I thought his forecast was too pessimistic although we could expect some problems. That was inevitable. Like all local residents, I had long been aware of the protracted plans to turn upper Ramsdale into a reservoir. Over the years, there had been a rash of articles and features in the local papers, with meetings in village halls and protestations to Parliament and the local councils. And there had been a modest success. As Sergeant Blaketon spoke, I could dimly recall some of the local antagonism — indeed one man, whose name had meant nothing to me at the time, had won an important battle to save some rare flowers which flourished on a patch of land close to the proposed shoreline. His win meant the water level would be lower than first planned.
Speculation about the proposed reservoir and dam had been rife for years, the first hint arising long before I came to Aidensfield. Because references had been few in recent months, however, the story had slipped from public consciousness, consequently the likelihood of a new reservoir had been relegated to the back of my mind.
But I couldn’t escape it now. It was a reality and it was going to be virtually on my doorstep. Sergeant Blaketon’s reference to Ramsdale reminded me of Gordon Precious’s painting which was hanging in my lounge. It depicted the dale as I knew it, unspoilt and undeveloped, little changed over the centuries. But change was coming, and it was coming fast. Ramsdale’s beautiful landscape would vanish beneath an artificial lake and the entire dale would be permanently transformed; tourists who had come to walk the moors or study the wild life, would be replaced by those who came to water ski or to sail their boats. The music of curlews and skylarks would be replaced with that of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Shops and offices would appear where heather and gorse had once reigned. The painting I had bought from Gordon Precious would therefore be a pleasing reminder of Ramsdale’s former glory.
It was while listening to Sergeant Blaketon and subconsciously recalling the purchase of that picture, that I realized it was some time since I had seen Gordon and his brown suit at Arnold Merryweather’s bus stop. As I pondered his absence, I also realized that Deirdre had not been enlivening the village with her short skirts, wide smiles and friendly chatter. She still worked behind the bar at the Hopbind Inn; I’d seen her there once or twice but in the few words we’d exchanged, she’d never mentioned any change in her family circumstances. Even so, I wondered where Gordon had gone; perhaps he’d got another job?
But my musings were interrupted by Sergeant Blaketon. In his familiar tones, he was continuing ‘For those not familiar with the geography of Ramsdale, it lies a couple of miles to the north-west of Aidensfield as the crow flies. Through it flows Ramsdale Beck which is the excellent source of water for the new reservoir because it has many small tributaries over a wide watershed. To capture that water, the dam will be built across the dale at this point,’ and he indicated a place on his wall map.
We strained forward to look. The site of the dam was where the minor unsurfaced lane crossed the dale via the ancient pack-horse bridge, known as Ramsdale Bridge. In recent memory, that old bridge had served ramblers and a herd of dairy cows which had crossed the beck at milking time, but it was too narrow for modern traffic. Now, the cows had gone and even ramblers were barred from the dale; it meant the bridge was rarely used and it was precisely on the site for the new dam.
Blaketon was saying, ‘The proposed demolition of the old bridge caused an outcry so Ramsdale Bridge will be removed stone by stone and rebuilt elsewhere. In that way, it will be preserved. The dam will occupy the site of the bridge and it will span the entire valley. The area above that old bridge as we view it now will be flooded. It will produce a reservoir one and a half miles long by three quarters of a mile wide at the widest point, here,’ and he stabbed the map again. ‘The dam itself will be thirty feet high, and the water at its deepest point will be twenty-five feet deep when the reservoir is full. That’s a lot of water. And when the reservoir is complete, it will become a tourist attraction which will bring in more people and more traffic. And therefore more work for us.’
‘There’s no village in the dale, is there?’ pointed out Alf Ventress.
‘No. There’s only a narrow unsurfaced lane which circles the dale and runs across the pack-horse bridge — it’s little more than a footpath in the higher reaches. There’s a deserted farmhouse too, with some outbuildings. That’s beside the lane where it is wider — it’s called Ramsdale House. There are sundry other ruined barns, dry-stone walls and other relics of man, however. The dale used to be rich farmland but it has been untouched since Swanland purchased it years ago. Eventually, the green lane around the dale will be widened and surfaced to provide a route around the shores of the new lake. The old farmhouse will survive and the level of water, when the dam is complete, will rise to within a few feet of that road and house. Thus a picturesque lake will be created and it is envisaged it will become a centre for those wishing to indulge in water sports, nature study and other leisure activities.’
‘That house is the only one in the upper dale,’ I commented.
‘Yes, it’s the only dwelling in the upper dale. No houses, farms, churches, chapels or graveyards will be submerged, which is why Swanland Corporation were able to get approval for their plan. As work begins, therefore, there will be a lot of activity in the dale including the part which will be flooded but the chief centre of activity will be around the new dam. That’s where a temporary settlement of site offices and workmen’s huts will be assembled.’
‘Do we know how many workers will come?’ I asked.
