Constable Among the Heather (14 page)

‘Thanks, Sid,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and warn Kevin and Mrs Bell.’

‘That bastard! Why do those bloody awful Sunday papers dig up dirt like that? And who buys them anyway?’

As I warned a grateful Kevin of the man’s visit, so Sid’s system alerted the other places of public resort in Aidensfield
and beyond. I was to learn later that the reporter had received absolutely no information from the village, and I was pleased, if only that young Robert’s life was being protected from sensational and scandalous journalism.

But it did not end there. On the following Sunday the pub was inundated with journalists – all the muckraking papers were represented and there were a few reputable ones there too. News of a possible indiscretion in Terry Craven’s life had permeated the newsrooms and canteens of many papers.

The heavy-spending reporters were buying drinks for all the regulars, hoping that tongues would be freed and news would flow. But Sid had done his duty. No one was prepared to speak, and young Robert’s ‘Bell’ surname and his home at the blacksmith’s shop saved his family from investigation. More drink was purchased and more questions were asked, but no answers were given.

Then, without warning to anyone, the local ne’er-do-well, who had the curious name of Claude Jeremiah Greengrass, came into the Brewers Arms. This was not his usual pub – he tended to haunt the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby – but he must have sensed that something important was happening in Aidensfield and that free drinks were available, along with the chance to earn a few bob. He had turned up like the proverbial bad penny. Claude was a pest. Small, pinched and totally untrustworthy, he was always in trouble of some kind; his offences were usually of a minor nature and he lived on his wits. As he materialized in that bar, I scented danger. He was the one man who might reveal the truth, and the others were not in a fit state to warn him by now. They could hardly talk – the reporters had virtually defeated themselves in getting everyone paralytic. But I knew that Claude would know Terry’s secret – he knew everyone’s secrets …

‘Ah!’ A
News
of
the
World
reporter spotted him before I could reach him through the crowd. ‘A newcomer! You, here! Can I get you a drink?’

‘I allus has a rum before my Sunday dinner.’ He beamed at the journalist, his wizened face crinkling in a leathery smile.

A rum was duly bought.

‘Claude,’ I said. ‘I’d like a word …’

‘Later, Mr Rhea, I’ve got drink in my hand, and I never interrupts that, not for you, nor for anybody.’

‘But before you talk to these men …’

‘What men?’ asked Claude, and he winked at me. I knew what he meant. He sipped his first rum, savouring the taste as the journalist waited. I left him with the journalist.

‘Er, what’s your name?’

‘Greengrass.’

‘Mr Greengrass, we are interested in a young lady called Craven …’

‘My glass is empty. I allus likes a rum before my Sunday dinner,’ said Claude, and I watched the twinkle in his eye. His glass was refilled, and he sipped it slowly. When it was empty, the journalist began, ‘Mr Greengrass …’

‘I do like a rum before my Sunday dinner,’ repeated Claude.

The regulars lost count of Claude Jeremiah’s rums, because they had also lost count of their own beers, whiskies and brandies. The outcome of that visit by the press was heavy expenditure for the press, a hefty Sunday lunchtime trading session by the Brewers Arms, a lot of late meals in the farms and cottages of the area, and several thumping headaches.

But no one revealed any information about Terry. The reporters had wasted a fortune. Afterwards I thanked Claude Jeremiah.

‘It’s not often I congratulate you,’ I said, ‘but you did real well.’

‘I do like a rum before my Sunday dinner, Mr Rhea, so when I heard about Terry and that the press were there doling out free booze, I thought they owed me drink or two. I mean to say, they’ve printed enough scandalous tales about me.’

And so they had. He’d earned his rums.

I think that incident convinced the gutter press that they’d never succeed in getting a story of Terry Craven’s private life from the villagers of Aidensfield. The people had, without exception, closed ranks to protect her and her child. I was proud of them.

