by B. B.
In short, he was what one would call a very picturesque character, like something out of Grimms’ fairy tales. All his life he had lived in forests, like his forebears for generations back; trees were ‘in his blood’. They said up in the village that he was a wizard and could cure warts and wens, despite the fact he could not cure his appalling nose which made him look like a wrinkled old gnome. His dog he loved as a man loves a brother. It was his only joy and constant companion, he worshipped it.
During the summer months, when he was not working at his furnace, he did a little mowing along the ridings near his shack. He did not regard the forest with any wonder or delight, though he had a good knowledge of natural history, especially of birds and butterflies. Yet if – as was once suggested – he had left the Chase, given up his charcoal burning and settled down in one of the new council houses in Cheshunt Toller, he would have been wretched indeed. The trees were in his blood, as the sea is in a sailor’s. Perhaps the Chase was like the sea sometimes. Smokoe often thought so, when on a gusty winter’s night, he heard the wind booming over the forest, or in summer saw the massive oaks bending and roaring before a westerly gale. Some people said he was a man of considerable means and had hundreds of pounds hidden somewhere about his dwelling. Many speculated where the hidden gold was concealed; in the well, under his mattress – which consisted of sacks stuffed with bracken – or somewhere in the chimney.
Twice a year, in spring and autumn, he had a good spring clean. In some ways he was very like a badger. He brought out the filthy old sacks and pulled out the bracken of yesteryear, replenishing them with fresh dried fronds.
His gun was an old muzzle-loader, a wonderful weapon with a belled mouth, the barrel bound with brass bands to the scarred wooden stock. Once, ’twas said, it had been carried by the guard of the London–Brendon coach. How he came by it nobody knew.
Such was old Smokoe Joe, a bit of a wizard – who wouldn’t be living all alone in such a place? – very much a character, a strange half gipsy, half poacher hybrid, who had no use for his fellow men – or they for him – set apart by the consciousness of his deformity, leathery as an old tortoise, wrinkled as an aged monkey, hard as nails and as some said, as strong as a man half his age. Nobody knew how old he was; Smokoe didn’t know himself. He never bothered about the time but lived and ordered his days by the sun and seasons.
PC Cornes got no change out of old Smokoe. Very few people did. And Smokoe’s dog very nearly took a piece out of the constable’s leg. It ran off with one of his bicycle clips and Cornes never got it back. He was so angry that he nearly asked Smokoe if he had a dog licence but thought better of it.
Bunting, who had not much use for Cornes because he was so melancholy and never wanted to better himself, resolved to go to the Chase himself and take a look round. You never know, the boys might have gone there; Smokoe and Cornes wouldn’t be any the wiser.
And so one day in early July the sergeant got out his bicycle and propelled himself out of Cherry Walden and headed for the Chase. It was unfortunate perhaps that he had chosen such a hot day; indeed, it was the hottest day of that very hot summer.
Behold him then, that square majestic figure, trundling away down the Brendon road, correct in every detail of his uniform, white gloves tucked into his tunic, his buttons shining, his blue cloth uniform – a little shiny at the seat of the trousers – neatly brushed by Mrs Bunting. Behold, that ponderous buttress of the law moving inexorably onward down the shadow-banded road under the limes.
In those days there was no tarmac as we know it now, no ferroconcrete highways beribboned with white lines. The Brendon road was little wider than a by-lane is today and it was white with dust which rose behind his back wheel in a little smoking trail like a powder train.
It is a ‘give and take’ road, the Brendon road; it flows up and down through pleasantly wooded country, skirting the foot of the Weald. It passes through two villages and over four canal bridges and finally, just before you get to Martyr Bar, which is four miles this side of the Chase, it passes over the Blindrush, the same stream which finds its origin in no more delectable a birthplace than the Blind Pool.
At Martyr Bar, however, it is already less impetuous. It flows sedately over its chalk bed, glassy clear, wagging as it goes the manes of waterweed and toying with sturdy reed beds where the village ducks, as white as snow, disport themselves with sparkling delight. After Martyr Bar bridge it flows on through pleasant meadows until it reaches Brendon Park, the seat of the Duke of Brendon. There the common herd may no longer gaze upon its tamed condition save on those rare occasions such as Conservative fêtes and Coronation Days.
