Constable Among the Heather (6 page)

Sadly, some hikers are a nuisance. Those who walk alone seldom bother to tell anyone of their route or intention, nor do they advise us of any enforced delay. As a consequence, at the behest of anxious friends or relatives, we often find ourselves searching for them, albeit in a very perfunctory manner in the early stages. But if they do not turn up, genuine concern develops and the longer the delay, the greater the concern and the more intensified the search, But, realistically, where does one begin to search 553 square miles of elevated and open moorland?

It was a curious fact that, in the months before Mr Milner's case, we had experienced an increasing number of problems with hikers. This had been especially noticeable among those attempting the long-distance Blackamoor Walk, a trek of around seventy miles across the loftier parts of the moors. It had become quite commonplace for some to stroll into Ashfordly market-place in the early hours of the morning, singing and shouting, having consumed bottles of strong liquor along their way. In some cases, there was a definite party atmosphere, and it seemed that parties of hikers were making whoopee somewhere on the hills. Their overdue return to civilization had not seemed to bother them, even if it had created anxiety among their friends and families.

As there were no pubs on the actual route of the Walk, these people must have diverted a considerable distance to get supplies – and that would cause delays and ultimately some worries among loved-ones waiting at home or at
checkpoints
. But there was another problem – in their happiness at reaching civilization, their singing and exuberance awoke the residents of Ashfordly; furthermore, they left their litter all over the place and in many cases became noisy, unpleasant and unwanted. It is fair to add that some who became too abusive or obnoxious ended their trip in our cells and even in court.

Some would sleep off the booze in barns or even in the open fields, but even in these cases, anyone who was overdue was likely to become the focus of an expensive search by the police
or Moorland Rescue Search Party. Clearly, the upright and sober Mr Milner was not in this category. I could not imagine him rolling home in full voice after a session in a moorland pub.

It was ten o'clock that morning when I left Ashfordly police station to resume my patrol, and in the absence of more urgent work I decided to carry out a limited search for Mr Milner. I selected the area around Thorngill Grange. In that vicinity, a section of the Blackamoor Walk passed through the
northwestern
corner of my beat before terminating at Ashfordly.

Having determined that Mr Milner was expected to conclude his hike along this stretch, I decided upon a modest search of the surrounding moor. A check on the map showed that Thorngill Grange stood on the edge of the heathered heights, close to where the Walk dipped from the more remote sections before entering a wooded glen for its final three miles or so. Until now, I had never had any reason to visit Thorngill Grange, but a check on the Electoral Register showed me that it was occupied by Albert and Dorothy Potter. I had no more information about the place or its inhabitants.

It did not take long to discover that it was even more remote than the map had suggested. I reached the end of a rough, unmade track some time before catching sight of the house. The track deteriorated into a primitive footpath across the heather before dropping into the dale beyond. When I parked at the brow of the ridge, I could see the house sitting at the head of the dale. It would require a considerable hike to reach it. But this was neither a mansion, a gentleman's residence nor even a farm. It was a tiny thatched cottage, one end of which was derelict while the other seemed barely suitable for anyone to occupy. A dry stone wall surrounded the cottage, but there was no name on the small wooden gate which opened into the paddock and nothing to indicate that this was Thorngill Grange. There was no other building nearby. The house stood utterly alone.

Beyond, on the heights above the other side of this tiny dale, was the open moor, treeless, flat and awe-inspiring. The wild expanse of heather was within a few days of bursting into the gorgeous purple which is so beautiful and dramatic. Running
from the heights was a moorland stream, the Thorn Gill which gave its name to this cottage, and it flowed down a narrow cleft in the hills, eventually to reach the River Rye near Rievaulx Abbey. Black-faced sheep roamed these moors without the benefit of fencing, and the paths they had created over the centuries criss-crossed among the heather, some being utilized by an increasing number of ramblers and hikers.

The Blackamoor Walk traversed these high and lonely moors, and indeed there was a primitive stone footbridge across the gill. It led from the main route of the Walk towards Thorngill Grange, and I guessed the Potters made use of it to check their sheep and lambs if indeed they farmed the moor. But the bridge was not part of the Walk – the route passed the end of it.