But the story did not end there. That year, Terry reached the quarter-finals before being knocked out of Wimbledon.
We were all proud of her. In the autumn she returned to Aidensfield for a few weeks rest. She had been told of the village’s response to the press enquiries and, in her gratitude, decided to throw a party for everyone in the Brewers Arms. She would pay for all the drinks and a buffet supper. I went along with Mary, for I was off duty, and it was a wonderful occasion. Even Claude Jeremiah had been invited. Everyone was happy for Terry and very proud of her achievements as they sang and drank her health. She made a little speech too. She said that, once her tennis-playing days were over, she would come to live permanently in Aidensfield with her son and husband. She told us that, in fact, she and Kevin were engaged to be married – that was another secret which no one knew.

Five or six years later, she did return and now lives happily in the area as Mrs Kevin Bell. She never won Wimbledon, but she did once reach the semi-finals.

But even now, if you enter the Brewers Arms on a Sunday lunchtime, you might encounter an elf-like man with a wizened and sun-tanned face. If you are unwise enough to ask him a question, it could become an expensive exercise, because, with expectation in his voice, he will respond with, ‘I do enjoy a rum before my Sunday dinner.’

Some older maps of the North York Moors show an isolated house known as Owlet Hall. But a search will fail to locate it, because it no longer stands proud in its moorland setting. Sadly, it was demolished, and this is the story.

For many generations, it had been occupied by the Barr family, the last being Jason and Sarah Barr. They had scraped a tough living from the surrounding moorland, chiefly by farming sheep, and they had eked out their existence by undertaking other jobs. They would help their neighbours at harvest, for example, or give assistance at sheep sales, fairs and haytime.

Jason and Sarah had one son called William. He was himself retired, an ex-farmworker, and lived quietly in a council house at Aidensfield. Born at Owlet Hall, he had left the lonely spot in his teens to seek work in the dales, recognizing that his primitive family home, which boasted no water, drains
or electricity, could never support him or any family. His parents had lived there until shortly before their deaths, when the house had passed to him. But there was nothing he could do with it. To bring it up to modern standards would have cost him more money than he had earned in a lifetime. No one wanted to buy it, due to its remote position and increasingly dilapidated condition, and no one seemed willing to undertake the expense of ‘doing it up’.

The result was that the once-proud house was allowed to fall down, piece by piece. The woodwork of the windows was rotting, parts of the roof were collapsing, and when the back door rotted from its hinges, the ground floor became a shelter for sheep, moorland birds and the occasional hiker. However, upon my appointment as village constable at Aidensfield, the house was still standing and, in spite of its condition, was remarkably dry and cosy inside. It had been built to withstand the rigours of the moorland weather, and I always felt it looked charming in its patch of green. I often wished I had had the enormous sums necessary to renovate it.

Then one day, as I was patrolling the lonely road which ran past Owlet Hall, I noticed a couple of old cars parked outside. They were battered and rusting and painted in what became known as psychedelic colours, all a jumble of bright reds, oranges, blacks, blues, greens and more besides. I parked my van on the moor and walked over to them. Neither was taxed, I noted, but as they were not on public roads, I could not instigate proceedings. Then a long-haired youth with a colourful band around his head and small rimless glasses perched on the end of his nose appeared at the broken door.

‘Want something?’ he asked.

‘I’m checking these cars,’ I said. ‘Are they yours?’

‘They are,’ and he offered no more information.

‘They’re not taxed.’ I had to make the point.

‘They’re not on the road,’ he said.

‘But if they do go on the road, you’ll make sure they are taxed and insured?’ He just smiled, a gentle but cheeky smile. ‘I’ll be watching for them,’ I said, smiling back at him. ‘Are you staying long?’

‘As long as need be,’ he said. ‘There’s eight of us. We’re no trouble, we just want to live our lives as we want, with no hassle, no authoritarian oppression, no rules, just happiness and freedom …’

‘Flower power, communal living and free love?’ I had heard these phrases in recent months and had seen reports about the people who had adopted these new ideals. They were hippies.

‘That’s about it,’ he said.

‘You’ve got permission to live here?’ I asked.

‘No, but we don’t need it. We’re squatting. We can squat in empty houses and no one can throw us out. I’m sure you know that,’ he smiled. ‘Besides, this old spot is derelict, falling down, full of holes and no doors. We’ll fix it for ourselves.’

I stayed a few moments chatting to this man without seeing any of his friends, and decided they were harmless out here. Indeed, they might make some repairs to William’s old house.

