Now and again, I flashed my torch in the direction of those sounds but seldom spotlighted anything. They were too quick for me.
I discovered a large brown rat which scuttled away as my light struck its eyes, and once or twice I lit upon the scampering figures of mice, busy about their night-time chores. Cats were frequent visitors too, and if anything, they were more alert than the creatures of the wild, scattering into the farmyard outside at the slightest hint of danger. A fox came too; I heard his approach because some nervous poultry in a nearby henhouse clucked their alarm as he sniffled and snuffled around their home. He knocked a bucket so that its handle rattled, but that didn’t seem to scare him off as he continued to investigate the flap of the henhouse. I listened and guessed it was Reynard, my supposition being proved correct when he entered the barn.
I noticed his slouching gait as he cautiously entered the open barn, a dark, agile figure against a patch of light in the doorway. Then I flicked on my torch. I caught him squarely and bathed him in the light which highlighted his russet coat, his bushy tail with its white tip and those sharp, greenish eyes which glowed quickly against the beam. In a trice he was gone. He vanished as suddenly as he had come, and I never saw him again.
On one occasion a barn owl flew right across my line of vision, its soft white underparts almost ghostlike as it moved silently in one door and out at the other side, doubtless hunting mice and other small creatures. Bats fluttered around too, albeit not many. These were pipistrelles, our smallest resident bat and they would be hunting late-night flying insects and finding their way around the pillars and contents of the barn by their remarkable system of radar. At times the place was filled with their squeaking cries.
In spite of the chilliness and the hours of inactivity it was a fascinating session of duty because nature came so close to me. The problem was that the thief didn’t! I spent several nights in that barn but never saw him. Happily, he never came again. Maybe he was a local character who knew of my interest. I’ll never know, but it does seem that my vigilance was rewarded because there were no further thefts from that barn or indeed from the village.
My night-time country walks were equally enchanting. I have observed deer, foxes, otters, rats, mice, insects and a multitude of birds. I have found baby hares squeaking for their mums at my arrival, mother jackdaws nesting in ruined buildings, rabbits with their legs caught in snares and river birds with cruel fishing hooks stuck into their flesh, throats or feet; I’ve found nests of baby birds and lairs of baby animals and I’ve discovered dead animals of every kind, many having perished pointlessly at the hand of man. There is little doubt that man is nature’s greatest enemy.
Of all the wild animals that I have witnessed at night, Belinda the badger is the most memorable. I called her Belinda because I felt she needed a name.
We first met on a lonely and minor road between Elsinby and Ploatby. I had parked the police car in a small complex of buildings at the side of the lane in order to enjoy a half-hour stroll. Such strolls were necessary because the eyes and ears of a policeman on foot are infinitely better than the headlights of a car when seeking villains or preventing crime.
That lovely lane is bordered on one side by young Scots pines and on the other by low-lying fields. It is a long, winding road, but I could walk into the heart of Ploatby and return to the car in time to make my one o’clock point at Elsinby kiosk.
My boots had soft crêpe soles and I walked easily and quickly along the smooth surface of the road, enjoying the exercise and fresh night air, so full of the scents of the nearby pine forest. To my left was one of the open fields and as I approached its gateway, I was aware of a creature scurrying through the corn stubble. Its progress was very noisy among the short, stiff stalks and I froze, my torch at the ready, waiting. I was about twenty yards short of the gate.
It was fascinating, watching the outline of the rapidly moving animal as it neared the gate. When it was very close, I could distinguish the unmistakable white face of the badger, so recognisable due to the black bars which run the length of the long snout. Not many humans have been privileged to see this lovely animal in its natural surroundings let alone observe it at such close quarters, and I was enchanted.
The running badger squeezed beneath the lower bar of the gate and started to cross the road directly ahead of me. Its next move was to clamber up the steep grassy verge at the far side of the road, and I could hear its sharp claws grating against the rocky surface beneath. I now decided to flash my torch because I wanted to see the badger more clearly and, as I switched on the powerful beam, it caught the fleeing animal like a spotlight.
