Parking my motorbike close to the girls’ cycles, I stood at the gate to survey the activity. I could see several helmeted men moving about, some on small dumper trucks, others on foot and yet more operating what seemed to be a herd of earth-moving giants in the form of powerful diggers. But the girls were nowhere to be seen. I decided to pop into the site office in the hope I would find Ken Rigby, the site foreman. The secretaries who worked in his office were not there, being a Saturday, but inside I did find a man poring over a set of plans. He smiled and straightened up as I appeared in the doorway.
‘Yes, Officer, can I help?’ He would be in his late forties, balding, with rimless glasses, and he sounded like a professional man rather than a manual worker. This was the first time I had met him.
‘I’m looking for Ken Rigby,’ I said.
‘Oh, it’s his Saturday afternoon off, he’s gone to Thirsk Races. There’s a local bus trip apparently, from Elsinby.’
‘That’s right. There’s a well-fancied local horse running,’ I told him. ‘Western Cloud. Arnold Merryweather has laid on a bus trip from the pub. The whole village has put money on that horse!’
‘Ken’s gone with that trip. So, is there anything I can do for you, Constable? I’m Alan Haywood, the site engineer.’
After introducing myself, I explained I was making a patrol of the locality, something I did on a regular basis, and then added I had noticed the unattended girls’ pedal cycles near the security fence. I explained the owners were a couple of fourteen-year-old girls.
‘If they’re on the site, they shouldn’t be,’ he said firmly. ‘Come on, Mr Rhea, we’ll have a walk around. I’ll show you what we’re doing at this stage, and if I find those girls, with or without any of our men, I’ll send them packing.’
As he led me around the site, I noticed the absence of the little packhorse bridge and the rustic lane which had crossed the dale. Both had vanished; as they had been within the confines of the security fences and behind the rows of huts, their removal had occurred without any outsiders realizing.
‘Probably you know we’re going to rebuild the old bridge,’ Haywood told me as if reading my mind. ‘We’re going to resite it on the dam when the dam’s complete, a kind of memento.’
‘I knew about the reconstruction,’ I smiled, ‘but I didn’t realize it was going to be a feature of the finished dam. I think that’s a great idea.’
‘It’s our contribution to the local heritage, but not many members of the public seem to know about our plans. There’s a place reserved for it on top of the dam where it will span the walkway. The public will be allowed access and it’ll become an attractive feature. That was part of the agreement between Swanland Corporation and the estate but it never got into the papers. In fact, when the dam is complete, the whole project will be known as Ramsdale Bridge Reservoir.’
‘That’ll please a lot of people,’ I nodded, not adding that I was one of those who was pleased.
‘Right, now to find those girls,’ he said with some determination. ‘If they are on site, there’s one place they’re likely to be. Follow me.’
After plonking a safety helmet on his head, he left the office and strode with surprising speed across the muddy site, making use of specially laid wooden walkways where they existed, and I followed like an obedient poodle. Clearly experienced at negotiating muddy pools of water, massive heaps of baked earth and numerous lumps of twisted metal and discarded stone, Haywood led me to the mobile crane. As we approached, I could see the silhouette of the driver in his elevated cab, and could then distinguish two figures with him, one at either side. He was hoisting a huge black waterpipe into the air and twirling it around as if it was a matchstick, displaying superb skills to his captive audience. I’d heard it said that some crane drivers could lift an object as small and fragile as a hen’s egg without cracking the shell or hoist a full mug of tea from the ground without spilling a drop.
