In presenting his plans to the planning authorities, Haldan made it clear that he could not provide precisely detailed plans of his creation because its final appearance and style would emerge only while it was being moulded in the middle of that remote, untamed piece of windswept moorland. He did say, however, that it would comprise natural ingredients and would be egg-shaped; to support his application, he produced drawings and photographs of similar works in different parts of the world, ranging from the Himalayas to the jungles of Borneo. He also produced letters from supporters who said they had total faith in his concept — whatever he did produce would be memorable, enduring and important. After all, he was a sculptor of international renown.
One minor problem was that sketches and photographs of his other works, and an outline of this proposal, had never been viewed by the general public. They were seen only by the planners.
News of his rather controversial proposal reached the public when the press published a summary of his ideas after they had been discussed at a planning meeting of the North York Moors National Park Authority. Due to the powerful support he had secured from the North Riding of Yorkshire Arts Council, coupled with some financial input from several well-known Yorkshire sponsors, his scheme had won the narrowest of approvals. Apparently, someone on the planning committee pointed out that if the government could erect the massive early warning station on a moorland hill at Fylingdales, then surely Haldan Chance could not be prevented from erecting something of a similar but much smaller shape. Whatever the appearance of his egg-shaped creation, it would be but a pimple compared with the might of the early warning station on a neighbouring hilltop — a pipit’s egg compared with its three BMEWS ostrich eggs. Against that kind of simple logic, Haldan won his approval.
Following this approval, there were members of the public who thought the planners had lost their brains, especially those whose more conventional plans had been rejected. There were also some subsequent rumblings from feature writers and questioning correspondence from the public in the local press, but in spite of it all, Haldan set about his task and one of his first actions was to visit me. Having telephoned to make the necessary appointment, he arrived at my police house around noon on a Monday in late spring. I had no idea what he looked like, but he arrived in a beautiful maroon 3.4 litre Jaguar which he drove into my drive and from which he emerged with a briefcase full of sketches and other papers.
I think I expected an artistic-looking character with a beard, jeans and sandals, but this was a tall and very distinguished-looking gentleman in his mid-sixties whose bearing and sheer force of personality suggested he was a member of the aristocracy. With an erect carriage, lots of pure white and very well-cut hair, a white moustache equally well trimmed and very fresh pink skin, he was the epitome of sparkling health, while his lovat green suit was clearly very expensive and tailor-made. He wore highly polished brown brogue shoes too. Without doubt he had the appearance of a well-off Yorkshire landowner and this was reinforced when he spoke with a clipped upper-crust accent; also, I noticed gold rings on the fingers of his left hand and an expensive watch on his wrist. Clearly he was a man of wealth and style.
I led him into my plain office and settled him on a battered police-issue chair while Mary went off to organize some coffee — I hoped she would find a mug without any cracks or chips. Having dispensed with the preliminaries, he said, ‘Well, Constable Rhea, I’m sure you’ll be wondering why I wanted a chat with you.’
‘Yes, your work on the Rigg is hardly a police matter!’ I smiled, having read about his enterprise.
‘Indeed my work is not, but my rather extended preparatory measures are within your jurisdiction,’ he said. ‘And for that reason, I need your co-operation.’
He opened his briefcase and placed a pen-and-ink drawing on my desk. Before I could examine it, he followed it with an Ordnance Survey map which he quickly unfolded and spread in front of me.
‘That is a preliminary and rather rough sketch of my work, Mr Rhea,’ he said, addressing me with some formality. ‘I shall start next week, but before I discuss that, I thought I should identify the site of my sculpture to you so there is no doubt in your mind.’