The views from this point were staggering in their range and beauty, and as a perfect hideaway, Thorngill Grange must surely be a dream. Perhaps the Potters used it only as a country cottage? I would soon know the answer.

I opened the gate, which squeaked a little, and was greeted by a black-and-white Border collie who fussed around my legs as I made for the unpainted oak door. It opened even before I reached it, and a very short, very fat woman in her late sixties stood before me. Her greying hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she was wiping her hands on her apron; they were covered in flour, I noted.

‘By gum,' she smiled through gums which contained about a third of their complement of teeth, ‘it's a policeman!'

‘Hello,' I greeted her. ‘I'm PC Rhea from Aidensfield.'

‘Well then, you'd better come in and sit down. Ah've a kettle on t'hob. You'll have a cup o' tea and a bun?'

This was not an invitation – it was a statement of fact, because it was customary for the moorland folk to entertain visitors in this way, and I had arrived at ‘'lowance time'.

I ducked under the low beam above the doorway, the straw thatching brushing my head as I removed my cap, and found myself stepping back a century or even further. The low roof was heavily beamed in dark oak. Some polished horse brasses, genuine ones, plus a few horseshoes, were crudely nailed to some cross timbers. The floor was of smooth sandstone, and
it bore a clip rug before the fireplace. The fireplace was a massive hole in the thick stone wall; in the right of the gap was a black oven with a brass handle and an ornate design on the door, while to the right was the hot water boiler, identified by the tap under which was a ladling can, a white enamel mug with a handle; it caught the drips from the tap. A peat fire was smouldering between them, and above it was a smoke hood, a relic of bygone times. Above the smouldering peat, hanging on a large hook which in turn dangled from an adjustable rail, was a large black kettle. It was singing all the time. In spite of the bright sunshine outside, the room was dark and cool.

Before asking the purpose of my visit, the little fat lady busied herself with warming the tea-pot, then disappeared into the pantry, where she piled a plate full of cakes, buns and cheese. She set it all before me on the plain, scrubbed wooden table, one end of which she was utilizing for her baking. She produced some milk in a metal can and poured it into a mug. Only then did she pour the water onto the tea leaves, and as the tea brewed, she continued with her baking as she talked to me. She was in fact making a ‘tatie and onion pie, which she thrust into the oven. Then she settled beside me.

‘That's for his dinner. Now then, what can I do for you?' Her smile revealed those awful gaps in her teeth. ‘It's nice to 'ave a visitor, Mr Rhea.'

‘Are you Mrs Potter?' I asked.

‘Aye, that's me. Our Albert's out at work. Was it him you wanted?'

‘Not particularly,' I answered, and then explained the purpose of my call, giving her a brief description of the missing Mr Milner. She listened, nodding from time to time.

‘Aye, a chap like yon did pop in last night. He was fit and well, and we sent him on his way. They do come wandering this way,' she said slowly. ‘They see yon bridge over t'gill and think it's part of t'main route. Some are that tired, they're walking in their sleep and just need an hour or two's rest. Ah've slept 'em in 'ere on bad nights, but yon middle-aged feller didn't stay. We gave him a drink and off he went. Singing tiv himself, he was. ‘The Old Rugged Cross', I reckon it was supposed to be. He was in good
fettle, Mr Rhea, I'll say that, and said he was heading for Ashfordly.'

‘Thanks. I can check further down the dale. But if he does come back, ask him to get in touch with his son or the police at Ashfordly. He's overdue and we are just a bit worried about him.'

‘Some daft folks treat these moors as if they're parks and gardens,' she said. ‘They need respect, these moors, eh?'

‘They do,' I agreed, and now she was pouring my mug of tea. She pushed the plate of cakes towards me.

I stayed longer than I should have, for she provided me with a fascinating account of her life at this remote place.