All crane drivers were proud of their prowess and eager to impress their friends — especially girls — and this chap was no exception. He seemed inordinately skilled with huge lengths of iron piping, and I would not have doubted any tale which related to his abilities at those controls. He moved the massive jib around with astonishing precision, making it obey his commands with ease, almost as if it was an extension of his own arms. Haywood strode around to the front of the crane so that he was visible to the driver, then waved his hands and signalled for the crane’s work to be halted. With a grinding of gears, the machine came to a halt, leaving a pipe suspended in mid-air. It began to move like a weathervane in the wind, the crane’s steel hawser acting as a fulcrum in the centre, but everyone ignored it. Quite obviously, these men knew the pipe would hang there quite safely for as long as necessary, swinging slowly in the soft breeze like a giant compass pointer. A sturdy young man in green overalls and wearing a yellow helmet over his long, dark hair clambered down from the crane and came across to us. He’d be in his late twenties or early thirties, I estimated, although the helmet made it difficult to determine his age. At the sight of my uniform, his face revealed some concern.
Haywood was very brusque with him. ‘Who’s that in your cab, Jeff?’
‘Sorry, boss,’ the driver was immediately contrite.
‘Get them out, now,’ ordered Haywood. ‘Who are they?’
‘A couple of birds from the village, I thought there’d be no harm showing them the crane, not today when it’s quiet.’
‘Do you know how old they are?’ Haywood put to him.
‘Old? No, I never asked. Sixteen, seventeen, something like that.’
‘Fourteen,’ said Haywood.
‘Fourteen? Bloody hell!’ I could see the driver was shocked by that information. ‘Hey, with that copper here, you don’t think . . .’
‘We don’t think anything, Jeff, not yet. But you know we’re not insured for unauthorized members of the public coming on site. Especially schoolchildren. I’m sure you don’t want to do anything that would get the constable interested in your behaviour, either here or off site. They’re gaol-bait, Jeff. So get rid of them and do it now. This is a warning: next time, you’re fired.’
As the shaken crane driver strode slowly back to break the news to his guests, I waited beside Alan Haywood. He said quietly to me, ‘He won’t want us to think he’s kidnapping, Constable, but I’ve got to be extra firm with these blokes, otherwise they’ll run all over me. In view of those kids’ ages, he’s lucky not to be sacked, but we need him right now. He’s a good worker.’
I could understand his reaction but I was unable to take any official action unless he had physically interfered with the girls. So far as the site regulations were concerned, they were the responsibility of the contractors, not me. The driver returned to tell his passengers of this development and with lots of hand and head movements, he was telling them what had just transpired. After a short delay, the two sheepish girls climbed down from the huge crane and began to walk towards the exit of the site. Alan called them over.
‘Here, you two, I want a word!’
Neither was wearing any kind of protective headgear, and they came towards us with looks of apprehension on their faces. I could see them looking first at me and then at Haywood. He spoke first.
‘Who are you then?’
‘Denise Emmott.’
‘Elaine Sowerby.’
‘From Aidensfield?’
‘Yes,’ they said together, trying to avoid looking at me.
‘You could have got Jeff the sack, you know, coming on site like that.’
‘Sorry,’ they chorused.
‘And you could have caused a serious accident, crowding into the cab of that crane. It’s not made for passengers.’
‘We didn’t know,’ said Elaine.
‘Well, you know now. So I want no more visits like this, no more trespassing.’
‘Yes,’ they nodded.
‘And I understand from the constable that you’re schoolgirls, fourteen years
old?’
Both girls were blushing now and lowering their heads; they were behaving like naughty children at this stage; gone was any pretence at teenage sophistication.
‘I will pass your description around the site, to make sure my workmen keep you away from the place. So pass the word around among your pals: if one of our workers brings unauthorized people on to our site, they face the sack, immediately. No messing. They’ll be out of a job before you can blink an eyelid.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Denise, for them both.
‘Right, I think you’ve learned a lesson. Now, does our work interest you?’
‘Yes,’ said Denise, wondering why this hard man had suddenly changed his tactics with such ease.
‘Good, then if you want to see what’s going on, you ask permission first. That’s from either me or Mr Rigby in the site office, over there,’ and he pointed. ‘So the best thing to do is have a word with your form teacher and arrange a visit for all your classmates. You are senior girls, I believe? Then we can show you everything; we can make sure you are insured and we can provide the necessary safety head gear and so on. So, how about that?’
