Constable Among the Heather (4 page)

Sitting in one of the armchairs was a pale, haggard man in his early thirties. A rucksack stood on the floor at his side; I saw it had a rolled-up sleeping-bag secured to the top. He was clad in hiking gear – large, well-oiled boots, thick socks and adequate sweaters completed his outfit, and he wore a white woolly hat. I could see strands of fair hair sticking from beneath it, around his ears and neck, and his pale blue eyes looked frightened and nervous. He sat almost as if he was in a stupor, and his hands were clasped on his lap. He had the typical appearance of a man in a state of shock.

‘Hello.' I stood before him. ‘I'm PC Rhea, one of the local policemen. Can I help you?'

There was no response; it was as if he had not heard my voice. I tried again, but the outcome was the same.

‘E's been like that since 'e got here,' said Ernie, who stood at the door. ‘Not a word 'as 'e said. Nowt.'

I knew that one good remedy for shock was a cup of hot, sweet tea, so I asked Ernie if he would brew one. He smiled and agreed, going down to the beck to fill his kettle with pure moorland water. Soon it was singing on his gas ring. Although I repeatedly tried to make contact with the hiker, I got no response. Eventually I thrust a mug of tea into his hands and was pleased when he accepted it. He began to sip. I felt we had achieved a breakthrough!

‘Was he here when you got to work, Ernie?'

‘Not then,' he said. ‘Ah got 'ere at eight, and there was no sign of 'im. Then Ah went along t'road, towards t'south end; it was my morning check, like Ah do every morning. Ah got back only a short while ago, for my dinner break. 'E was here then. Ah never lock t'doors, t'shed's allus available in a storm. This lad was sitting there, just like 'e is now.'

I joined Ernie and the silent visitor in this most traditional of English rituals and was pleased to see that the fellow did lift the mug to his lips and drink. Ernie allowed me to use the other chair, and as we waited for the lad to recover, Ernie told me about his lonely task. I thought it must be the most curious job in Great Britain, being the lengthman on a Roman road. During this chat, I did not address the youth but did notice that he drank every drop of tea and that our calm chatter in his presence did seem to have created a new awareness in him.

‘Thanks,' he said suddenly and without warning. He placed the empty mug on Ernie's shelf. ‘Look, I'm sorry …'

‘That's OK, so long as you're safe and well,' I said. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere? I'm heading back through Brantsford and Ashfordly.'

‘Where am I now?' The lad blinked and took several deep breaths, exhaling long, loud rushes of air. It was as if he'd emerged from a coma.

‘Wheeldale Moor,' I said.

‘I got lost last night, in the fog,' he volunteered. ‘I was terrified … I must have walked all night … It was near dawn when I lay down near one of those streams but it was too cold … Then I found this old track and guessed it must lead somewhere. I walked along it, but was worn out, so I sat down for a rest, up there somewhere,' and he waved his hands to indicate a distant part of the old road.

After a pause, he continued: ‘And then I went to sleep, I think; I had a funny dream … it frightened me. Then, this morning, after I woke up, I found this little shed and came in for a rest … I was shattered, really shattered … I hadn't a clue where I was, out here …'

‘There's a youth hostel further across the moor,' I told him.

‘I wasn't looking for hostels. I thought I could walk up here and find somewhere to sleep overnight, somewhere in the open, then make my way back today. Anyway, I'm safe.'

‘Will anyone be looking for you?' I asked, wondering whether a search had already been instigated.

He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. Look, could I have another cup of tea? I'm as dry as a bone …'

Ernie obliged. The lad went on to say he lived in Essex but was working on the railways, helping to plan the removal of the tracks along those lines which were to be closed following the 1963 Beeching Report. He had always wanted to see the moors but had had no idea they were so vast and that they could be so inhospitable in the middle of summer.

Now he was chattering quite amiably to Ernie and expressed surprise when Ernie said he'd never been on a train. I knew that was quite feasible – there were people on these moors who had never been out of their own dale, let alone on a train journey.

‘Look, I'm sorry,' he went on. ‘You must have thought I was odd … but, well, I was absolutely whacked, shocked rigid after last night. That tea worked wonders.'