Her husband, Albert, had once farmed this patch of land, rearing sheep and Highland cattle, but as he was now nearing sixty-five, with no pension in sight, he had turned his hand to freelance gardening. This morning he was working for Sir William Ashdale and would be home for his dinner just after twelve. I decided to stay and meet him, for it was now almost twelve, and besides, that pie smelt wonderful …

Mrs Potter showed me around the little house, which they owned – they had paid £120 for it a few years earlier. The derelict portion had turf walls, parts of which were still standing, while its roof, once thatched with heather, had collapsed. There had been no attempt to repair it. That was where Albert had once kept his cattle or shorn his sheep. A cross passage separated that part from the living-accommodation, all of which was on the ground floor. There were two tiny bedrooms, each with a stone floor and beamed ceiling, but no bathroom or running water. They obtained their water from the gill; the toilet was a shed behind the cottage, and for electricity they had installed a generator which was petrol-driven – that was their only modern contraption.

By the time this tour ended, Albert had arrived. He used a pedal cycle of considerable size and vintage. His shovel, rake, hoe and gripe were tied to the crossbar. He placed his bike in a shed, then came towards me.

‘Now then,' he said in the local manner of greeting.

‘Now then.' I shook his hand. ‘I'm PC Rhea.'

‘Albert Potter,' he introduced himself. ‘Thoo'll be coming in for thi dinner then?'

‘No thanks. I had my 'lowance here not long since.'

‘But it's dinner time now, and Ah shall be having mine, so you might as well join me.'

And so I did; I was not expected to refuse.

He was a tall and lanky fellow with arms and legs that seemed too long for his thin body. He wore a thick blue-and-white striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but with no collar. The neck was open, and a collar stud occupied one of the buttonholes. Heavy brown boots and thick brown trousers with braces completed his outfit. Fit and bronzed, he looked remarkably strong for a man in his middle sixties, but he was a man of few words. He sat and ate in silence, and I did likewise, savouring the potato and onion pie, then the apple pie and custard that followed. Then, without speaking, he went to a cupboard and opened it to reveal shelves full of bottles without labels. They contained fluids – red, yellow, brown, dark brown, dark blue, orange and other variations. He selected one which was full of a purplish liquid, removed the cork with a corkscrew, then poured me a glass full.

‘Sup that,' he said. ‘It'll put hairs on your chest.'

‘What is it?' I asked, tentatively sniffing at the potion.

‘Bilberry wine, good stuff. Eight years old if it's a day. Our Dot makes it,' and he drank deeply.

Wary of the fact that I was on duty and that I had to drive back, I took a sip. It was lethal. I had but a thimbleful and even with that tiny amount could sense its power – but it was really beautiful, smooth and full, rich with the flavour of the moors. But for all its beauty and delectability, it was powerful stuff.

‘Good year for bilberries that year,' he said. ‘Have some more, lad. See whether you can tell me whether them berries came from Sutton Bank Top or Bransdale or Fryup Dale.'

‘You mean they all taste different?'

‘They do that! Once you know 'em, they're as easy to tell apart as French grapes.'

I tried a little more, hoping for some indication of its source …

Weakening, I tried still more, encouraged by this sombre character.

‘I think it's Bransdale,' I said, but in truth I had no idea.

‘No, this 'un's Bransdale,' and he produced another bottle from somewhere. ‘Now, just you see t'difference.'

‘I shouldn't,' I said. ‘I mean, I am on duty …'

‘Rubbish, it's good for your arteries, cleans 'em out, gets rid o' clots … here.'

He poured a huge helping and, in order to satisfy myself that there was a difference between Sutton Bank bilberries and Bransdale bilberries, I took a sip. Then I took a little more, just to make sure I was receiving the full flavour.

As I was doing my best to identify any distinctions, Dorothy came in.

‘There's a couple of hikers at the door,' she said to her husband. ‘They're asking for two bottles of Rievaulx rhubarb, two Ashfordly elderberry, two Egton Bridge gooseberry, two Rannockdale raspberry and a couple of Bransdale bramble.'

‘There's enough, I reckon,' said Albert.

And as I became aware that I was slightly fuddled by the strong liquor, he poured me another helping, saying this was Fryup bilberries and maybe I'd like to compare it with the Fryup brambles or perhaps the Hollin Wood sloes. I was vaguely aware of Mrs Potter returning to put some money in a tin and of her husband saying, ‘Think on and fetch a few bottles up from t'cellar. Dot …'