When Bunting reached Martyr bridge he felt warmer than he had ever done in his life. He dismounted, took off his helmet and mopped his forehead with a very white handkerchief. As he stood there, looking at the cool waters of the Blindrush twinkling in the sunlight, he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. At first he thought it was a traction engine, but in a moment there swept round the bend the ancient De Dion which belonged to the Whiting. It came thumping its way through the heat, shuddering and steaming, and swept past Bunting in a cloud of white chalk dust, which covered him from head to foot.
The vicar, absentminded as always, and whose whole attention was rivetted on keeping this amazing vehicle in the middle of the narrow bridge – no easy matter – never even glanced at Bunting.
The latter watched the coughing thumping machine whirl round the bend by The Martyr and then, after dusting down his tunic with his handkerchief, he remounted his bicycle. The time was a little after midday. The clock on the church tower advertised this fact. Bunting, in addition to being extremely hot, was also very thirsty. Though it is not permissible for police to take alcoholic refreshment when on duty, circumstances were different in this case. He would ‘put one back’ at The Martyr before going on to the Chase.
He leant his bicycle against the wall under the hanging sign, which depicted a bearded person in a nightshirt transfixed by arrows, and entered the cool parlour which smelt of beer. It was empty for it was yet early. This was excellent; he could have a drink. The landlord, who happened to be Bunting’s brother-in-law, gave him a cheery welcome and when Bunting ordered a pint he went down into his little cool cellar behind the bar, where three small barrels stood in a row against the whitewashed wall.
The sound of beer trickling into a large tankard was heavenly music. Bunting pulled at his waxed moustache and gazed solemnly at the stuffed trout over the mantelpiece. Inside the taproom there was a curious reflected light which came upwards from the dazzling sunlit chalk road without. Flies were waltzing lazily around a fly paper which dangled from the gas bracket in the middle of the ceiling. He kept a strict eye on the village street in case anyone should see him quenching his thirst.
‘It’s a hot ’un today, Tom,’ said the landlord, setting down the cold frothy tankard on the table and passing a cloth along the bar top.
‘Ah, that it is, Ernie, ’ottest day o’ the year.’ Bunting took up the tankard and drained it rapidly. ‘I saw a good trout under the bridge yonder.’
‘Ah, they be some good fish there,’ the landlord sniffed, and drew himself half a pint at his brother-in-law’s expense.
‘’Bout the best thing to be on a day like this,’ said Bunting, ‘nice an’ cool an’ all, swimmin’ around.’
‘Ah. Well, Tom, ’ow goes it?’
‘Oh, so, so, Ernie. Mabel’s well and the kids are fit. She asked to be remembered to you, she ain’t seen you since Christmas she said.’
‘Ain’t ’eard nothing o’ the young gents from the Dower ’Ouse I suppose?’ asked Tom. ‘It’s in all the papers o’ course, as you know.’
‘No, not yet,’ replied Bunting, shaking his head gravely. ‘It’s only a matter o’ time though, only a matter o’ time, Ernie.’
‘Shouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t in the Chase,’ said the landlord. ‘The missus says she reckons that’s where they’d be. It’s
a big place.’
Bunting shook his head again.
‘Cornes ’as been ’angin’ about there a lot, but ’e ain’t seen nuthin’. Smokoe Joe ’asn’t seen ’em I suppose?’
‘Smokoe Joe!’ the landlord laughed. ‘Smokoe Joe wouldn’t see nobody not if a ’ol army were sitting on his doorstep! You goin’ to ’ave a look round the Chase, Tom? You’ll find it a warmish job today.’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no.’
‘I ain’t tryin’ to be inquisitive, Tom,’ said his brother-in-law, ‘but it might pay ye to take a look round. Between you an’ me,’ he added leaning over the bar, ‘Cornes ain’t what you’d call a keen man, you know what I mean, too easy-goin’ like. Nice chap an’ all that, oh yes! I got nothin’ agin ’im, but too easy-goin’ be half. Take His Grace’s ricks fer instance in Yoho parish, which were set afire two years ago, well – I mean to say!’