I knew this was not quite what the girls had expected nor did it embrace the real reason for their desire to visit the site, but it was a splendid piece of public relations work and I felt it would instil some kind of responsibility in the pair. They would respect Haywood for his adult treatment of them. Then, I took the opportunity to speak.
‘Do your parents know you are here?’ I looked at each in turn. They shook their heads.
‘Shall I tell them or will you?’ was my next question.
‘Nothing happened,’ spluttered Elaine. ‘You know, nothing wrong, we just looked at the crane and had a ride in it.’
‘Good,’ I said.
I could see that they understood the deeper implications of my remarks, and then Denise piped up and said, ‘I’ll tell my dad, about the school visit, I mean.’
‘Right.’ I addressed them seriously. ‘Let’s leave it at that for now. If you tell your parents, I won’t, but I want to know when you’ve done so because I want to know their reaction. OK? So next time you come here, get permission. I think it would be a very good project for your class. Is that all right with you, Mr Haywood?’
‘Sure, Constable. Fine. Right, you two. On your bikes and away you go. I’ll have words with Jeff Asquith when you’ve gone.’
As the two girls walked back to their waiting cycles, Alan Haywood watched their departure. They moved across the site with all the sensual assurance of girls two or three years older.
‘It’s unbelievable, isn’t it?’ he smiled. ‘Gaol-bait. That’s what they are. A good description, Constable. Who’d believe those two were only fourteen?’
‘Not your crane driver for one!’ I laughed.
‘He’s had a fright, thanks to your uniform, but we do get girls coming to our sites,’ he told me. ‘Prostitutes sometimes, but other hopeful amateurs as well, camp followers really they are. I’ll put a notice in the canteen, warning the lads about those kids.’
‘I wouldn’t describe them as camp followers,’ I said. ‘Not yet, anyway. But that’s what they could become if they continue like this.’
‘Will you speak to the parents?’ he asked, as he accompanied me back to my motorcycle.
‘Indirectly,’ I assured him. ‘They ought to know about this little episode but I’ll give the girls chance to do something themselves first. That’ll show I trust them. But your invitation to the school was a good move.’
‘We find it pays dividends in the long term, getting local groups to look around on an organized basis. I was genuine with my offer — I would welcome a school visit, or one from any formal group, male or female, young or old. We don’t want local people to feel we’re shutting them out, even if the sign on the gate says “no admittance”!’
By the time I returned to my motorcycle, Denise and Elaine were pedalling towards Aidensfield with never a backward look, but I did wonder whether this would be the last time they would unofficially visit Ramsdale or the reservoir site.
* * *
While I was in Ramsdale, I decided to visit Gordon Precious and to take up his earlier offer of a cup of tea. I’d have preferred a cool drink of orange or even lemonade but anything would help slake my thirst. When I eased the motorcycle into the paddock beside the house I could see Gordon in his garden. He had an easel erected and was painting a scene directly opposite his house. Calling out in advance, I went through the gate in the wall and he raised his hand to beckon me forward. I saw he was producing a watercolour of what looked like a ploughed field — it was in fact the base of the dale where the earth-moving machines had already cleared the topsoil as well as trees, dry-stone walls, boulders, scrubland and many other accoutrements of the countryside.
The enormous patch of bare earth now being cleared to facilitate the preliminary draining process would eventually become the bed of the new reservoir. It all looked like a gigantic building site but Gordon was being realistic — he was depicting the scene as a contemporary record for posterity with no attempt to conceal the reality. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I recalled, bringing to mind the words of the poet Margaret Wolfe Hungerford in her Molly Bawn and those of Lew Wallace in his The Prince of India.
‘That’s mighty good timing,’ he said, and at my approach, he laid his brush in a tray beneath his easel. ‘I’m about to knock off for a cool drink. Care to join me?’
‘Thanks, Gordon, I’d love that.’
‘Would you prefer tea or coffee?’
‘Oh, no, something cool would be fine,’ I said. ‘I’m dehydrated!’