It was a further two or three days before I came across William Barr. He was collecting his pension from the post office/shop at Aidensfield and I took the opportunity to chat to him.

‘Bill,’ I said, ‘that old house of yours, Owlet Hall. I was driving past earlier this week and see you’ve got visitors. A bunch of flower-power people, by the look of it. Your old home’s been turned into a hippie commune.’

I explained what I had seen, and he thought for a while.

‘They’ll not be harming anybody?’ he said.

‘No, I think not,’ I had to admit. ‘They’re supposed to be a friendly lot, a bit weird by our standards, but they’re not likely to plan bank raids or kill moorland sheep for meat.’

‘Then they can stay,’ he said. ‘T’awd spot might as well be useful to somebody.’

And so he allowed them to remain. In fact, it wouldn’t have been easy get rid of them for, if pressed, they would surely claim squatters’ rights, but because I was aware of their presence, I recorded the matter in my files.

I told the CID, with a special note to the Drugs Squad, for it was known that similar communes had cultivated cannabis plants, and I made a mental note to call at the house every three months or so, with a view to enforcing
whichever of our laws they might be breaking. I would let them know of my continuing official interest, for I had no wish for the local youngsters to experiment with drugs of any kind.

By the time of my next visit, things had changed. The old cars were still there, still untaxed and still in their gaudy colours, but there was much more. That extra stuff was rubbish. It was everywhere. The exterior of the hitherto tidy old house was cluttered with every conceivable item of junk – old prams, bedsteads, chairs, a rusty oven, bikes, bottles, lengths of timber, flower pots – it looked like an itinerant trader’s encampment of the very worst kind. I picked my way through the miasma to peep at the cars, and the man I’d first met appeared once again.

‘Hi, Constable,’ he beamed. ‘You’re back.’

‘Yes, and I’ll keep coming. This is part of my patch.’

‘We’re not criminals, man, we’re friends to everyone.’

‘Is this rubbish all yours?’

‘Sure. The council doesn’t collect it, so it stays.’

‘You might try to remove it, or even burn some.’

‘No hassle, man, no hassle. It’s ours; we’ll deal with it if we want; if we don’t want, we won’t. So who cares?’

‘The people who live round here don’t like their area looking like a council tip,’ I said. ‘They’re proud of their countryside and don’t like it to be desecrated.’

‘Dr Johnson said that fine clothes are good only as they supply the want of other means of procuring respect,’ said the fellow. ‘External appearances don’t matter. It’s the soul that matters, man. So what’s a bit of rubbish? Superficial, that’s all. Unimportant in the real world …’

‘You should try to keep the place neat, tidy and clean,’ I tried again.

‘Why, Constable, why? To get respect? False respect? People must take us as we are or not at all. Why pretend? We mean no harm, we just want to live our lives in peace.’

‘And so do the villagers,’ I said. ‘Their rights and opinions are as valid as yours.’

‘Sure they are.’ He beamed and vanished indoors.

I was powerless to prosecute them under the Litter Act, because this was not a public place – it was private land. And the Civic Amenities Act was not then in force.

Over the following months, the hippies made themselves increasingly unwelcome. With no known form of income, they did require certain commodities, and one general store, not in Aidensfield but in Ashfordly, made the mistake of trusting them by supplying them with groceries on credit. The commune members took full advantage of that generosity – they never paid, although they did offer to perform some work in lieu. One of their plans was to offer to deliver groceries to the surrounding villages, but timely advice by one of our constables soon alerted the grocer to that risk. For every delivery they made, they would probably help themselves to a few items.

The great British public would find itself supporting these parasites. In addition to their known activities, they were suspected of helping themselves to the occasional bottle of milk from doorsteps, they had filled their cars’ tanks with petrol at local garages and not paid their bills, they had persuaded the coal merchant to deliver a ton into their coal house and had not paid him … and so the problems began to multiply.

Within a year, every small business in the area found itself involuntarily supporting the commune. As one businessman said to me, ‘If they’d come and asked for a basket of apples, I’d have given them one, but to pretend to buy one and then not pay – well, that’s dishonest.’