Bunting had no intention of discussing a colleague, even with his brother-in-law.
‘Ah well, Ernie, I’ll be movin’ along. I’m much obliged to you for you-know-what.’ Bunting winked and nodded his head towards the tankard. ‘I’ll look in on me way ’ome.’
‘Good afternoon, Tom, see you later.’
‘Ah! Cheerio.’
Coming out of the cool bar parlour was like stepping into a greenhouse. Bunting blew out his cheeks and wiped his moustache furtively. He wished he’d come on another day when it was a bit cooler. It was a long pull up to the Chase.
He then mounted his bicycle from the step. He placed his left foot in the peg and punted with his right, and then, with impressive and even graceful dignity, lowered himself into the saddle. Soon there were no sounds but the gritty rustle of his bicycle wheels on the dusty road. His blue shadow moved along before him; the sun seemed to bore into his broad back. From Martyr Bar the road is, for two miles at least, treeless, until you reach the hamlet which rejoices in the whimsical name of Yoho. Cornfields come up to the road on either hand with low walls of stone, which is quarried locally. Somehow, these stone walls seemed to reflect the heat, and the road was truly like an oven.
Larks sang high overhead and corn buntings sat on top of the gateposts and jingled to Bunting as he went by with their maddening, reiterated apology for a song. Not a tree! Only a foot of blue shade from the left hand wall and that was on the dusty grass.
Bunting reached the foot of the long slope and dismounted. Now for it! The road stretched away, a white ribbon before him, bounded by its stone walls until it met the hard unyielding blue of the sky; the glare of the chalk dazzled him, his head swam.
His trousers were now grey, instead of blue, and the sweat, running down from under his helmet, made unsightly runnels down his well-shaved cheeks. But at last the top of the hill was reached and there below he saw the hamlet of Yoho and beyond it Brendon Chase, a long low line of dark trees like a wall on his left. Before he entered the hamlet – there were only six houses besides the doctor’s house, no church and no store – he reached a by-lane which turned off towards the Chase, close by a house which had a painted board announcing ‘The Forest Retreat. Teas, Hovis Bread’. And in a moment or two he had reached the outposts of the Chase.
This lane cut through one end of the Chase, right through, in a straight line for two miles. Along the white surface the air quivered and jumped; the trees seemed to waver up and down. Butterflies flew from one side of the road to the other. Far down the road, drawn up on the side, he saw a quivering mirage. Was it a gipsy van? A lorry? A steamroller?
Soon, as he pedalled nearer, he saw it was a car, and a little later, that it was the vicar’s car. Well now, wasn’t that a coincidence! If only Bunting had known the vicar was going to the Chase he might have begged a lift and been saved this terrible roasting ride. The vicar would be after butterflies no doubt.
When he came up to the car he looked over the gate and there, sure enough, was the Whiting. He was a long way off. He was running away down the wide grassy path making passes at an invisible insect. Bunting took off his helmet and mopped his head. He thought that the vicar might have found some more profitable hobby than running about after butterflies … golf for instance, he could understand that, but butterflies and bugs!
Well, he didn’t particularly want to meet him. He would go on down the road until he came to the next ride, which, according to Cornes, led to Smokoe Joe’s cabin. Bunting decided he would go and see Smokoe himself and try to get some information out of him. Cornes was only a common constable; the sergeant’s stripes might impress Smokoe.
Bunting was not quite sure that this second ride was the right one. At last he came to it and he pushed his bicycle through the gate and leant it up against the hedge.
Had the ride been less narrow and not so rutty he would have cycled along it, but it was better to walk. Cornes said Smokoe’s cabin was not more than half a mile along the ride.