‘I have tried to get precise figures from both the corporation and the contractors — Marchant French — but neither will commit themselves. They would only say it will be upwards of a hundred, fluctuating between as low as fifty and as high as two hundred, depending upon the work being undertaken at any given time. Although this will not be a particularly large reservoir, it will create work for us and it’s going to be on your beat, Rhea.’
Although some of the workforce would be permanent, there’d be an interchange of personnel, some working on specialist activities with others undertaking the ongoing labouring work. Many of the workmen would be subcontractors or members of a travelling workforce who specialized in the construction or maintenance of dams and reservoirs. They would be drafted in as and when required. There’d also be an injection of local people who’d be hired for any tasks that might arise.
Many dams were being constructed at that time, both in the United Kingdom and overseas, while lots of those built earlier were being subjected to rigid inspections under the 1930 Reservoirs (Safety Provisions) Act. I wasn’t quite sure how the legalities of dam construction would involve me but felt there would be official scrutineers and other officials who would supervise the progress of the construction. Most certainly, that was not part of my duties.
‘I’m sure we will cope, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘From a daily point of view, the site is well away from Aidensfield, so the village itself will not be too greatly inconvenienced.’
‘There’ll be an increase in heavy traffic, probably at odd hours of the day or night,’ he reminded me. ‘And the pubs on your beat will prove popular, I’ve no doubt, as well as those in Ashfordly and nearby. Let’s hope we don’t get fights and riots over women, that’s the usual result of having an army of construction workers living and working in a compact area. Now, I have some handouts for you all, giving information about the contractors and the name of the persons in charge of various departments. Names of supervisors and responsible persons are given, along with phone numbers and addresses. If there are any major problems, deal with them through me or in my absence, through Sub-Divisional Headquarters. Among your papers there is a projected schedule, a scale map of the reservoir and other data. Take it and study it, then let’s hope we can absorb the additional workload without hindering our heavy responsibilities to the people of this district.’
There were murmurs of agreement as we all received our paperwork, and afterwa
rds Sergeant Blaketon addressed me. ‘Rhea, I think you and I should take a tour around the proposed site. We need to familiarize ourselves with its geography before the workforce arrives.’
‘A good idea, Sergeant,’ I said.
‘Right, we’ll go immediately,’ and he reached for his cap.
Chapter Two
The Lord sitteth above the water flood;
and the Lord remaineth a King for ever.
Psalms xxix. 9
Sergeant Blaketon was unfamiliar with Ramsdale so he ordered me to drive the official car. If the bodywork got scratched by thorns in the narrow lanes or if the car lost its exhaust through being grounded on the rough, unsurfaced roads, then I would be responsible. Such is the subtlety of sergeants.
Unperturbed by this heavy responsibility, I drove from Ashfordly Police Station and after twenty minutes or so we approached the distinctive outline of Ramsdale Cross. This tall stone cross dominated the horizon as we motored along High Cross Rigg and I suggested we halt beside it, assuring Sergeant Blaketon that it would provide us with an elevated and very useful view of the dale below. In particular, it would reveal the upper reaches which had been earmarked for the new reservoir and we’d also see the unmade road which encircled the dale and which would one day provide a route around the entire circumference of the new lake. He’d value a knowledge of its route in case we had to use it during an emergency. I told him we’d be able to see Ramsdale’s old pack-horse bridge too, a nostalgic sight during its final days of spanning the beck.
Standing in the shadow of the tall stone cross and looking into the dale which was spread before us, I found myself thinking of the picture painted by Gordon Precious.
I wondered if he was going to capture the final days of Ramsdale Bridge — I hoped he would. In the painting I had bought, Gordon had depicted not only the bridge but the entire dale and, by painting it from the very point of view we were now using, he had caught a grim moodiness we were not experiencing in the bright sunshine. Gazing at the scene he had painted so well, we could see the silvery glint of the Ramsdale Beck as it snaked between alders and willows, and we could view the high backcloth of the heathery, treeless moors which surrounded the dale. Crossing the humpbacked bridge was a length of the rough lane which circled the upper reaches of the dale, while the large deserted house stood beside the lane midway along the eastern escarpment. It was all in Gordon’s painting, but we had music too. The sound of a soaring skylark singing beautifully somewhere in the heavens reached us, and a red grouse chattered angrily in the heather, protesting at our presence. We stood in silence for a few minutes to absorb the stunning view and the wild splendour of the dale. For some time, the grouse continued to grumble and I guessed it had a nest concealed nearby; probably, we had disturbed it on the nest or while tending its brood of chicks.
‘You realize some people would pay a fortune to enjoy this view.’ Sergeant Blaketon was clearly impressed by what he could see. ‘You don’t get views like this in the south. Tourists, hikers and the like would love it. And we’re getting paid for standing here.’
‘It’s times like this I think a rural policeman has the finest job in the world,’ I said. ‘All this fresh air, beautiful scenery and wild life about us . . .’
‘Soon to be disrupted by mechanical shovels, earth-moving machines and drunken yobbos . . .’ he grinned. ‘But, yes, let’s enjoy it while we can.’
