Explanations would not be easy but I was pleased I didn’t have to make my excuses to Sergeant Blaketon. I was reminded of an old piece of Yorkshire wisdom which goes, “Being late home from t’ market often spoils a good bargain.”
I lengthened my stride and joined the singing of ‘April Showers’.
Chapter 3
When other lips and other hearts
Their tales of love shall tell.
ALFRED BUNN (1796-1860)
*
To those who have never been, North Yorkshire’s image is seldom that of a land of sylvan beauty. They don’t think of it as being graced by charming villages full of thatched cottages and peaceful ponds. But North Yorkshire’s Ryedale, reclining on the southern edge of the North York Moors, can shatter those illusions, if indeed they lurk in the mind. For Ryedale is a valley of thatched cottages, peaceful inns and village ponds. There are charming woodland glades, ruined castles and abbeys, quiet streams and a countryside so gentle that it would be more in keeping with the south or the west of England.
One of the most photographed of England’s thatched cottages is to be found here; it graces many a box of chocolates and country calendar. There are thatched inns too and many of the villages boast interesting collections of thatched homes. Some are remote and some are positioned at the side of our main roads. Some have been modernized and some have had their thatch removed, while several are the old-fashioned cruck houses.
Most are single-storied and contain oak beams which are dark with age. They derive from the early long-houses of the dales, being built with little architectural skill, but with the essentials of rural life in mind. Quite often, the family lived at one end and their livestock at the other, but these lowly homes were functional and cheap both to construct and maintain.
Cruck houses, many of which still stand, were constructed from early in medieval times until late in the seventeenth century. Pairs of oak trees were used, each pair being shorn of their branches until a tall, straight trunk remained. These were positioned with the thick portion on the ground, and the tips were then drawn together and linked with a ‘ridge tree’ to form a letter A. When standing upright, one or two spars were fixed to them so that the ‘A’ shape had two or even three crosspieces.
Several of these ‘A’ shapes were used, each erected some five yards from the other, and they formed the framework of the cottage. They were linked lengthwise to one another by more beams and spars. Stone walls, a flagstone floor and a thatched roof completed the building, and many of these stand today.
When I arrived at Aidensfield to occupy the hilltop police house with its lovely views of the valley, I found great delight in locating these delightful cottages. At one time, I considered making a register of them, purely for my own interest, but somehow, never found the time. Perhaps this interest in old houses coincided with a sudden interest in buying and renovating ancient country cottages. People everywhere wanted to buy them and occupy them, and there was a ready market for all kinds of ancient piles.
Wealthy people from the cities bought all manner of hovels and spent much time and lots of money ‘doing them up’. Some of the results were horrific, but it is fair to say that many were tastefully restored and brought back to life when, without this surge of interest, they might have been left to fall into total ruin.
Perhaps rural folk did not appreciate the architectural or historic significance of these little homes. They allowed them to be sold off, seldom making a bid to buy them. For them, the houses were often “That awd spot up t’ rooad that’s tummling doon and leeaks like a coo shed”.
As I toured the lanes of Ryedale, therefore, I became aware of all the thatched cottages in their various locations and in their various stages of repair or disrepair. From time to time, I saw our local thatcher at work — we called him a theeaker — and marvelled at his casual skills. Sometimes the cottages would be completely gutted and rebuilt, with all their ancient oak interior woodwork and flooring being removed and replaced with modern fittings.
But occasionally, someone would come along and buy a remote thatched cottage, then proceed to restore it in its original form, albeit with modem benefits such as damp-proofing, up-to-date plumbing, central heating and electricity. When done properly, such a house could be a delight, a real gem.
It was during my patrols along the lesser known byways around Aidensfield that I discovered Coltsfoot Cottage, a pretty country home if ever there was one. Tucked behind a tall, unkempt hawthorn hedge and almost hidden among a paddock thick with tall rose bay willow herbs, it had a thatched roof, whitewashed walls and tiny Yorkshire sliding windows. These were, and indeed still are, a feature of some moorland and Ryedale cottages.
Owned by one of the local estates, it had for years been occupied by an elderly man who paid the tiniest of rents and who therefore lived in a rather primitive manner. His toilet was an earth closet; he had no hot water and no electricity and the floors were sandstone flags. The estate had offered to implement a full modernization scheme but old Cedric had declined.
Having lived in the house since birth, he had no wish to change either it or his way of life. Dark, damp and neglected, it was a tumbledown old house and was known to date to the seventeenth century. But the interior was lovely; dark oak beams, an inglenook, tiny cosy rooms and a position of almost total seclusion gave it the status of a dream cottage. It was the kind of house that the country cottage-seekers of that time were desperately hunting, and was probably more attractive because it was so very ripe for modernization.
From the quiet lane which passed the front gate, it appeared to be unoccupied and derelict, although there was a patch of garden which produced hollyhocks, delphiniums and several varieties of rose. Some of these climbed the walls and smothered the thatched porch with colour in the summer, mingling so beautifully with the honeysuckle.