‘I'd better have you checked at a hospital,' I suggested. ‘Shock is a funny thing.'

‘No, it's not the fact I got lost,' he said quietly. ‘It was my dream … well, I don't think it was a dream. I still can't believe it. Something woke me up, a noise I think, at dawn, and I remember sitting on this old track …'

‘What happened?' I asked.

‘Well, you might think I've been drinking or something, but I swear I haven't. I've got to tell somebody. I can't stop thinking about it. I'd been asleep, literally where I lay, even without my sleeping-bag, and this noise woke me. It was just breaking daylight, and it was misty, not as thick as it was later on, but quite hazy. I heard the noise. It was horses and carts, I thought …'

He paused and I could see perspiration on his pale forehead. This was clearly an effort. I wondered what kind of experience could have put him into such a state of shock. Then Ernie winked at me – I had no idea why, but we did not actively persuade the youth to continue. We allowed him to proceed at his own pace as he sipped the second mug of tea. Then he went on with his tale.

‘Well, I sat up. I was still on that old road, near the edge, and very tired. I'm sure I was awake … anyway, I looked into the mist, thinking it was a local farmer coming along but there were these two chariots … racing … four horses on
each one … a man driving each, one with a red tunic and one with a green one … they had helmets on and were whipping the horses towards me. Well, I dived out of the way and they came swishing past. I could hear a crowd cheering somewhere in the mist. The noise of the chariot wheels was amazing, rattling along those rough stones on that track out there, and the men, cursing in a language I couldn't understand … the horses panting, harness rattling …'

‘And they disappeared into t'roak?' suggested Ernie.

‘Roak?' the lad was puzzled.

‘Fog, the morning mist.'

‘Yes, they did. I mean, I know I wasn't asleep, I know I was awake, but they don't have chariot races up here, do they?'

‘Now and again,' said Ernie slowly. ‘Ah've seen 'em, and others has, who live up here. Just like you said.'

‘Really?' The lad's eyes brightened. ‘Then I wasn't dreaming?'

‘No, you saw a chariot race,' said Ernie. ‘They used to 'ave 'em along this road – there's a slope just a bit further along. T'spectators used to stand there and cheer. They did 'ave four horses, sometimes six, yoked up in their chariot races, but two as a rule, in war and in normal manœuvres …'

‘But who are they?'

‘The Romans,' said Ernie with all seriousness. ‘This is a Roman road, tha knows.'

The lad looked horrified. ‘You're joking?'

‘No,' said Ernie, lifting a Ministry of Works leaflet from a shelf and passing it to him. ‘It's my job to tend it. You saw t'chariot race. Ah've seen it and so have others, but nobody talks about it.'

‘But I don't believe in ghosts …'

‘Me neither,' said Ernie. ‘At least, not till I saw yon race.'

‘If I tell my mates about this, they'll think I'm crackers,' said the youth, now laughing with the relief that came from the fact that someone did believe him. ‘I mean, ghosts don't exist, do they? They can't … But those chariots? Surely it would be some local lads doing it for a laugh? I mean, I heard the noise, the rattling, the horses panting, the cheering, I saw
the men cursing and whipping their horses … I had to dive out of their way …'

‘You 'ave a look in t'soft bits of ground between them stones out there and try and find t'wheel marks,' challenged Ernie. We all knew there would be none.

Ernie's account of the chariot race was identical with that of the lad, whose name was Ian Jarvis, and he told it in a most practical manner. He said the race usually heralded a time of peril for England – they'd appeared in 1805 before Nelson's death at Trafalgar. They'd also appeared before each of the two world wars – and shortly after Ian's sighting, a Labour government was elected! By the time Ernie had finished his story, Ian Jarvis accepted he had seen a Roman chariot race, but he did not try to understand how or why.

I gave him a lift into Brantsford, and he now seemed fully recovered; he caught a bus back to Malton.

Several weeks later, I learned he had invited Ernie on a train ride from Malton to the Brontë country, which Ernie had always wanted to visit. They were two men who had shared a curious experience – or was it merely a dream? No one talks of the chariots any more, but I often wonder whether they still race across Wheeldale Moor at the crack of dawn.