Its broad, powerful back was a lovely silver-grey colour, the effect being produced by a mixture of grey and almost black hair. As it momentarily turned its head towards me, I saw two tiny eyes set in that long face, then its short legs carried it rapidly up the hillside towards the sheltering forest. Long body hair almost concealed its legs, making it appear to be running on castors. It moved with astonishing speed.
Still bathed in the light of my torch the badger had difficulty in clambering up the steepening slope for it was a portly animal, but my presence and my annoying light spurred it to greater efforts. It reached the top and was then confronted by a tall wire fence topped with two strands of barbed wire. I hadn’t realised the fence was there.
The badger leapt at the barrier. I switched off my torch, not wishing to alarm it any further. I had no wish to panic the animal into doing something stupid, and I hoped it would not get its head fast between the top strands. It didn’t.
Instead, it managed to get itself marooned across those wires. I did wonder if the barbs had got entangled with its thick belly fur for the badger was well and truly stuck halfway across the fence. It was balancing on the centre of its stomach with its head at one side and its tail at the other. Those tiny short legs were battling to secure a foot hold upon the wire below, but they failed. They were far too short.
The result was that the badger was rocking to and fro on top of the fence, grunting and panting with frustration as it attempted to release itself from this embarrassing plight. Its long, fat body straddled the fence like a sack of flour, and I laughed involuntarily. It was almost like a Chaplin comedy.
I couldn’t leave it like that. I climbed the embankment and talked soothingly, as if that would make any difference! Soon I reached a position directly behind and knowing the badger’s reputation as a hard biter, I kept well clear of the snapping teeth. With both hands I lifted the rump end and toppled it over to the far side where it gathered itself, shook its entire body, and waddled high into the trees with never a backward glance or a hint of appreciation.
But that was not the end of our association.
The badger is a fascinating animal and I was delighted to learn that I had a colony of them on my beat. Almost every country dweller finds them interesting, so over the following months I made a point of travelling along that lane many times in the hope of seeing more of my local badger. Badgers are creatures of habit and I guessed that the route it had taken through the cornfield and under the gate to cross the highway had been used for many years by the local badger community.
It is this hard-headed determination to use the same route without deviation that has caused so many badger deaths. If a motorway or main road is built across a badger route, the badgers will continue to use it in spite of heavy traffic. Invariably, this has disastrous results to the badger population for they are slaughtered by fast-moving vehicles. Some thoughtful highway authorities have built badger tunnels under their roads to preserve this curious animal from further mutilation and death. This is a good example of officialdom catering for the needs of the wildlife of England.
My patience was rewarded, and I did see my badger from time to time. I did not make the mistake of shining my torch but allowed it to waddle across the road at its own pace. It always managed to clamber over the fence, achieving this without difficulty when it wasn’t harassed into
panic movements. I realised that the bulk of the creature was due to her pregnancy. I now knew she was a female, and she grew larger as the weeks rolled by.
My interest in the location of her home grew more intense and I began to enjoy the physical exercise of entering the wood to search for her sett, or “cett” as it is sometimes spelled. It wasn’t very difficult to find because of the well-trodden path to the badger’s regular route across the road. I climbed high into the trees and there near the summit of a small hillock among the scented pines, I located the badger’s home.
By any standards a badger’s home is a remarkable piece of construction work for this animal is perhaps the cleanest and most homely of the wild animals of England. This sett was typical for it bore the tell-tale signs of occupancy by Brock. That is the name we give to the badger in North Yorkshire, a name which features in many place names and farm addresses like Brock Rigg, Brocklesby and so forth.