Before resuming our patrol, however, I realized the lonely Ramsdale House was occupied. Smoke was rising from its chimney and there was a line of washing fluttering in the strong moorland breeze.
‘There’s someone in that house!’ I pointed to the rising smoke.
‘So, what’s unusual about that?’ asked Sergeant Blaketon.
‘I thought it was deserted,’ I told him. ‘Certainly, it’s always been empty while I’ve been patrolling the area.’
‘Well, this dale’s going to become very busy,’ he said. ‘It might be one of the construction workers who’s found a nice quiet place. A case of first come, first served, I reckon.’
‘If so, he’s been quick off the mark!’ I commented.
‘Someone with inside knowledge perhaps? Who does it belong to, that house?’ asked Blaketon.
‘Swanland Corporation.’ I wanted to show Blaketon I knew a good deal about this reservoir project. ‘They bought most of the dale some ten or twelve years ago, when the estate sold those parts it owned. A few parcels of land remained in private hands, though, and one of them contained rare flowers. The corporation had the dale earmarked as a possible site for a reservoir years ago, although there were the inevitable objections which resulted in several alternative schemes. Some bits of land in the high dale were not estate-owned and if my memory is accurate, it was a crop of rare wild flowers which determined the final agreed water level. All this happened long before I was posted to Aidensfield but because I was born and bred hereabouts, I was aware of the proposal even if I had no idea of its timescale. The fate of that house was aired when the objections were first being considered; there was early talk of it being submerged. It has remained empty all this time and it is very remote, as you can see, with no surfaced road leading to it. I’m not even sure whether it has electricity, running water or flush toilets. At first, the corporation refused to rent it to a tenant because no one knew, with any certainty in those early days, where the waterline would be or when, if ever, the dam would be built. They didn’t want a sitting tenant who might refuse to quit when the water began to rise! If the dam had been bigger, the water level would have been considerably higher and the house would have been submerged although I think it would have been demolished for reasons of safety of those practising water sports.’
‘So the objectors won a partial battle by ensuring the water would rise only to an agreed lower level?’
‘Yes, they did. Those rare flowers in the upper dale will survive above the water line. I remember the fuss before I came to Aidensfield. I can’t remember the name of the chap involved, but he did battle with the authorities and won because of the rare flowers on his land. I remember thinking at the time it was a name which was very apt for his campaign but can’t recall it now. People called it flower power! The house will be on the edge of the new lake and it’ll command wonderful views across the water, a perfect place for a country lover or a water-sports fanatic.’
‘Somebody got in there pretty quickly, even though they’ll have to tolerate years of disturbance from the construction work,’ said Blaketon, as he watched the rising smoke. ‘A small price to pay for eventual peace, perhaps?’
‘I’d like to check it out,’ I said. ‘Just to make sure it is someone who’s got permission to be there, not campers, squatters or a bunch of hippies.’
‘A good idea, and I want to see where the main site offices will be. I’ll have to draft an operation order to deal with any emergency that might arise and there’s also the security aspect to consider. We don’t want valuable construction equipment being damaged by vandals, tools being nicked from our patch or wage snatches, do we, Rhea? That’s the sort of thing that plays havoc with crime figures!’
‘You’ll be discussing security with the contractors when they arrive?’ I put to him.
‘I will. They’ll employ their own security staff but it’s important we establish working links with the contractors.’
‘I’ll take you down now,’ I said, pointing to a steep incline which led through the heather.
When we arrived in Ramsdale, the area set aside for the site offices and other amenities had already been cleared and levelled and it was identified with yellow-painted marker posts. There were no workmen present at this stage, however, and no vehicles, merely evidence of their fairly recent presence. We noted the route around the dale was passable but only just. In wet weather or in conditions of snow, it would cause problems unless it was properly surfaced. Even a vehicle as light as a small motor car would sink into the muddy surface.
‘There are pl
ans to upgrade that green lane provided the legal hurdles can be overcome,’ Sergeant Blaketon said. ‘The conservationists weren’t too happy about it, but if this place is going to generate traffic both during and after the construction work, then this route must be surfaced and widened and made able to cope with emergency vehicles. I’ll submit a report to the Highways Department.’
I felt sure such considerations had already been proposed — and I guessed Sergeant Blaketon would be aware of them — but a nudge from the local police might just expedite matters.
We tried to visualize the appearance of this beautiful dale with the huge dam in position and acres of fresh water spreading across the landscape. It was not an easy picture to conjure from the present scenario but our visit was useful from an operational point of view. We were sure that a sturdy security fence would be constructed to safeguard valuable vehicles and equipment while they were not in use, and I knew this would be the first of many visits I would make during the forthcoming months.
‘Right, now for the house,’ said the sergeant. ‘You know that if it is squatters, you’ve no right to eject them? That’s up to the owners to sort out, it’s not a police matter, unless there’s likely to be a breach of the peace during any ejection process. And your duty is only to prevent a breach of the peace; you don’t take sides.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ I said. ‘But at least I can alert the owners if people are occupying their property without authority.’
CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19) Page 2