On the map, he pointed to Three Howes Rigg. It was a very remote and exposed place rising to about a thousand feet above sea level with no road leading to the summit, although there were narrow, unsurfaced footpaths to the top from three different locations in the dales below. Totally devoid of trees and shrubs but covered with heather like much of the surrounding moorland, this particular summit was visible from far and wide; the extensive views from the top were stunning with the North Sea being visible to the east and the Pennines to the west, with the lesser dales and villages being spread below like a geographic model. There were views throughout the full 360 degrees as one stood on that site — and that meant that Haldan’s sculpture would be visible from a great distance on all sides and from a variety of vantage points upon the lower ground.
I began to wonder what impact it would have upon people who viewed it as they crossed those moors or journeyed through the dales below either on foot, by motor vehicle or train, or even flew over it by aircraft. Whatever its final appearance, it might, from a distance, appear to be a terrible blot on the landscape or an egg-like pimple on the moortop or just another curious object to add to the thousand or so standing stones. At this stage, and in spite of his sketches, I had no notion of the appearance of his finished work.
‘I know the Rigg,’ I said, adding, ‘although I seldom visit the place in the course of my duties. If I do go, it’s usually for a long walk in pleasant weather conditions. It’s not the sort of place you drop in to see while passing.’
‘I think the same could be said of most visitors to the Rigg’s summit,’ he agreed. ‘And I would hope that the presence of my work on that summit would encourage visitors to make the effort to climb the Rigg, either to view it or to involve themselves in it. Now, my reason for coming to see you is to ask you to keep a professional eye on my work as it progresses. I cannot be on the site for twenty-four hours every day and I do need to leave my raw materials and equipment unattended for a considerable time. I do not want them stolen or damaged, you see. That is the purpose of this visit, Constable, to ask you to ensure there is no vandalism to, or theft of, any of my materials or equipment.’
‘But it’s a two-mile hike to the top of the Rigg!’ I said. ‘It’s not on any of my regular routes. It’s not as if I shall be passing frequently! And I doubt if opportunist thieves are likely to be passing either.’
I felt I had to tell this imposing gentleman that I had other duties, and that protection of his raw materials on the isolated hilltop was not my most pressing responsibility.
‘But it is your duty to protect property, is it not, Constable?’
As he spoke, I could hear the voice of the aristocracy; I could imagine this man giving orders to a village constable from his country mansion in years gone by and wondered about his background and upbringing.
In this respect he was something of a mystery. I’d never heard of him prior to this development and knew nothing of his background, nor had I seen any of his creations in our galleries or museums. That was not surprising, however, because I was not a regular visitor to art galleries or exhibitions and his work was not the sort which would attract my attention from a professional point of view. As a policeman, I had no formal interest in Haldan Chance. But in listening to him and observing his demeanour, I could imagine Haldan regarding the local constable as a member of his own staff just as some landowners used to do until comparatively recently. And I was not going to allow that to happen.
‘I have eight villages to patrol, in addition to extra duties in Ashfordly, Strensford and elsewhere, Mr Chance,’ I said. ‘But of course I shall pay due attention to your materials. If you tell me where your belongings will be and how they can be identified, I shall ensure that all patrolling police officers know about them. But I cannot guarantee tw
enty-four hour security, no one can. Nonetheless, I shall personally keep an eye on the site as I undertake the general scope of my other duties.’
‘My materials will be on the hilltop.’ He looked at me as if I was not comprehending his wishes. ‘Everything will be on the Rigg as I work; everything will be up there day and night, Constable, in the open air, unfenced and vulnerable. I need everything to hand as I create my work; I do not want to have to stop in order to obtain a small item. Everything I need will be there and I am sure you will appreciate I cannot produce a work of art if someone has removed any component or vital part or caused damage to them. So, when I have completed a day’s work, I shall have to leave the materials behind and that means they will be unattended. I cannot take them with me. I am not like an artist with a paintbrush and easel. I am a sculptor of earth materials. That is my problem.’
‘So what in fact are we talking about?’ I asked. ‘What kind of materials will they be?’
‘Wood, Constable. Timber. Tree trunks in fact.’
‘Tree trunks?’ I was puzzled now.