When Cedric died, the estate decided that it would be too expensive to bring the cottage up to contemporary standards. The subsequent rents would never justify the expense and so it was placed on the market. And even as the estate agent’s ‘For Sale’ signs were being erected, a wealthy insurance broker from London chanced to be passing.
With commendable speed and decisiveness he bought it; the price being very low due to its lamentable condition. But, like so many townspeople of the time, his great wish was to own a picturesque and isolated cottage wherein he could live a life of rural bliss far from the pressures of his high-flying career. It was a place he could ‘do up’; it needed thousands of pounds and many man-hours spending upon it, but the new owner of Coltsfoot Cottage was prepared to do all that. He wanted the perfect hideaway and he had found it.
In my role as the village policeman, I had to be aware of events on my patch, and so I kept a discreet eye on the empty cottage.
I did not want it to be vandalised or occupied by unauthorised visitors such as squatters who might come across it and establish a commune there. But within weeks of the purchase, the new owner began to make his impact. He came every weekend and sometimes during the week; he did a lot of the work himself, although he did employ contractors for the specialised tasks. The theeaker came to re-thatch the roof; a plumber came to install hot and cold water, a bathroom, shower and central heating while the electrician wired the house for lights and power.
A damp-course was installed; the garden was cleared; the walls were re-pointed and whitewashed and the woodwork was either varnished or painted. The exterior rubbish was cleared with the assistance of a JCB, and a drive and parking area constructed to accommodate his Rover and her MGB. This was laid with gravel which crunched when anyone walked across it, and then a small conservatory was added at the rear, partly as a draught-proofing scheme and partly to grow flowers and cacti.
Within a year, Coltsfoot Cottage had been transformed. Happily, roses still climbed up the white walls and trailed across the porch; but now, with its new roof of clean thatch and sparkling exterior, it was the ideal dream cottage. Modem, clean bu
t incredibly beautiful, I would have loved to have been the owner, but such things were not for constables. This man had money, and he knew how to use it.
During his weekend visits, I learned his name was James Patrington; once or twice as I patrolled past his gate on my little Francis Barnett, I would stop for a chat, ostensibly to pass the time of day and to make him aware that I was keeping an eye on his premises. Frequently, I found him in the garden dressed in a pair of old grey trousers, a holey brown sweater and Wellingtons. Sometimes, his wife was there too and one day they invited me in for a coffee.
They were a handsome, friendly couple; he was in his mid-forties and a shade less than six feet tall. Stockily built, he was balding and had once had a head of thick, black curly hair, evidence of which lingered about his neck and curled over his collar. Round-faced with dark, intelligent eyes, he smoked a heavy pipe which never seemed to leave him, and told me he was a partner in a firm of City insurance brokers.
His wife, Lucy, would be in her late thirties and was almost as tall as her husband; slim and elegant, she had dark hair too, and this was showing signs of premature greying, something she did not try to hide and which therefore made her most attractive. She had very slender hands, I noticed, the kind one would expect in a piano player and her peach-complexioned face always bore a pleasant smile.
I was to learn that she ran a fashion shop in Chelsea and that its demands did not permit her to come to Coltsfoot Cottage every weekend. James, however, always seemed to be there from late on a Friday evening until late on a Sunday evening. I knew that he worshipped the cottage and he asked me to keep an eye upon it during his absence. This I was happy to do. I was supplied with both his business and home address, and his telephone number at both places in case of problems.
“Come and see my cacti,” he invited one Saturday afternoon when I called. He was alone and led me into the conservatory at the rear where I saw hundreds of tiny plant pots. All were neatly labelled with obscure names and some plants bore incredibly beautiful flowers. “I grow these for fun, I suppose,” he said. “I sell some, but I reckon that I’ve every known variety here and at my other home … ”
And so I became on good terms with the Patringtons. I cannot claim friendship, however; the relationship was that of the village bobby and those who lived on his patch, a friendly albeit business-like acquaintanceship. But both of them always made me welcome and sometimes, I felt, when James was alone, he was glad of someone to talk to. Gradually, he did make his own friends in the area, people of the same professional class to which he belonged, and I would see him en route to the local inns or restaurants, or perhaps heading for a cocktail party or drinks gathering at one of the homes in the area.
Lucy, when she came, did not often leave the cottage. Sometimes, she drove up from London with James and sometimes, if she had to return early, she would drive up alone in her red MGB. Clearly, her own commercial interests kept her very busy and when she did come to Coltsfoot Cottage, she wished for nothing more than a quiet weekend before the blazing log fire in its oak-beamed inglenook, and perhaps a pleasant dinner with James at one of our splendid local inns or restaurants.
They came and they went, not interfering in the village activities, but simply enjoying the unhurried pace and solitude offered by Coltsfoot Cottage. Incomers though they were, they had rescued the old house from destruction and decay, for I’m sure that no local person could or would have raised the capital necessary to buy and renovate it.
Once the Patringtons were established, I saw less of them; every so often, though, I would receive a telephone call from James advising me that he would not be at Coltsfoot that coming weekend and asking if I would keep an eye on the cottage during my patrols. It would be about two years after he had bought the cottage, that their pretty little home hit the headlines of the national newspapers. It happened like this.