‘Coming up in a few minutes,’ he said, disappearing indoors. I admired his unfinished work, comparing it with the view opposite and marvelling at the way he had managed to catch the mood of this bleak scene. Soon, he reappeared with two long glasses full of pink-coloured milk shakes with blobs of ice-cream on top. Straws were poking from the froth, a welcoming sight. I maintain that milk shakes should always be sipped through straws. With obvious contentment, we settled down to enjoy the drinks, Gordon showing me to a stone bench in the shade of the house. As he acted as host, I realized that this was indeed a different Gordon. He was relaxed and self-assured, no longer an introverted character dedicated to standing at the bus stop in his dull brown suit.
‘How’s things?’ I asked, after sampling my first delicious sips. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘Things are fine,’ he enthused. ‘I’m kept very busy and the commissions keep rolling in. I must admit I have the reservoir to thank for that; people keep asking me to produce paintings of the old scenes and the current scene and then they want me to do the new scene when the lake appears. That’ll keep me going for years.’
‘So long as you don’t get sick of painting the reservoir,’ I chided.
‘I don’t think I will. There’s other work as well, so I do get out and about, over the moors and even across to the coast. But I must admit the bulk of my commissioned work comes from the scene right before our very eyes. There’s been one good development, though: the contractors, Marchant French, have asked me to paint scenes of the development at the rate of one watercolour per month during the construction work. They want a series of water colours to hang in their head office, so you’ll see me working on site sometimes — with a paint-brush and easel instead of a pick and shovel.’
We chatted like old friends although we were comparative strangers, and I told him the reason for my current visit to Ramsdale. I did mention the girls and he grinned. Although he had no children, he knew how young girls behaved when interesting men appeared on the scene, and then he told me he’d seen them once or twice, cycling in the countryside around the site or walking on the moors. In fact, he added, he had painted them into some of his pictures, featuring them as two anonymous girls on bicycles riding through the heather.
I told him about the projected incorporation of the old pa
ckhorse bridge into the new dam and he expressed pleasure that the bridge would become a permanent feature of the dale, just as it had been in the past. Smiling, he said it would provide yet more material for his work!
In spite of our apparent friendliness, however, I did find him rather deep. I gained an impression that he was more eager to talk about his work than his private life and also thought he might be a difficult person to know intimately. I guessed that a close friendship with anyone would not appeal to him; he seemed to be happier on his own. But I had no wish to keep him from his work and so, once I had drained my milk shake with the inevitable noisy suction sounds from the straw, I thanked him for his hospitality, stood up and replaced my motorcycle helmet.
‘Is Deirdre working today?’ I asked, by way of enquiring after her.
‘No, she’s gone to Thirsk Races,’ he told me.
‘I had no idea she was a racing fan!’ I smiled.
‘She’s not,’ he admitted. ‘But there’s a bus trip from the Hopbind at Elsinby. Apparently, there’s a well-fancied local horse running in the three-fifteen, so the pub regulars have arranged a coach trip with Arnold Merryweather. Lunch at the racecourse followed by bags of betting and boozing with no worries about drinking and driving afterwards. Deirdre was invited so I told her she should go. She’s been a tremendous support since I gave up my job to be an artist, she deserves a day out. I hope she comes home with a profit from that horse, though!’
‘Western Cloud,’ I told him the name of the horse so he could check the results. ‘I couldn’t go because I was on duty this afternoon. The horse’s owner lives in Thackerston: he’s one of the regulars at the Hopbind. I’ve a pound each way so I do have an interest in the outcome.’
In calling on Gordon, I had displayed an interest in his work and had offered the hand of friendship but I departed in the firm belief that he was totally content in his self-imposed lonely life. In some ways, I could envy him, although I was quite content with my own niche in society. We parted on good terms, with me saying I’d buy another of his works when I had sufficient funds, and he telling me I was welcome to drop in any time I was in Ramsdale.
CONSTABLE AT THE DAM a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 19) Page 5