The entrance nearest to me was about a yard wide and eighteen inches deep, snugly situated beneath the roots of a straggling Scots pine. The area before the hole had been paddled down into a firm, earthen base by the regular comings and goings of the family in residence. Another sign comprised many claw marks on the trunks of nearby trees, the result of badgers sharpening their claws or cleaning them. Some twenty yards away were the dung-pits. The badger does not make a mess in its living quarters but uses an outside toilet which it positions a short distance from its front door. Its cleanliness is further shown by its arrangement for other domestic waste. Down a slope was an area used to dump the waste from the interior of the home like used bedding (a heap of grass and leaves) which had been carried out and thrown a discreet distance from the entrance. In winter the female might carry the bedding out to air and then return it for further use.
I knew the inside would consist of a labyrinth of tunnels and chambers, but I could not guess how large this particular sett would be. Perhaps there were other entrances and exits, but I did not have the time to search. I was happy that I had found her sett and made my way down the hillside to my waiting car.
From time to time I returned to her crossing-place but seldom saw her. I decided then to christen her “Belinda” for reasons which now escape me, and then I saw her again. She was crossing the road in that familiar ambling gait and managed to scramble over the awkward fence. This time she appeared even heavier with cubs, and I knew that a sow could carry anything up to five young. Maybe Belinda would produce a large family.
My frequent excursions to this place revealed that she crossed the road around midnight, give or take twenty minutes either way. I knew that her route back to the sett would be the same each time, having been on a hunting expedition. Badgers enjoy their food but are not particular what they eat — insects, beetles, worms, mice, wasps and bees are all fair game, and the thick coat of this animal makes it impervious to the anger of wasps or bees when under attack. Fruit are enjoyed too, and it’s not unknown for a wandering badger to scent its way into an orchard to feast upon fallen apples.
Knowing of the animal’s fondness for fruit, I did wonder if I could tempt Belinda from her sett with a few choice raisins or sultanas. Badgers love these fruits and I had heard tales of country folk making friends with them by using this bait. The badger is a one-man beast, however, and such a friendship can be somewhat tenuous.
Feeling there was little to lose and a lot to gain, I began one of my night-duty patrols with a pocketful of raisins and later made my way to the edge of the sett before the usual time of Belinda’s evening stroll. I placed a handful of raisins near the entrance and adjourned to a nearby hiding place. It would be very foolish to shine my torch upon the mouth of the sett, so I relied on my night sight and was eventually rewarded by the grunting approach of the stout lady. She was grumbling and puffing as, heavy with cubs, she climbed the slope towards her sett. As she approached the entrance, she smelled the goodies and was clearly suspicious. I’m sure she’d never before been presented with foreign fruit, but, after a couple of exploratory sniffs, she devoured them happily and vanished inside.
For a time this became a regular night excursion for me, both on and off duty. Each time I would drop a handful of raisins near the entrance and watch her enjoy them. Sometimes I would speak aloud from my hiding place, talking to her as I had the day I helped her over the fence. The sound of my voice did not appear to alarm her, and I began to wonder if she would respond to the raisins if I was closer to them. Maybe she already knew their presence was the work of humans. Maybe she knew I was there.
By now she was very heavy, and I guessed birth was imminent. Spring was just around the corner as February moved along with its usual dose of rain and chill. Badger cubs are usually born in February and I knew that a happy event was expected very soon in this sett. I decided to test her tameness.
One night while on patrol I placed a handful of raisins outside the sett and squatted nearby within what I reckoned was well within the range of her scent. The night was dark, albeit not pitch black, and I could see the sett entrance quite clearly. The raisins were in a small heap in their usual place, but nothing happened. Time dragged. My feet grew cold and I wondered if Sergeant Blaketon would be looking for me; maybe he’d find the parked car and wonder why it was deserted in such a remote place! I could always tell him I was seeking poachers . . .
Then she emerged. The distinctive grunting noise alerted me and suddenly her long snout appeared from the darkness below ground. She was quite visible due to the bright black-and-white pattern on her face. Without stopping she lumbered into the open air, sniffed at the raisins and began to eat. I spoke in a soft voice; she started, looked up briefly, but continued to eat. Undeterred, she gobbled up the tasty morsels with her piggy eyes fixed on me: I did not know whether she could see me, so I remained motionless, all the time talking soothingly to her. In my presence she consumed every morsel.
