulary. There’ll be no fiddling time off that day, Rhea,” and he chuckled at his own joke.
“Thanks, Sergeant,” I smiled ruefully, knowing deep down that this must be the only course of action. “What about the administrative arrangements for the Force during the visit?”
“I’ll have words with the Superintendent. No doubt we’ll be given official notification of the visit, and that will set the administrative wheels in action. On a visit of this kind, there are all kinds of official papers to worry about. But none of that’s your concern, Rhea. Just be available on the day, that’s all, for police duty.”
And so it was deemed that I would not play my violin for the Prime Minister and I was sure he wouldn’t notice my absence. Whether he would have appreciated my skilful A flats and pizzicato expertise is something I will never know, so my only way of proving myself worthy to stand in his gaze was to make a good job of policing Aidensfield on the big day.
Even though I was not going to play before the Prime Minister, I continued with rehearsals and found it stimulating. I was privy to the arrangements on the police side, seeing them intensify as time progressed, and I was also aware of the band’s internal problems. In many ways, I was the liaison officer between the orchestra and the police, and found myself advising on the best position for the conductor to stand, the route to be taken from Colonel Partington’s home to the hall and sundry other practical details.
As time went by, t
he event gained in stature. The occasion started to acquire people who wanted to be part of the accepted guest list. Before we realised what had happened, the vicar had persuaded the Archbishop of York to say a few words prior to the concert, then the local parish council, district council and county council all felt they should be represented, and so did a party of obscure gentlemen who reckoned they’d belonged to the Colonel’s old Regiment. The British Legion, Women’s Institute, Parochial Church Council, Meals on Wheels, Blackfaced Sheepbreeders’ Association, Catholic Women’s League, Ryedale Historical Society, Ashfordly Literary and Philosophical Society, the League of Rural Artists, Country Land-owners’ Association, the Labour Party, and sundry other organisations all wanted to be part of the act. The poor Colonel had the devil’s own job fitting everyone in because all the officials reckoned they deserved seats with their names on, all at the front, and all next to the Prime Minister.
The poor people of Aidensfield found themselves being thrust further and further into the background as fewer and fewer seats became available for them — in their own village hall. There were the inevitable complaints and grumbles, but as the official wheels began to turn inexorably, there was nothing any of them could do. Officialdom, plus its tail of petty politics, had, in all its horror, came to Aidensfield, and it was the last thing anyone wanted or needed.
Like everyone else, I was acutely aware of the upset this had caused, and I knew there was nothing anyone could do about it. Or was there? Officialdom, once it takes over, does not cater for the wishes of the real people; it caters for society types in high positions and minor politicians, and because the PM himself was to grace our hall with his presence, every petty official for miles around began to wheedle his or her way on to the guest list.
I’m sure the PM would not have wished this to happen; I’m sure that when Colonel Partington honoured us by suggesting the great man visited our concert, he visualised the PM taking a seat like anyone else in the village, without any formalities and fuss.
But it didn’t work out like that. The chairman of the parish council had to make a formal speech of welcome, following which the Archbishop would make an address, and then countless other minor officials and local politicians wanted to say their piece. All this was written down in an official programme, and even if everyone took only two minutes over their individual speeches, the programme would be prolonged by nearly forty minutes.
The affair was out of hand. I had no doubt about that, and when I received my formal copy of the approved programme, I saw that the final speech, before the concert started, was a second address by the Archbishop of York who would say the Lord’s Prayer. As the “Amen” sounded from the assembled mass of officials and few villagers, my job was to raise the curtain on stage and signal the band to commence with our beautifully rehearsed Introduction and Allegro for Strings.
My task on stage, albeit behind the scenes, was allocated to me for several reasons. First, there was the question of security on stage during the concert, and I could keep an eye on the rear entrance; secondly, I was familiar with the orchestral pieces and could maintain a liaison between the orchestra and the Colonel, who in turn would inform the PM if there was a break for him to “retire” as it is nicely phrased; and thirdly, I was to act as liaison between the audience, the official programme, and the conductor. My role was therefore of considerable importance.
My most important duty of the night however, was personally to raise the curtain as the Archbishop said his final “Amen” after all the speeches, the signal to start the concert. I was to alert Rudolph seconds before doing so, so that he could prepare the orchestra: as the curtain rose, the hall would be filled with the music of the Aidensfield String Orchestra.
The final days passed in a blur of activity, and the hall looked resplendent in its coat of new paint, fresh curtains, polished woodwork, scrubbed floor, carpets in strategic places and flowers inside and out. Half an hour before the PM was due to take his seat, the place was packed and from my vantage point on stage behind the curtain, I could see the rows of petty officials who had wormed their way into this place, to deprive many villagers of their moment of pride and pleasure.
Rudolph knew of my anger. He felt the same. Together, we peered through a gap in the curtain as the hall buzzed with anticipation.
“I’d like to kick that lot out!” he said vehemently. “Look at them — sitting there in their posh hats and new suits, just because it’s the Prime Minister… this was a village concert, Nick, not a bloody excuse for ingratiating themselves with him…”
As we stared at them, an awful scheme entered my mind. At first, I tried to dislodge the notion, but the more I tried, the more feasible it seemed.