High on the hills behind Aidensfield lies the Yorkshire and North of England Sailplane Club, one of the busy gliding clubs of this area. Gliding is very popular from here because the lofty moors provide ideal conditions for launching these engineless aircraft. The thermals created by the ranging hills and dales give the light aircraft a tremendous uplift on rising currents of air, while the views from aloft are staggering in their range and beauty, and the peace they signify.
Since the war, gliding in these elegant sailplanes has become more and more popular and the thriving club now has its own landing strip, runway and control tower, along with administrative and social buildings. There is also a caravan site for its members. By the time I arrived at Aidensfield, the prestige of this club had become such that it hosted events which were of considerable importance in the gliding world — these included both local and national championships, as well as club gliding events and social functions.
During the long, lazy summer which marked the Patringtons’ second anniversary in Coltsfoot Cottage, the club hosted the British Long Distance Sailplane Championships. This attracted a host of enthusiasts to the area who were accommodated at local hotels, inns, boarding-houses and cottages. They swamped the nearby caravan sites and their presence brought wealth to the area. These people had money and cheerfully spent it.
Many of them were from the world of business and commerce and I wondered if James Patrington had joined the Club. As I patrolled my beat during the two weeks of the Championships, I could imagine him soaring aloft in a glider as he enjoyed the solitude and silence of the skies above the North York Moors. Perhaps he was involved, perhaps he wasn’t. I did not know.
But, like all previous sailplane championships, there were problems. The more regular of these problems involved a glider coming to earth in an unexpected place. With so many competitors and so many engineless aircraft in the sky, I suppose it is inevitable that some of them fail to remain aloft or cannot make the return journey back to base. The result was that over the two weeks of this event, some six or seven gliders crash-landed around the Club premises. Fortunately, none of these resulted in serious injury to the pilot or anyone else.
I witnessed one of these crash landings. I was patrolling my patch one Saturday afternoon and had parked my Francis Barnett in Crampton. I was performing a short foot patrol around that village and had just emerged from the village shop when my attention was drawn to a whistling sound overhead. And there, floating dangerously low over the village, was a gleaming white glider. It didn’t need an expert to realise that it had lost its necessary height, and that it was coming rapidly to earth. To be honest, it was the sort of thing the local people had come to expect and Ryedale does possess many suitable places upon which to safely land.
With the wind hissing about its framework, it came frighteningly low over the chimneys and pantile roofs and it was banking as it circled in a desperate search for a safe landing site. Beyond the village there were flat fields and indeed, there is a disused wartime airfield — I felt sure the pilot was urging his downward floating craft towards that.
As I hurried between the cottages to watch the pilot’s frantic efforts to both save the village from danger and to safely bring down his aircraft, I lost sight of the glider. It disappeared behind a row of cottages as I realised it could never regain the air. It was far too low; it had lost all its altitude.
I hurried to my motorcycle, activated the radio and called my Control Room.
“Delta Alpha Two-Nine,” I radioed. “Location Crampton. It appears that a glider has crash-landed in the vicinity of Crampton — am investigating. Over.”
“Received Two-Nine. Please provide sit-rep as soon as possible. Control out.”
With several villagers watching with interest, I motorcycled out of Crampton towards Brantsford, for that road led into a bewildering array of narrow lanes and tiny hamlets. The glider was last seen heading in that direction; I was sure it had come down somewhere in that maze of lanes and fields, or even on the disused airfield. It could not have flown far and there was no sign of it in the air.
As I drove alon
g the lane which ran through the old disused airfield, there was no sign of the glider, so I turned left and chugged along, sometimes standing on the footrests so that I could peer over the hedges into the large fields at either side. I was now heading for Seavham.
I drove through the hamlet and remained alert for any signs or news that the glider had landed nearby. But there was no one in the street and the Post Office was closed. At least ten minutes had elapsed since my sighting, so I continued through the village and turned left at the end, passing the oval pond which was overlooked by two pretty thatched cottages.
This lane took me on a circular route back to Crampton and I felt that the aircraft couldn’t have travelled much further. It hadn’t.
As I crested a gentle rise in the lane, I could see its tail sticking into the air like that of a diving whale and I could distinguish one crooked wing behind a copse of sycamore trees. I accelerated now, anxious to save life if that proved necessary, and within a minute was drawing up at the scene of the crash.
I was horrified.
The glider had come down squarely on the top of Coltsfoot Cottage. The nose had penetrated the newly-thatched roof and had thrust piles of straw on to the earth around the house.
Both the nose and fuselage were hidden deep inside the walls, while one wing had cracked off completely and was lying in the garden. The other was sticking out of the cottage, its fuselage-end deep inside the walls and the slender tip rising awkwardly to the sky like a huge broken feather. And the tail stuck up too, like a sentinel.
For one fleeting moment, I thought it looked like a giant white seagull sitting on a nest, but this was serious.
I parked my motorcycle on the road outside and ran into the grounds. My first contact was with a woman.
She was comforting James Patrington as he sat on the lawn. She saw me approaching.
“Thank God,” she said.
“Anyone badly hurt?” was my first question.
Constable Along the Lane (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 7) Page 5