When she finished, I dug into my pocket and produced more, tossing them before her. I thought she would take fright and run but she didn’t. She looked at me then nibbled the extra helping. I threw more, closer to me this time and she came forward.
I had heard a lot about the ferocity of an angry badger and knew that one bite from those strong jaws could fracture my wrist or severely injure me, but I also knew of their trust in man. The badger is possibly unique among wild animals because it has no natural enemies in this country, its only foe being man. Man has tortured and destroyed badgers for centuries, sometimes under the name of sport and sometimes out of sheer ignorance of their value to the countryside. For example, badger-baiting was once a common sport. In this bit of fun a badger was tied to a post and had his jaw fractured; dogs were then turned upon him to tear him to pieces and in spite of his handicaps the mutilated animal would give the bloodthirsty spectators value for their dirty money.
Today the threat comes from hunters armed with fearsome badger tongs, long steel tools which are thrust into the setts to drag the seized victim to the surface where it is shot. Badger pelts have been used to make fur coats, their fur also making useful shaving-brushes and their heads have been fashioned into sporrans. In addition, many are killed simply for the fun of it and some are slaughtered because it is feared they spread bovine tuberculosis among cattle.
In spite of everything a badger will still befriend a man. But Belinda was safe from all this, at least for the time being. But was I safe from her? Did pregnancy make the sows dangerous? I talked softly, throwing more raisins to the ground and she took them all. She came closer, not as cautiously as I had anticipated. My heart was thumping as I tempted her to my hand. She moved slowly but clearly loving the raisins; she was very wary of me as I froze in my squatting position. I was literally inches from the pregnant sow.
Then I found I had run out of raisins. I scraped a dozen or so left in the corners of my pocket and placed them hopefully in the palm of my hand. I held them out for her, hoping the scent of my nervousness would not alarm her. It didn’t.
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p; Those narrow little eyes, close to the front of her snout, peered at me as she calmly nibbled the goodies from my hand. Then, quite abruptly, she turned and ambled off to seek more natural foods. I watched her go and lost her in the gloom although I could hear her noisy progress through the undergrowth. Finally everything was silent.
It was an amazing experience and I will never forget those precious seconds when she came so close to me, apparently without fear. I returned many more times to the sett during the following days but didn’t see her. I knew the reason. She would be giving birth to her youngsters and looking after them. I wasn’t sure whether the cubs remained in the sett for long periods or whether the parents took them out to learn the vital craft of survival. I had never seen the boar, although I must admit the difference in the sexes is not easy for humans to determine. The only real guide is that the adult boar’s head is flatter and wider than that of his lady companion.
During the spring I paid several return visits during the midnight hours but didn’t see Belinda. There was no sign of her on the road either and I began to wonder whether she had fallen foul of some badger hunter or been knocked down by a passing car. I searched the locality for signs of a carcass but found none.
Then one balmy night in early summer I decided to walk up to her sett. It was very mild and light, a typical summer’s night in June and I was not even wearing a tunic. I was dressed in shirtsleeves and police trousers, but I had my torch and, optimistically, my pocket was full of raisins. The sett still bore signs of being occupied and I felt sure she was there. I placed a handful of raisins outside the entrance and settled down for one of those long vigils. This time it was reasonably pleasant, as the night was so mild.
All about me were the night sounds of summer. Insects were busy among the trees, an owl hooted somewhere beyond my vision and there were countless unidentifiable sounds within the woodland. Little animals scurried about their business, perhaps investigating me, and I heard the twitter of birds disturbed by other creatures as they roosted above and around me. Among all this I sat still upon a convenient rock, watching the black mouth of the sett. Anticipation made the time pass quickly, and I must have missed at least one of my hourly points. I forgot the passage of time as I sat and listened to the night, and then the morning sun began to brighten the sky around me. It was time to leave. It was just after three o’clock.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 28