“We could cut out all those speeches, Rudolph,” I said quietly.
“Could we?” Even his loud whisper almost deafened me at this range. “They’re all in the bloody programme! We can’t cut them out…”
“If I cut half an hour off those introductory speeches, can you fill it with music before the finale?”
He grinned wickedly.
“We can. We’ve rehearsed enough for three concerts.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll take responsibility for this. I’ll have an accident … can your members all be on stage and ready to go by the time the Archbishop has finished his first speech? Not the prayers?”
“Just leave it to me!” and off he went.
At seven-thirty, everyone was in position. The hall was full, and prompt on the stroke of the half-hour, the Prime Minister, to polite applause, entered Aidensfield Village Hall and took his seat. I was behind the curtains, with my hand on the handle which would raise them at the right moment, and I was peeping through the gap, watching the proceedings in the hall. On stage, Rudolph and the orchestra were ready. He was poised in his evening suit, baton at the ready, and he had warned the players about their earlier than scheduled performance.
I waited as the chairman of the parish council, the chief citizen of Aidensfield, officially welcomed our distinguished guest. This was an important part of the ceremony, and he spoke well. The Archbishop climbed on to the steps before the stage and welcomed the PM, as Head of Her Majesty’s Government, to the Diocese of York. Having made his speech, he prepared to dismount, and his place was to be taken by the first of a long line of mini-officials, all with boring words to say.
This was my moment.
I raised my hand.
Rudolph saw it; he brought his orchestra to a state of readiness, and before the next speaker could reach the foot of the steps, I pressed the lever and the curtain rose. There was a long pause before the hall erupted into an explosion of applause, and Rudolph was already bringing the orchestra into the first notes of the Introduction and Allegro.
From my place behind the scenes, I saw the looks of apprehension and disappointment from the assembled minor officials, the smiles of glee on the villagers seated behind, a look of pleasurable anticipation on the Prime Minister’s face, and happy smiles by all players in the orchestra. Old Ralph was spitting bang on time, and Rosamund’s knickers were in full view of the Prime Minsiter, so tonight she wore blue ones.
Afterwards, when it was all over and he’d opened the refurbished village hall, the Prime Minister came backstage to thank us all. Rudolph introduced me as the man whose duty it was to raise the curtains at the start, and who was in charge of security backstage.
The Prime Minister looked at me quizzically, asked if I’d had any security problems, and then said, “You got us off to a flying start, P.C. Rhea. Well done.”
But I still had to face the Superintendent and Sergeant Blaketon.
Colonel Partington accompanied the Superintendent as he followed in the official party and when he reached me, the Colonel said, “Rhea, the PM says you did a good job tonight, getting us off to such a flying start. He’s asked you to take sherry with us at my home tomorrow before lunch. Do join us, Rhea.”
“It will be a pleasure, sir,” I smiled, an
d the Superintendent said nothing, therefore Sergeant Blaketon maintained his silence.
Chapter 4
“Life itself is but the shadow of death.”
Sir Thomas Browne 1605-82
*
Very furtively, and with utter contempt for rules and regulations, Patrick Hughes set about establishing a caravan site on a patch of scrub land at the extremities of his ranging farm near Elsinby.
Being an astute businessman, who saw money in this useless earth, Patrick recognised the potential profits to be made from tourism, albeit on a minor scale, and so he purchased half a dozen second-hand caravans. Using his Landrover, he towed these shabby vehicles one by one from their point of purchase, and installed them on his lumpy piece of unprofitable land, known locally as Alder Carrs.
To be fair to Patrick, the land in question had no possible use in agriculture because it was very rocky in places and riddled with deep hollows full of marshes and reeds. It could never be ploughed or cultivated. It simply existed on the other edge of his farm, well away from the village and hidden from the road. The caravan-site idea was typical of Patrick’s desire to earn money from every square inch of his land.
He positioned his six caravans around Alder Carrs so that each had an extensive view across Upper Ryedale, and it must be said that he worked hard to make this new enterprise a success. He wanted his visitors to have as many home comforts as he could muster and he saw his site as the Mecca for a new breed of discerning caravanners.
He painted all the vans in a pleasing shade of tan so that they merged with the surrounding countryside, and gave each the name of a flower — a charming idea, I felt. Thus we had Primrose, Bluebell, Buttercup, Daisy, Violet and Snowdrop and I did wonder if this was to baffle any tax man who might inspect his accounts, because these were typical of the names given to cows.
No one seemed to question his choice of nomenclature, and having beautified his vehicles by painting a picture of the appropriate bloom upon each one, he built a small area with a rubble base for a car park. Next, he installed rubble paths to all the vans, and even erected a double-seater flush toilet in a secluded place, with a small shelter adjoining the latter sporting two cold taps and a drain. Waste and sewage from Alder Carrs Wash Room, as he called it, and from the toilets of both the caravan site and the farm itself (i.e. the house and outbuildings), flowed down the hillside in pipes to a sewage pit which had been a feature of the farm for many years.
Constable in the Dale (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 5) Page 6