‘And concrete,’ he added.
‘Concrete?’
‘Yes. And in addition to my raw materials, there will be a concrete mixer, along with digging tools, a saw bench and sundry other items, perhaps including some boulders or large stones.’
‘It sounds more like a building site to me!’ I tried to make light of this but he was deadly serious.
‘It is a building site, Constable Rhea, I shall be constructing my work of art, an enduring piece of rural art imbued with the deep symbolism of nature with overtones of history in the past, present and future, and I shall do so with earth materials as I have explained. I know that you and your colleagues patrol building sites to protect them against vandals and thieves, which is precisely what I require at my site. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘The moors up there are private property,’ I pointed out. ‘Ashfordly Estate owns them and the police therefore have restricted access. Our rights are just the same as those of the general public, which is why large enterprises like factories and department stores employ their own security staff. Our powers are limited in private premises, Mr Chance. I ought to make you aware of that.’
‘I do realize that, Constable, for I have been in regular discussion with the estate office, but I will point out that there are public footpaths to the summit. The public is not excluded, Constable, and crimes might be committed.’
‘Footpaths, yes, not roads. So how do you propose to convey your large materials and equipment to the site?’ I asked.
‘I have made arrangements to hire a tractor and trailer,’ he said. ‘And a saw bench, and a concrete mixer. And I need a device for lifting the tree trunks so that their bases can be guided into the holes I shall prepare. I have spoken to your local timber merchant, a Mr Stone.’
‘Well, Mr Chance, I think that if a thief wanted to steal anything, he would have to make similar arrangements, and I cannot see any thief taking the time or trouble to do that, not for a tree trunk or bit of cement. But I will enter your request for supervision in our occurrence book so that all my colleagues are fully aware of the potential vulnerable property. In short, I shall do what I can to protect your property, bearing in mind the constraints.’
‘Good, that is what I want to hear. I shall be making a start next Monday morning, which means the materials will be on site from around noon onwards.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, deciding not to argue any further. ‘We’ll do our best to safeguard them.’
‘Now, Constable Rhea, this is a sketch of the finished work, not even the planners have seen this but I thought you might be interested.’ He closed the map to reveal the piece of cartridge paper which was on my desk. It bore a pencil drawing which had been colour-washed in watercolour paint. Although there was no indication of its size, I thought it looked like a tulip flower head sitting on the moor. I decided to express that opinion, knowing that some artists like to ponder the differing views of their public.
‘It’s like a tulip head,’ I said quietly.
‘Is that how you see it?’ he frowned.
‘Or the partially open seed box of some kind of wild flower perhaps,’ I added.
‘How about an egg?’ he suggested.
‘Yes,’ I had to admit. ‘It is rather egg-shaped, albeit with a flat base . . . or perhaps like an orange which has been opened into segments . . .’
‘Good,’ he said, beaming at me. ‘It’s nature, you see. Different people will see different images in my finished work but all, I hope, will express nature in one of its many forms.’
‘So how large will it be?’ I asked.
‘What you have interpreted as petals of the tulip are in fact tree trunks,’ he told me. ‘Each will be twelve feet high and I shall use twelve of them to form a hollow circle.’
‘Tree trunks?’ I must have sounded surprised.
‘Yes, the very best. They will represent the twelve hours of day, or even the twelve hours of night, or even the twelve months of the year. They might even be seen as the Twelve Apostles to someone of a religious frame of mind or the Twelve Tables of Roman law . . . twelve is a very significant figure in our culture, Constable. Now, the bottom of each tree will be set in concrete, and the tops will incline inwards towards each other.’
‘Curved trunks?’ I registered my surprise.
‘Yes, indeed. Curved. Now curved tree trunks are very difficult to obtain, Constable, especially when one requires twelve of an identical size, or as near identical as possible. But I did find them and have already had the trees felled; the wood is awaiting me as we speak. There is a variety of timber as one might expect — ash, oak, sycamore, elm . . . all curved, all green wood. The winds of the moors will dry and season the timber, so it will endure for generations. So this is to be a large and enduring piece of work, Constable Rhea.’