On another occasion, I had to deal with a lengthman who cared for a stretch of modern moorland road. His name was Rodney James Featherstonehaugh, and he had been the Aidensfield roadman for some twenty years. During my time there, he was nearing retirement, and although others of his kind were being detailed to work in road gangs, Rodney was left alone to end his career around the village he loved. And he did a good job. He was responsible for the lanes around Aidensfield, Elsinby, Briggsby, Ploatby, Waindale, Lairsbeck, Maddleskirk and Crampton. He worked completely alone, although he was answerable to some distant and anonymous boss in the local Highways Department.

I was never sure how Rodney received his instructions or list of duties for the week, or whether any of his superiors ever came to visit him or inspect his work. But his work was immaculate. Without supervision, Rodney kept our lanes and
byways in a state of near perfection. He gritted and sanded them in winter, dug out snow drifts or cleared gutters; he weeded the edges, trimmed the verges, clipped overgrown hedges and made sure all the road signs were maintained in a clean and legible state. Nothing seemed to be too much trouble. He was at his best during the winter, when he had an uncanny knack of anticipating frost and snow. Then he would be out at dawn, digging a route through the drifts or scattering salt on the icy stretches which caused the most difficulties.

The snag with a man like Rodney is that no one really appreciates him until he's gone. When he retired, he was missed – in fact, with oceans of goodwill, he would sometimes turn out in his own time, merely to clear a drain or salt a hill which was causing problems. He was that sort of man. His work was his life, and he loved the roads for which he had cared for so long. He knew every inch of them, their history, their weak points, the places liable to frost pockets or flooding. In short, Rodney was irreplaceable.

When he retired, no one took his place. The villages, through private individuals and formal representations by the parish councils, appealed for a replacement, but their pleas were ignored. The council said its team of highway operatives would maintain the roads with just the same care and to the same standard, but of course they could not and did not. Floods developed, drains were blocked, weeds grew apace, the verges thrived until they obstructed corners and blocked views. Rodney had made his mark on our locality.

I came across him quite frequently during my patrols, and I would always stop for a chat. We had a good understanding of one another's duties and areas of responsibility, and if I spotted something which needed his attention, such as a pot hole, damage to a direction sign or the emergence of a spring through the middle of the road, I would inform Rodney and he would do something about it. Similarly, if he knew there were to be roadworks in the area, such as occurred when laying a new surface or digging up a road to lay water mains or telephone lines, he would tell me. I felt that between us we provided a useful public service.

Rodney was very recognizable, even at a great distance. At times, I parked on some of our loftier ridges and saw his dark figure busy with his brush and shovel some miles down the dale. For some reason, he always wore black, which was surprisingly visible in daylight; he had a long black coat, like an army greatcoat, which he wore both summer and winter. His headgear was like a baseball player's cap, and in winter he wore black leather leggings over his stout and studded leather boots.

He pushed a council barrow around too. It was on two wheels, as the dustcarts of our cities used to be, and was really a dustbin on a pair of old car wheels. I think he had made it himself. He used it to contain the rubbish he collected, and it carried his tools – his huge, stiff brush, the shovel, a rod for clearing drains, a hammer and other essentials.

It was some time before I realized what he looked like beneath all that gear. Once I saw him in the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby, and it was a while before I realized that the swarthy, smart man at the bar was Rodney. Like his clothing, he was dark. He had a head of rich black hair with just a hint of grey; his eyebrows were black too, and so were his eyes. He had a black moustache and was swarthy and dark skinned, not through a suntan but through his ancestors. I sometimes wondered if he had gypsy blood in his veins, or whether some of his ancestors came from Spain or Italy.

I liked him. I found him totally honest and reliable, meticulous in his work and always good-humoured and willing in both his private and professional duties. Oddly enough, I never did discover whether he was married or had a family, for he never spoke about his home interests.

But of all the facets of Rodney Featherstonehaugh, the one which most intrigued me was his devotion to time-keeping.