Bunting thought that he would find it cooler in the woods but it was not so. In addition to the heat, with every step he took flies came joyously swarming round his head. They seemed to have been waiting for him to come along, killing time as it were, until he arrived. Now they teased his ears, his nose, they got caught in his moustache, they crawled up the short hairs of his neck. When he opened his mouth to puff and blow they were drawn down his throat. He cut himself a switch and winnowed vigorously and this, in a measure, gave some relief, but the flies still darted under his guard. Their maddening buzzings nearly drove him frantic. The ride became narrower and finally dwindled into a mere path, and not a well-worn path at that. Then it divided. He took the right hand fork; there was nothing to choose between them. Then it divided again. This could not be the path to Smokoe Joe’s. He must go back. He turned round and retraced his steps; soon he was not quite sure he recognized the path he was on. Sallow and thorn hedged him round. He came to a sallow which had fallen across the path. He had not been down this ride before! Sergeant Bunting was lost, bushed, what you will, in the eleven thousand acres of Brendon Chase! He did not know in which direction his road lay. Only the sun was there to give him any clue.
Sergeant Bunting was very angry. It was all the fault of that silly idiot Cornes. Cornes should have come with him and shown him the way.
He might come on that old fool of a parson. He stopped, exhausted. Heaven knows where he was. The air was full of the low teasing hum of flies and a plaintive robin let fall a melancholy trickle of notes from the depths of the bushes. He smelt the hot leaves and dried grass and the shiny mounded oak trees.
A jay screamed; he just caught a glimpse of it as it bobbed about among the oak leaves. Perspiration ran down suddenly from under his helmet. Sergeant Bunting felt foolish. A fully uniformed policeman in the middle of Brendon Chase! My word, if he could only catch those boys! Instead of the sun’s rays becoming less hot, as the afternoon drew on they became more torrid.
Never, never, never had Sergeant Bunting experienced such heat. He had expected a welcoming shade here, a pleasant ramble through the Chase to Smokoe’s place, a useful chat and a nice ride home in the cool of the evening. He thought of the Blindrush. How he longed for a swim.
Bunting was a great swimmer. He had once won a cup for water polo in the Police Sports. He went on wearily. Sometime surely he must come to a road of some sort. His one desire now was to get out of the Chase. He hated the trees, bushes and the endless fern.
Some dark-maned firs appeared over the oaks and sallows. He certainly did not remember those!
Then the track he was following died away in a jungle of bracken and briar and – lo! – he found himself on the edge of … the Blind Pool.
This revelation was quite startling. He had heard of the pool, of course, as the source of the Blindrush, but he had never seen it. And suddenly here it was, a dark still water, looking incredibly deep and cool with its white lilies flat open to the sun!
Moorhens scurried into the reeds when he stepped from the bushes and a wild duck scrambled, quacking loudly, at the far end. It cou
ld not fly properly because it was moulting out its flights. It hurtled along the surface making a great noise and disappeared into some thick willows. The disturbed water calmed to stillness. Not a bird moved. He felt that many little creatures were regarding him.
But oh, the water, the dark green water, where the midges weaved and played!
‘Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’ he might have sung, had he known the classics. Here, at any rate, he would rest awhile, and he would swim. Yes, he would swim! In this forest pool all alone, unseen, Sergeant Bunting would become once more human!
In a moment his helmet was off, then his jacket and trousers. His shirt was pulled over his head, off came his underpants, vest, socks and boots.
Close by was a mossy log half in the water. It was trampled by the feet of water fowl. Feathers lay about, grey and white. He walked down it. His feet were bare, vast grimy feet, grimed with the dust of all those Cherry Walden miles, freed now from their sweaty prisons! The moss was yielding, cold, soft, like velvet.
Sergeant Bunting poised on the end of the log. Below the water was deep, so deep, a shoal of silver fishes darted, affrighted, by. Up went his arms above his head. He stood to attention there naked, white, pot-bellied – alas! The years had presented him with an ample waistline – in the hot sun, poised with arms outstretched. Then he sprang, and the icy water shut over his head.
He came up, some yards out, and shook the water from his ears and nose like a joyful spaniel, and struck out.
How glorious! How perfectly miraculous! The ride, that long ride from Cherry Walden, had been worth this! Yes, it had been worth it! He had not had a swim for years.
To enjoy swimming to the full one must swim naked. It is the natural way, it is therefore essentially right. From cradle to the grave we swaddle our bodies in clothes night and day.