‘No one’s going to steal those trees in a hurry!’ I told him.
‘If I can get them to the site, then a determined thief could remove them,’ he said seriously.
‘We’ll keep an eye on things,’ I promised.
Thanking me for my assistance, Haldan Chance replaced his drawings and maps, bade me farewell and drove away with a throaty roar from his Jaguar. I thought then that being a sculptor must be a means of growing wealthy.
A couple of days later, I was in Ashfordly Police Station on a routine visit and entered the budding sculpture’s details in the occurrence book as I’d promised Haldan. Sergeant Blaketon was having two days off so I had no opportunity to mention this unusual duty to him. It was on the Friday following that he rang me.
‘Rhea,’ his voice sounded ominous. ‘What’s this about paying periodic crime-prevention visits to Three Howes Rigg? Isn’t that in the middle of nowhere? We are not private security guards, Rhea. Isn’t that land on private property? I thought those moors belonged to Ashfordly Estate?’
‘They do, Sergeant, but there are public routes to the moors and onto the summit. I explained all that to Mr Chance and he understood the restrictions we face when dealing with matters on private premises.’
‘Well if you want to waste your time and energy climbing up there to make sure no one’s stolen a tree trunk, then that’s up to you, but I am not going to instruct my other officers to do likewise. We have more important things to do with our time, Rhea. Bearing in mind the site is on private land, I think your friend should make his own security arrangements to reinforce the limited supervision we can give.’
‘Very good, Sergeant.’ I knew better than to argue with my supervisory officer.
It would be about a week later when I received a further telephone call from Sergeant Blaketon.
‘Rhea,’ he barked into the handset, ‘what is that banana doing on the skyline of Three Howes Rigg?’
‘Banana, Sergeant?’
‘Well, it looks like a giant banana to me. I thought that thing up there was going to be egg-shaped or tulip-shaped . . .
‘It’s all in the eye of the beholder, Sergeant.’ I smiled as I talked to him. ‘The sculptor expects every viewer to see something different in his work . . .’
‘Yes, I can appreciate that, but you’d never get bananas growing on the North York Moors, Rhea.’
‘It’s a tree trunk, Sergeant, a curved one but there’s just one in position at the moment. When it’s finished, there’ll be twelve, all curved . . .’ I began.
‘In which case it will look like a bunch of bananas, Rhea. How did that chap get planning permission for his bananas?’
‘Maybe the planners thought it looked like a globe artichoke,’ I said. ‘Or a grouse chick at rest, or a young mushroom . . .’
‘Whatever it is, it’s your problem, Rhea, although I must admit I can’t see any ordinary member of the public objecting if someone spirited away that banana at the dead of night.’
It was that remark which reminded me that I had not yet managed to find the time to climb up to Three Howes Rigg in an effort to show the uniform, although conversely Haldan Chance had not reported any trouble.
One quiet day, therefore, I decided to pay a duty call to the sculpture site. As I approached, I could see that six trunks were now standing like the five curved fingers of a human hand — albeit with one extra — the hand being held open palm upwards as if to receive a gift. I drove my Mini-van to within half a mile of the summit — half a mile as the crow flies, that is, and then had to complete a steep, winding climb by using one of the marked footpaths. When I arrived, panting and perspiring, Haldan Chance was already there along with his Land-rover and the accoutrements of a building operation. In his shirt sleeves, he was digging a huge hole to accommodate yet another tree trunk and did not see my approach. Like the others, that tree would be concreted into position. As I grew nearer, it was quite astonishing to see the effect generated by this semi-circle of huge, curved tree trunks. As I approached, I found myself admiring the long-distance views through the gaps in the trunks already in position.
CONSTABLE OVER THE STILE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 20) Page 13
